Posts Tagged ‘Prose’

November

So, I wrote this back at the beginning of the month (honest, I did!). But then I just never got around to posting it. So now I am.

 

Stepping up to fill a gap left between trick-or-treat and Jingle Bells, November stands in the spotlight.

A slightly quavering hand scoops up the Autumn leaves as its mate holds back the winter snow. November, the month of in-between. No real claim for notoriety, except for a pleasant meal as a whole near the end.
But the days of November seem to apologize for the absence of specialty. They mumble excuses of getting ready for the “Busy Season” and wander away.

SDG

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Library

For I have books to read and stories to tell. I know not when I will be done and able to slumber. I know only that these things will not take wing and fly by themselves. They must be given freedom, outfitted with wings made of words and syllables and noises from outside the ring of light. Then those tales and legends and books that were read flap away unsteadily, looking for the next eager pair of eyes and ears that they can come to for rest.

September

August collapses in a helter-skelter pile as it lays down to sleep for eleven months. Then September tucks it in with a blanket of newly changed leaves and moves forward to take charge. The wind grows cooler and the air crispens to embrace the warmth of summer-left-over. September realizes the child’s fear that school is really here and not just a dream. They sigh from practice, but care less about the sudden responsibilities now that they’ve become more used to them. Age brings complacency, it seems.
Stills, more adventures await in summer, a mere eternity away, and we’ll greet them as friends when they come. But, until then September will have to do.
Autumn is on its crackling way and will arrive before anyone realizes. October lies just around the corner, but it’s not November yet.

SDG

Act I

Everything begins the same as the night before. The audience files in and takes its seats as a whole. The curtain raises and the players are all in their places. They have all their line memorized and locked away in vaults of flesh and bone. His accent is perfect, her laugh has a slight snort every three breaths. All their actions, connections, beings are scripted to the letter. They are ready.
The play begins. Lines fill your ears one after another, lilting and flowing from one into the next as easily as water. The main event is a tragedy wrapped in the warm folds of comedy and dashed against the shores of romance to add realism. Each part was painstakingly written and rewritten to make sure that it is perfect.
The scene changes once, and then it’s suddenly the end of the act, and the curtain closes. Fifteen minutes without play grinds on the payers’ nerves until the curtain rises again. The play continues like every other night. Except…
One of the players trips. A vase is thrown to the floor and gives the dull sound of plastic bouncing. The audience will forgive these things, just show them what will happen next. But the players just stare at the vase. Slowly, one picks it up and drops it again. The sound reverberates through the hushed audience in an audible whisper of echo. Then another player takes hold of the wonderful, crystal glasses and listens as they sound of plastic on the floor. Then, suddenly, everything is gone to chaos.
The players begin ripping apart the stage. One discovers the wax fruit on the table, another finds the books that stand blank on the shelf. One by one, the players sit and cry. They all wear matching carnival masks of surprise, and cry the tears of those betrayed.
The audience that came with rotten fruit in one hand and a tissue in the other leaves the latter on the stage and then just leaves. The curtain closes.

August

July breathes a smoke filled sigh of relief as it leaves the center stage and August claims the spotlight. While crowds of children groan in protest as time turns from summer fun to the weary responsibility of the school year. Christmas, and even the magic of October are far away and all that can be seen are the too-hot nights and the fervent wishes for dreams to bring back the joys just once again before the Fall.
A truckload of shooting stars delight the springtime minds of now older, wiser children. Youth is wasted on the young and summer is wasted on the old. If only the two could make an exchange. An endless youth filled with balancing check books and scraping frost off of car windows. Across the street, a cadre of men and women with hair like snow on swing sets and jungle gyms and playing tag under the sun forever young.
But, slowly now, we’ll go to bed. Let August wins its weary way past to make room for September and all the adventures it will bring.

SDG

Freewrite

Excuse me, but this is rambling and rabbit-trailing. You’ll find some amusement, maybe. Just remind yourself that it is a condition of the Midnight Disease, and move on from there. You have been warned about it.

