At dVerse Lillian is hosting Prosery where we are invited to write a piece of prose of 144 words including the line of poem offered by the host. Grace has invited us to work with the line ” If you are a dreamer, come in” which is from Shel Silverstein’s poem ‘Invitation’
“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go and do that. Because what the world needs are people who are alive.” Howard Thurman
I was walking along, multi-thinking, moving my mind to the end of the day so that I could get there quicker. I’m sure you’ve done that sometime. I wasn’t paying particular attention to anyone or anything. So I was surprised when a voice called out, a voice that was so unusual it. I didn’t think it was anyone calling to me but I looked around because I wanted to see who owned such an unusual voice. I was thinking hippy, free spirited, all tie-dyed, but there was Mr Business Suit beaming a smile. I stared at him and he gestured to the door “if you are a dreamer, come in.” Am I a dreamer? Yes I’m a dreamer, but I’m not coming in, I have my own dreams, I’m not buying yours, no way! They cost the earth, literally.” I walked away.
Come Join Me
Going to hell in a handcart seems infinitely better than joining with the elite ignorance of those who presume they're on for a visit to the angel bar in the ether. How can it be that we tolerate the essence of ego over integrity, where is the authentic one, where the grounded reality? How is it that we have put a gun to the head of community, in pursuit of self-indulgence?
Of course, it is infinitely more valid if we charge a small fortune for courses that enable wrong choices to look like someone else, someone who knows the mantra. Surely it is time to self-prune, to take stock and account for the present moment? Whatever your disposition, my handcart has plenty of room, so come join me on the road to the hell that is not really hell, it is not what you'd imagine, but then, the path to a constructed heaven is just an irony of marketing, so what have you got to lose?
“Everybody should keep some grip on childhood, even as a grownup.” Tim Curry
One Way Through
As spring made way for summer everything seemed full and lush, even the northern July evenings were slightly longer than the ending of Hey Jude which was idyllic when sleep seemed like theft of life. But there were dark tones in this summer of light. Why was mum so frightened, why were dad's fists so loud? It was a house of mixed feelings like the edge of a wave teetering near rocks.
Sometimes there was a deep silence, followed by absence. Baby-sitters appeared at intervals, young couples whose tongues were intertwined in closed eyes of desire, though not so much before I was given a cup of cocoa and soon sent to bed.
Our house wasn't ancient, but it was easy to hear anyone coming up the stairs, so I knew I could please myself in a wonderland. So I would throw back the curtains and marvel at the light, open the window and dangle my legs over the ledge. I was lost in the wonder of peace and stillness, dreaming of tigers, Sherwood Forest, and rescuing Alice from queens unknown. This was my refuge.
I sailed the angry sea
past dark resolution rocks
you are my refuge.
At dVerse Kim is hosting Prosery with an invitation to use a line from the poem ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ by William Butler Yeats. The line is: “I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head.”
“Fierce eagles do not produce timorous doves.” Horace
45c and the road, straighter than straight, rolling beyond what the rusted sign advised. Blues, liquid, twelve bar, driving through this dry land. Paddocks hollow and stricken, rain forsaken for so long now, nothing holds in this dust. Crows picking the eyes out of everything that ceases to move, that cadaver buffet for pall bearers.
The gates blur in fifth, the barbed wire whispers strained songs of lament and I weep as I pass the delusion of hope trying to bale non-existent hay, the sadness of twenty bales to a hundred acres. And I weep for this place where endings complete and there are no obvious beginnings.
I slow as I see the spectre eyeing emaciated sheep. The angel of death eyes me and I nod in deference, better an ending than tortured horizons. I wave my blessing, thankful that the feathered euthanasia will ease the shepherds pain. In this moment the eagle is surgeon, priest and mourner, holding a ritual, taking death for life.
At dVerse Linda is hosting Prosery with an invitation to take a line form one of Mary Oliver’s poems – ‘Spring Azures’, “Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy.” and use it in a piece of prose.
“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there someday.” A.A. Milne
The Tides That So Easily Turn And Pull
I launched the kayak, noting everything in my periphery and set forth forth with a flourish, gliding across the glassy, still, estuary. this was morning, but not my life. I launched equally as carefully under my mother’s watchful eye, but the estuary of life was never glassy or still in my experience. However, I had to start somewhere, and my own dictum is, don’t dismiss the wisdom of the young who are simply shifting gears through the tide of life which is so fickle. We carry our own weights, the things we love, the things that haunt, the things we enjoy, and that which brings pain, yes, even that. Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy and it is more than enough to bear when I wish I could steady the tides that so easily turn and pull us against ourselves.
At dVerse Lilian is hosting Prosery and inviting us to use the line “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.” from Louise Gluck’s work ‘Afterward.’ dVerse Poets – Prosery
“Journal writing gives us insights into who we are, who we were, and who we can become.” Sandra Marinella
My heart was pounding, I was ready to burst, I would spill over, I would be consumed in my emotion. An all consuming anger possessed me. Why did he say that and in such a tone? Why did he look at me that way? I just wanted to fire back and level the field, but the words wouldn’t come and I felt everyone’s eyes. I felt isolated in this moment of exposure, so naked before the world. I said nothing then, but I resolved to journal and reflect later.
Reading what I have just written, I now believe that I was lost in reactive feeling. I know I experience grief as a strange land, but this surprised me. The death of those close stirs the heart in ways beyond the rational moments imagined. Strange how writing and reflecting can so simply offer opportunity of transformation.
At dVerse Merril is hosting Prosery where we are invited to write 144 words including a provided line. Merril has given us a Liesel Mueller line from her poem ‘Drawings By Children’ – “There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.’
There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles. I claimed it long ago, it is my favourite space, but it just takes time to get there. It’s not that I’ve forgotten the way, it’s just simply that I don’t make enough time to wander there. But days come when I have to be there. It’s the space where I find my still point and enter into silence, well, mostly. Somedays my irascible shadow is less than golden and flings up the dust and detritus of my life as a taunt, a distraction. If I pay no attention it doesn’t go away, so I let it have a little reign until it outruns itself and peters out and I return to myself. There is nothing behind that wall except the real me letting the winds of time whistle through me.