written flowers
People like to write about flowers.
Well, I could do that too.
Write more about flowers than all of you.
Flowers written in words, their beauty nothing more than a concept to marvel at. I think beauty is to be enjoyed with our eyes, staring at the lavish colors instead of reading some poem about escaping from a cluttered garden. Life is here to be lived, to be enjoyed and not seen as some selfish ploy of gods to make you feel misery through awful sensory. As I run through the fields, you run through your words, and this is not to say words and writing aren't good, but you need to know when to take off the hood of the cloak you hide in, life only explained through words and not lived through the experience of the world.
As I write, I realize this irony inside of me, writing about flowers and life as we know, just saying we should enjoy this world and reap what we sow.
Fade Away
Eyes green, hair blonde, skintight and makeup on,
Wild, free, still naive, never going to happen to me,
Drunken nights, unsure, endless fights, insecure,
Dark days, hidden face, out of place and in a haze,
Endless nights, numbing pain, there's nothing left to say,
Eyes gray, fade away, hair thin, thin skin,
Despondent and caged, life blurs, quickly aged,
Puncture.
Rantings of a Hypocrite
Life is what you make it
Or so it's been said
Spend your life working
So you can sleep when you're dead
Compliance doesn't matter
It's not even a factor
Cuz if one steps out of line
It may just spell disaster
Why are we here
A question we all ask
But what does it matter
When they're whipping your ass
We spend so much time fighting
And argue so much
If you're not gonna help
Then save your dead words
For philosophy class
Errant Thoughts
I spend a lot of time thinking about worlds beyond my own. Places that may not even exist. I know it’s normal for someone like us, but actually going there, unfortunately, is not.
An ant seeing the side of a building has no comprehension of the colossal construct in front of it. It can’t comprehend the way it scrapes the sky like a steel claw, it can’t understand that contained within it are a million things that dwarf it in every possible way.
It certainly doesn’t find itself wishing to be a part of it. And yet, I find myself in the curious position of being an ant who does. I long to glimpse beyond into something clearly not meant for me, something well beyond me in every way.
I want that, more than anything. And the worst part is…I think I want that for everyone else too. Whether they want it or not.
Is that wrong? Does that make me a bad person? To want to forcibly rip the wool from the eyes of an entire world, even if they’re not ready, even if I’m not ready. Even if I had the power to do so, I don’t know if I should.
And yet, I find myself thinking, “When will we ever consider ourselves ready?”. We won’t. We never will. And so, why not.
In the immortal words of Bilbo Baggins, “Why shouldn’t I?”.
Hopefully, should it ever come to pass, should we ever draw back the cosmic curtain and find ourselves faced with the next great step in the celestial plan (if any exists), it goes better for us than it did for him.
Perhaps, just like him, it will simply take some time, muddling through chaos and hellfire, to reach an amazing destination.
Thanks for taking the time to read the egotistical ramblings of a Selfish Neurotic.
Black And White
Cade let his arm fall slack, almost dropping the extra six inches of steel that extended forth from his loosening grip. He holstered the gun and surveyed the carnage before him. The church was riddled with corpses and viscera. He couldn’t help but wonder if God himself would be satisfied with this bloodshed, or if he would demand yet more.
He cast a glance to the altar and saw the monster himself, terror filling his tear-filled eyes, clutching the podium like his God would strike down this invader and save him from his fate. Just like he had saved the rest? Cade stepped slowly between the pews and down towards the twisted creature that was clad in black and white and covered in sin. He reached for the rope at his belt, and the creature snarled and whimpered before launching itself at him in a fearful frenzy.
Cade stepped aside and it fell to the floor behind him. He began tying the rope around his arms and legs. “You have soiled this holy house of Go…!” it screamed as Cade forced the rope around the creature’s neck and pulled it tight, cutting off any other worthless words from spilling from its maw. He leaned down and spoke into its ear with chilling calm.