Tiny sensations of broken glass across the chalkboard of a soul gone sour from the constant attentions of a chaste torturer. Like a wave of time and light and space expanded out into an indeterminable vastness of watching life go by with jaded eyes and constrained lips.
Never again to see the light of an untouched sun, or to feel the warmth of a regular moon. Always they will be a sad, swarmed, similar reminder of someone who touched the sun and stole the moon and laid them both to rest in tongues of fire underneath a sunset sky. Crematorium in the loosest sense of the word; just a pile of brambles behind a broken down shed that served dual-purpose as a hovel in which to spend hours among friends.
But now the shed is gone, burned up in that self same inferno that eclipsed the sun and broke the moon into tiny dimes and nickels that scattered among the rose petals and wood chips of the workshop floor. An entire childhood condensed into one smell and one longing.
One longing that never can be reached, and sounds more noble when spoken of than when really thought about. So don’t think about it, just pretend that you’re missing a love or that you wish that you hadn’t said that thing then, or this thing now. Just pretend that you aren’t going to go back and have the same feeling again and again on your way home through the darkness.
That’s the thing about darkness, though. When you know that you have a friendly darkness – not one that houses monsters and hides men with murder on the mind and ill-repute on the record – when you have a friendly darkness full of all the night sounds and smells and feelings, that’s when you can walk in safe solitude. The loneliness of someone who’s on their way home and knows that the light will be on and the laughter will be rolling through the door. It’s all ready to be opened and let out into the night. Then come inside to the din along with the glitter-bugs and the moths that are drawn to the overhead light as much as you are drawn to the glowing people.
You all know those people that I mean. The ones that test all your faculties to keep up with their jokes and small braveries. The ones that teach you new ways to be productive and still caring. The ones that have so much fun that you can’t help having a better day for having talked to them at lunchtime.
He always says that he isn’t going to keep on doing this every year. He isn’t going to come back to help those kids and their newest friends to learn and grow. But then he comes back from a five mile hike at five in the morning and tells me about how much fun he had, and how he helped that one kid get over his homesickness by playing his guitar. He’s a guitar player, this friend of mine that would never admit to being as cool as I saw so many times. He’s a really amazing guitar player and I can’t see how to do it; he just makes it look so easy.
And then there are all the other people that you know. Like those people that you shove into your little boxes when you first shake hands. The ones that keep surprising you when they jump out of their boxes and begin to dance. By the time that you realize that you were wrong about where you put them, they’ve already climbed into the right slot and started cracking jokes with their new neighbors.
But before I continue – rather, I shall not continue; those people won’t let me brag too much, otherwise they might think the masses are listening to me – I would like to muse on another subject.
Age has a way of doing things to a person. Even before you’ve seen half of your life, you begin to feel incredibly old. Then you look at pictures of people that are dead by now, and you feel akin to them in age, even though the smiling faces of the picture is older than your parents.
Pictures are one of those funny inventions that have gotten so many forms of complaint and misuse and still are so high on the list of means of remembrance. They still think that a picture is worth a thousand words, even though I have seen many that aren’t worth the time it takes to print them, and even more that told me an entire life story without so much as a tear falling from one eye in the crowd. Pictures that teach me how to do a job even though I’m not sure which one of the forty people held that job before me.

Nostalgia +1

That feeling of need and want an curious emptiness hits again and again in so short a time. Each hint of ancient rhyme or simply older-than-me time-passer gives a new jolt of pain at not being able to touch it. Each childhood game offers another chance at being young.

But, at the same time, youth will not be regained by an attempted session of remembrance; things will not be exactly the same and so the dream will disappoint and all will come tumbling in an arch of Jenga bricks.

But as soon as one game finishes lazily, another catches the eyes and sends a little chill of anticipation down your spine. Goose bumps rise only to be rested again as childhood retreats back to its toy chest rest home when this new game does not satisfy.

Games are given up, since they cannot fulfill, and words are turned toward instead. With a savage hope to find the realms of time inside a twisted phrase. And, although the phrase gives a shiver and a pang, it falls to the ground and shatters; breaks apart into words and letters and vague black-and-blue lines. And then it’s gone.

The game and the word have both failed, so now, perhaps, the art. Imperfect people painted so perfectly skewed. Tones and shades ready to make good their unspoken promises of colour, but soon fading back to black on white with grey in a close second. High cities and deep streams and hidden lands beneath frosted seas; things that could never be seen outside of a padded cell without the aid of a sketch. But, although the picture pleases for a time, it does not feed the want enough and we must move on. Art has failed us.

Now music takes the stage, flowing out and up and left like the sea on deaf ears. A frantic search for a favorite song from long ago and then the relief of finding it. Let the music and the rhythm beat through you. Then again when it finishes. Like the addict, keep restarting your song again and again until it’s been drained of all of its sweet remembrance. Then it falls flat into a world of Now out of its bubble of Yesterday.

Music has failed, so now turn to games again; an endless cycle continuing onward forever. A quest for the means to stop time and then reverse it; to get back to when memory is fuzzy and things are thought better. But that’s really all nostalgia is, in the end: Memory.

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A Cool Legend to Know

Mordovian circuits to find naught wrong with a world of rainy-day promises towards children of every single age. Magical wing-writes to teach in tongues of roller coaster lightning rods. Long-ago-men written on cavern walls in painted years. Nation’s legends to teach, instruct, and water plain wishes whispered between bedtime prayers.

A play wright of obvious benefactors o the town of Christmas play. Daylight through a broken window to toss a shadow of french vanilla sing-song. Frost across the window in a tiny taste of childhood breakfast cereal. Who could wish a better promise that that made behind the screen of hushed tones a long way beyond time for sleepy-bye.

