Should I tell that tree to stop being
Or the scent of laundry drying
The feel of
Hot cement beneath my feet
The smell of artesian water
Dank with frogs blanket green
The sound of a windmill groaning
Or a Willy wag tail cursing
At 3am
The heat
The stars
The smell of dusty grass
Of hardwood stairs
White painted ends
Splinters beneath my thighs
Digging in
These things will be
And I’ll be me
We are loaded weapons walking
And bullets aren’t free
*least of all to ourselves. I write.
Header photo: the booglie hole, a memory of childhood captured years later. It looked so much smaller, everything did.
Your points
like bullets
dive in
their sound
waking the boy
in the moment
an Inner voice murmurs
I am me;
No-one else.
~
I heed the wake up call.
~
Be well and do good, dear Kate.
Kind regards,
DD
Candles are lit
From another holder of flame
They don’t ignite internally
For which it’s a shame
(terrible poetry but nice metaphor)
I know what it’s like
To be a pile of ash
So when I’m lit
I spread the …
Creative spirit 😁✨💕
You’ll get there again DD
He walked from the back of the hall, not Jason but Jesus wearing a lamb’s wool cloak. His entourage passed the six year old boy sitting in a church pew. It was pageantry as induction into the choir that boy is going to join.
The Lamb of God, so splendid, removing the stain of sins from the soul. A kind of envy finds him there, envy of the perfection of Godly beauty and the glory of selfless power.
At six, late at night, sleeplessly thinking ‘I am me, no one else’ he allows himself to drift off to sleep.
~
I may polish this memory and publish it.
Thank you Kate.
DD
Yes!
I cn feel this one: it is palpable and real : ‘the frogs ……’ drew me in and that ‘cursing’ wag tail —–
Thanks John, wherever we are comes out in our writing – this was me wandering in a memory of time and place
I like that: ‘wherever we are comes out in our writing’ ….
Can’t be avoided I’m afraid John, and why I haven’t published as much here this year – I’ve written of course, but some things are best kept to the side