“God ain’t here, Padre. You and I both know that. Don’t we?” he said in the low gravelly voice of someone who had found no reason to speak in some time, as he began dragging the monster towards the open doors of the ruined church and into the streets.
The people of the town who had refused to raise arms against him gathered around. Cade felt the evil in himself rising, as if called to waking by his actions. He thought about the things this creature had done to good people in the name of it’s unholy God. He thought about the sight of his wife and son’s charred cadavers and felt a tear stream down his face, though his face remained implacable. He wanted to enact horrible deeds against this killer, but that would do nothing but drag his soul into perdition right alongside it.
The people watched as the demon in their midst was dragged by a rope to the hanging tree in the center of town. A place where they had watched so many a man and woman “sent to God”. Cade inspected the faces of these people around him, and he saw fury in their eyes. Whether it was for him or his prey, he didn’t know.
Cade dropped the rope and allowed the demon in disguise to writhe along the ground as he stepped up to the tree and looked out once again at the faces of those complicit in the death of the only light in his world.
“If you’re wantin’ some last words to your flock Padre, best get to speakin’.” he said.
The preacher only managed a choked gurgle as he tried to claw at the section of rope wrapped firmly around his throat.
Cade nodded. “Par for the course, I suppose.” he said.
“Means about as much as the rest of the bile you spew.” he muttered to himself before stepping over to grab the end of the rope and slinging it over a thick bough of the tree and hoisting with every bit of strength he had left.
He heard no screams of shock from the crowd around him. Nobody tried to stop him or save the preacher. They all just watched the so-called man of God, as his face turned blue, and his tongue became swollen within his throat. They listened to the gurgles and the silent pleas in his bulging eyes, to them and his God.
Cade didn’t know if they had seen the truth in their sinful ways or if they simply didn’t find the strength necessary to stop him. He felt his muscles strain and his own strength waver as he continued to hoist the preacher, holding on until he felt the last of the life within the evil bastard disappear.
Finally, he felt the rope go taut and still. He released the weight all at once and turned around to see the lifeless corpse of the preacher, just as ugly on the outside now, as he had always been within.
Cade, without looking away, undid his holster from his belt and allowed the gun to fall to the ground before turning away without a word, and disappearing into the desert beyond.
Footprints in the sands
I firmly believe that we never hear a song twice. And I don't mean, that it's the first time you hear it that matters most. It's the time that you heard it, really held it, within a circumstance that sets the music for you, fitted like in fine jewelry. That gemstone, that cameo, or picture in the locket, becoming surrounded by auditory gold, or silver if preferred.
Then, with every glance back at the music, we see it as if turning in another light...
yet, somehow, that most significant instance, is there in the tint of the shadows, or highlights, and becomes a near or distant accompaniment... as mood that goes with, in the background.
We seldom sang at home. It turned out that was a great regret, to our adults. Our dad sang us songs sometimes. Our mom once confided, when we were grown and on our own: "I thought for sure having two girls meant there would be constant singing around the house..."
She never sang. We dare not either, except in private, where there were no adults to criticize. (I make a point now of singing loud with my little boy, and my heart cheers and flutters at every attempt of his to follow along with lyrics, to hum a tune, or invent his own songs. I want for him to know that freedom of spirit.)
Criticism was taken very seriously in the household, immediate and extended family, as an art form in itself in the oratory tradition. I understand now why mom held her tongue rather than be scolded and reminded that her tastes were too common.
I'm listening now to Diana Ross and the Supremes and remembering the grimace that passed across faces. No one wants to be shamed of the music that finds resonance within themselves; for reasons, more oft than not, hidden or incoherent, and psychologically complex.
As I'm dwelling on music that moved, emotionally or intellectually, impacting our path in some way, I can't help go back to this one song involuntarily, that on hearing once as a teen, I could not listen to again, but would shut it off, or walk away. I have blocked the title, and the artist, only to say it is a commonly played 80s tune by a rock band with female vocalists, and it must have been, objectively speaking a powerful number, to have that gripping effect on a young person. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the moral implications, the ethics, and where I would place myself into the situations of any one of the characters that would be involved. It was story song, a rock ballad. (I am leaving no clues here, so don't trouble the mind in trying to retrace any leftover grains.)