A magic tongue of icicles to talk in tones of secret languages and broken codes in order to be better understood. Gibberish is more kindly known than all the strange deviants of English.

Collection

A time of not actually being able to post leads to a build-up of writing. Here’s three weeks, or so.

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My reflection in the window glanced back at me, eyes full of the storm that percolated outside. I knew that it was me, even if I didn’t recognize him. Common sense told me so. I turned my head this way and that, trying to find the angle of Me amid the lines and jaw of someone else.
My reflection complied with my movements readily enough, surely because it hoped not to be put to such lengths as the detached shadow of Peter Pan. But with every adjustment of the head and every stretch or relaxation of the cheek or eyebrow there came to mind a different boy that I had seen here or there in my life.
These crowds amongst the faces stood out from my reflection and waved me down to come and join them. But I have new promises to make and old friends to keep. So I shut those rainfall eyes and turn away to put down in black and white what I was thinking in shades without number.

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I felt the raw electricity and charged power of the wind and the hiss of the leaves on the trees. The air was ripe with feel of rain on my skin, although no actual water had touched me.
The glitter bugs danced among the trees to light my path during the intervals of darkness that came between flashes of lightning. The frogs in the forest made their own chirruping clashes from amongst the trunks although the thunder was missing from the mix.
Then, suddenly, the rain-pregnant air gave way to the wind of storm-herald and I felt the first drops begin to fall.

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Rain, child, like a summer day
Full of sunshine and drizzly pain

Sing, child, like a meadow lark
Wild in cherries as a smile can bring

Laugh, child, like an old coyote
Smile like the moon and it wants be half

Play, child, like a whippoorwill
Among the reeds after a long, hot day

Love, child, like a flea-bit dog
Never ask why the tears want flood

Live, child, among the stars
Come out at night full of hope to give

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Scribble scratch of pen, black and white of ink on page. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Make sure the words fit and then feel as they flow out. Twist that letter a bit more, smudge those words together, paint in lines of doctrinated pattern to show the face of things under the dark light. A palindrome to show how much it means and an oxymoron to suspend reality and add disbelief.

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Clouds
Everyone has seen the shapes in the clouds- faces, trains, air planes, and all sorts of animals. But there are more kinds of clouds that are less shapes and more emotion. Fires with faces filled with tears, reflections on water that isn’t really there, and canopies to hide a moon that refuses to be hid.
Glowering ceilings full of rumble and crash, pretty tufts of bright, summer day, swirls and twist in three dimensions that disappear again in an instant.
But none of them stay around forever. The light and time and winds push and shove and change and mould until one clouds turns into another. Then it’s gone around the horizon.

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Broadest of greetings, fair, lordly sun. A fair morning to be run along the ground. Freshest of breaths of wind across a lake of closest glass. Shards catch the light and glint a picture on a wall of cliff-face serious.

Closest of midnights, quiet, crescent moon. Teach songs to the meadow larks as they sleep. Guard we who find our solace in rest and watch us to keep away the night, and then show us how to find the light.

Brightest of glories, twinkling, little stars. Like eyes above the clouds that float in the sky.

Period.

I just hid behind a period. I stuck my head down and covered my face behind the little pixel blot that served as an end to some short thought. I managed to avoid the blast that I thought my words would bring forth. It never came, despite my best attempts to stop its force.
I realized just after I placed that period that it wouldn’t be any good. Just because I knew what my duck-and-cover strategy was doesn’t mean that everyone will. You wouldn’t see the little barricade that I had built behind the dot and stocked with love-letters and cans of tomato soup to keep me warm while I waited for you to leave.
I’ll never look at that little, innocuous dot the same way again. It’s forever changed in my mind when it comes at the end of a line.It makes me think of that one time when-
Wait, what was it I said? I’ve been too busy thinking how I hid to remember what I said that I thought would be an object of objection. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad in the first place? Maybe I was over thinking? Maybe I can make fun of myself, now, for hiding behind a period?

Ten ’til August

School is done again, now it’s time for that wonderful thing we call Summer. That age and age and age untold where the youngest can find happiness among the trees and grasses and bright moon shining on a warm night away from home. Spring is long forgotten beside the rivers made by rain and the wind blustering through the trees. Fall is far away on the horizon and winter will never come.
It’s ten ’til August, too far away to begin to think of the upcoming of the new school year, and much to close to be near the cold and the ice. Time slows down to sluggish pace, but everything happens too fast. The night comes when we’re never ready to go to bed and the day comes again before we’re done playing with our midnight friends. The days slip past, but the calendar never changes.
It’s still ten ’til August, and years ’til September but the night is coming on fast. My dreams have already begun, even before I close my eyes. Then I blink, and the world turns. Suddenly, it’s five past November, and the time ran out of everything. I can’t quite figure out where it all went, but I know, deep down, that I’ll never quite get it back.

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