We are all small flickers of light
drifting about and floating around,
but we stop for the lens.
A camera clicks, and we freeze,
glued to the cellulose.
Category: Creative Writing
Airy wisps of dried grass
drift through the summer sky.
That sky:
a magnificent purple hue,
“purple sky at night,
sailor’s delight.”
I love that saying.
I remember boyhood,
watching the sky go
from dusk ’til dawn.
I’d take note of all the hues.
I’d try to count the millions of stars.
I’d try to be a man on the moon.
That moon-
an imperfect orb of yellow and white
kissed by craters and marred by shadows,
Earth’s little wonder.
I wish I was Neil Armstrong.
Shriveled husks and dying leaves
float through autumn’s air.
That air-
the crisp, frozen breaths of wind.
Blowing through the hills and cliffs
shifting the limbs and branches.
Leaves crunching under foot,
Making that fragile crackling,
followed closely by tiny snaps
and finished with the thud of my sneakers.
All trivial, yet vital sounds.
Those sounds-
the gentle crackle and popping of fires,
wind whistling through the fields.
the tapping of the trees’ branches on my window.
The air and ground both frozen
the icy grasp of winter’s hands
those hands
a terrible force of nature
clawing at the weak
pulling them down
greys and whites combine at all sides
coming together, blurring my vision
the wintry breath comes quick now
chilling all those who dare tread
out of doors under the snowy sun
that sun
an oasis in the bleak sky
beckoning the weariest of travelers
i wish i had waxy wings
to carry me up there
IV.
after the bitter elder of winter passes
the child of Spring brings its precious rains
those rains
sweet to taste
warm to feel
fertile in their aire
after the skies get flooded and stuffed
the great star arrives and dries the ground
and the children of Man find Nature again
dancing in the warmth of the rays
feeling the freedom of the animals
those animals
beasts and treasures to behold
held in your hand, some to fear
Man’s partner’s on Earth
V.
After the Child of Spring
grows and ripens back into Summer,
the woman of Autumn comes to clear
Earth for the spite and embrace of Winter.
Just like Man, our seasons age and mature,
Just like Man, our seasons are fragile infants,
Just like Man, our seasons are embittered forces
Just like Man, our seasons die to give way to the young.
It was in high school that I made the decision to become a writer. My fascination with language was piqued, and I have not been deterred from the love affair since. It was during this time that I first started writing poetry, and I have kept a good bit of that material, most of which is terrible. In finite terms, I was largely concerned with insects and celestial bodies for some reason. I wrote about the soul frequently but rarely achieved any depth. Occasionally, however, an idea flowed from my teenage pen that is worth revisiting and remembering for posterity. Here’s one of them, an image piece, entitled “Those Tiny Fingers.”
Those tiny fingertips
make tiny fists in the air.
The tiny baby shrieks,
for his mother has gone.
I found a few other poems from back then that I still like, so I may post another one later after I’ve done some preliminary polishing.
Categories
Fred
Fred was a car. He wasn’t just any car, he was a Volvo. His daddy was a Volvo, and his daddy’s daddy was a Volvo. If you were a von Auto (that’s their last name), you were a Volvo. There just wasn’t any two ways about it. Unfortunately, Fred was a crappy Volvo. He was an ugly color, he smelled bad, and he liked the taste of gasoline. So Michael, Fred’s user, decided to turn him into a cube. Cubes were appealing and you can easily find the volume of a cube (sł). It’s a pain in the butt to find the volume of a car.
Fred was not one for becoming a cube. He liked roaming the asphalt, the smell of the open road, and the feel of freshly filled tank (He also liked to gawk at the sexy Mustangs, but that’s another story). In order to prevent any permanent geometric disfiguement, Fred ran away. He ran as far as his shoddy, low-on-air tires would carry him. Fred ran all the way to Between, Georgia.
On his way out to the city that time forgot, Fred was exposed to terrible trials and battles. His first such encounter occurred when he was driving and accidently ran over a deceased mole. Fred continued on merry way; and then it happened. He heard a little squeaking sound coming from underneath him. He was being attacked by rabid moles! Morrocco, the leader mole, enslaved Fred and gave him 12 tasks:
- Free the moles that are in servitude in Spain.
- Find the lost rodent. It was rumored to last be found in Upper Mongolia.
- Take over a small island nation and have as your main export prickly pears.
- Drink the fluid from a lava lamp.
- Discover a new planet.
6.Manage to get a plant named after you. - Disprove Mendel’s law of independent assortment.
- Go “free-ballin'” for three weeks.
- Form a religious cult based on spider monkeys.
- Be a New York Times best seller.
- Write a text book.
- Be a five time Jeopardy champion.
Fred was at a loss. After all, he was a car! A lousy car, at best. He couldn’t do any of these things. Fred had to think of a plan and fast. What he did next will be recorded in all the record books as an uncanny feat executable only by souls of great cunning or vast cowardice…
TO BE CONTINUED…
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Sucks doesn’t it? Oh well, stay tuned for next week’s exciting installment.
- Michael, that guru
I’m surprised, even at myself…
Once upon a time, and a galaxy far, far away, there lived a tiny little statue. His name, you ask? Well, it was Fritz Vladimir Sprocket. His parents named him a family name, but he typically went by a little nickname he made for himself- “Stony.” He stood in perpetual inanimation. Solid as a statue, no doubt. His parents fearful of a revolution on their home planet, Krypton, sent this little boy to Earth to seek refuge. Little did they know, they were sending their only dog to a watery grave. (Kryptonians called their offspring dogs. Strangely enough, their ‘dogs’ didn’t get Gravy Train.)