Writing

There is treading water. And then there is lostness and the bland, depressing sameness, of everything. There are bad night’s dreams. And then there are visions of the night - in which one writhes and like a knotted string snarled back upon itself one- finds himself at the self same starting point. In the beat of the drums of the delirious priest and the frenzied dance that is our Faustian pact, Hope like a stubborn root - peeks out from between a rock and a hard place. And the unwilling lethargy of a quiescent dawn is forgotten, as it fades like the memory of a quick frolic in the shade of water side palms dies in the heat of a baking desert sun. ...

Source To the woman in the green dress: Oklahoma City, December 24th… She had me between ‘duh’ - and the nonchalant, sultry blur of her unruly hair; and the pouty, smouldering incandescence of her blood red lips; shimmering life-like in the dull, barely there blues and reds and flickering purples of the BeeJay’s mirror ball. We were like two large - lumps of rock; boulders locked in the unwilling, eternal waltz of gravity; stuck in distant orbits around the crowded dance floor like as around a stranded, listless star. In the interludes between the mindless drone of the DJ’s songs, and the rude, insistent scratch of his beatbox our eyes weave and bob, like corks floating in a sea of ice cold beer. ...

Before dying catches us and the banal, quotidian joys of a simpe life expire at the hoot of Charon’s ferry from across the styx, and the memory of the faces, and the names of the ones we once held dear fade away, lost in the eternal blackness of demise; before the grim reaper suprises us with the rude, ineclutable finality of death; we must not forget

For the beautiful ones who almost were… We may never ever again be the way we once were. We may no longer dance the cha-cha and sip palm wine in the shade of the coconut palms as Coltrane serenades and the sea breezes ripple through the flimsy thatch that breaks the fall of the gently falling rain. We may now never know the blessing of the Old Man’s Libation, or see his scrawny fingers split the kola nut or the unerring aim of the red spittle from his toothless gums ...

‘Inspired’ by an old man I spotted sitting on a bench at the corner of George and St John’s Street, soaking up an unexpected blast of sunshine whilst muttering to himself. Image (c) TrekEarth.com; Source: www.trekearth.com The old man sits cross legged in the rain. He bows his head, and wraps his hands around himself and begins to sway. He sings a song and mouths the words from a sombre lyric that only he still remembers. The tears - tiny rivulets of liquid; crystal clear flow down his face, and down his beard as he rocks to the rhythm of his sombre song. I imagine that he remembers and that the tears are tears of memory, of many yesterdays, of loss, of pain, and of nostalgia. I imagine that when his tears cease to fall, and the rivers on his face dry out he will arise in peace until the season of re-memory

I have died- Seven times but one; Crushed beneath the weight- Of pain’s unrelenting Hammer blows. Straight right. Left hook. Right uppercut. Left jab. Right hook. Left uppercut. Cheek bones splintered- Lip leaking blood, Teeth- Bludgeoned until loose. Head spinning. Time, space Distance blending- Into a confused blur. Then over-hand right - And sight mercifully fades- Into blissful blackness. I have died– Seven times but one; But like a rubber ball Squashed flat against a hard place, I rebound seven times, Reborn.

August 2010 to April 2011 Word for word, We beat the love Out of each other * Like hammer - Blows crack rock, And water- Wears granite Smooth- Day by day, Our rage poisons- Everything. Memory is - A wound kept raw; closure is An uncertain salve. The End. Sigh *Line shamelessly purloined from Yousef Komunyakaa’s Once the Dream Begins.

I was graciously given the opportunity to share today’s entry over at the3Six5 Project. I enjoyed it so much, I might actually try to blog everyday for an entire year! The first few lines: Making it into work on time each week day is a minor optimization problem for which I try to find a solution: maximize sleep and minimize time spent waiting at the bus stop, subject to time of arrival being 8.30am. These last few days, Mother Nature has compounded my little problem by unleashing an unwelcome trio of rain, gale force winds and the occasional fluffs of snow making my waits at the bus stop something I have not particularly looked forward to. ...

For the prompt Secret, at the Writer’s Island.. Better late than never. Words - More words. Hand motions - Quickening to a blur. Straight faces - Eyes fixed forward - Pretending there is calm; While like a seething, shifting mess Pain hides; Behind bitter sweet memories - Filed away, locked deep - In the dank, dark recesses Of a shattered hope. The lord giveth, The lord taketh We like homing pigeons return; To the same shattered places.

For Gracie, who the genes took… You never saw the thirteenth summer through- before the genes claimed you. You always were - the sallow one, knuckle- kneed, paper thin, but - the lights in your jaundiced eyes shone: through pain and fear, and hope and tears. The strength in your voice never dimmed, never waned, until the genes - like a belligerent marabout’s curse - turned you, to a mound of red- dead earth ...