I won't listen to it even now, yet I commend the impact. That is art, isn't it? and we remember the footprints in the sands of memory long after they have been wind swept and near irrelevant. Things change. They certainly shift. A little bit of sensory input, goes a long way, many a times.
I've never been to a grand concert... It would terrify, I imagine. Once, on impulse I bought tickets to the unlikely proposition that 10,000 Maniacs was to play live at our nearby ski and summer resort and conference center called with southern homeliness Mountain Creek. That was very bold of me, but familiarity built up confidence, and I sometimes make a gamble on odd chances. Tickets, for me and my sister; we never went. The concert was "canceled" a day or two before, and it took months to get a refund. Maybe cynical teenage imagination was at play, but we decided somebody had swindled a quick loan from the community... it was quite hard to believe that our little locale would be visited by any such name brand in music, just too good to be true...
https://youtu.be/c0b7ltFrB34?si=yZZz542f3eufMGef
As a theme, I've been drawn to songs about the passing of time. Maybe it's because the first cassette I ever owned was Cyndi Lauper's 1983 She's So Unusual album, and my favorite track was Time After Time.
https://youtu.be/lx8-95fPjHc?si=uEe9FB3qZCnDqi6P
I remember receiving the cassette soon after starting school, so I would say I was six or seven years old. By that time mom had already run off from our home twice; with us and without us, children. The tune has continued to grow in meaning for me.
Eventually, I did some church choir singing, and to this day those hymnals, memorized, are among the most comforting musical tunes for me. I'm thinking of songs like Here I am Lord; On Eagles Wings; and Amazing Grace, among others.
I'm trying very hard to think of a song or album that I felt initially one way about, and then, on rehearing, changed my mind... and it must have happened, but apparently nothing that strongly felt, as I am not recalling. Maybe I feel less dismissive of Frank Sinatra or Linda Ronstadt or similar voices that I thought, early on, lacked depth... unfair judgements, immature, and I chide myself against these notions, nowadays.
It takes quite a lot of vulnerability to create songs, lyrical or instrumental, of every kind, especially as a cohesive body of work. Yes, there is music that doesn't suit the moment, but it ought not be dismissed altogether... Or deemed as good or bad. I've tried very much to be open to all music and to its ability to nurture our soul along the journey. We are blessed, when we can turn and return to music again, if only reliving it in our hearts.
Rainbows of the Mind
Rainbows of the mind, whispers of the soul,
Words spilling through out time.
Legacies of humanity, memories of the soul
Poetry, poet, sage or fool?
Words on virgin paper, ink spilled thoughts...
And I dance to the music of the muse.
New thoughts, old questions.
I sing of songs that were old before time was young.
My name is an illusion, only the soul is real.
All that I am, all I desire to be
Is written within the pages of my poetry.
This is my offering to my children and their children
For only my words remain to be my legacy.
Limerick(s) of the Week # 53: Great Persons Graded Personally
Thomas Edison, a great inventor, we think
Defined success for those on the brink
As 10% inspiration
But 90% perspiration
Which proves all geniuses stink
Einstein tried to unify fundamental fields
In Theory, of Everything, minus one, unrevealed,
'Cause gravity got the best of him
When he couldn't lift the floor from his chin
After slipping on the quantum banana he peeled
Madame Curie loved seeing through things
With the radiation that the letter-X brings
But she just didn't figure
That the fallout was bigger
When her little lady fingers caved in
Alexander Graham Bell
Would make it easy to tell
People far away
What telemarketers say
When they cold-call you to spamly oversell
Leonardo da Vinci took a girl
Mona Lisa, to canvas and oil
But in Renaissance zeal
He tried copping a feel
Which is why she gave him that look
Pervert Guglielmo Marconi
Loved hot, his day's macaroni
But microwaves he broadcast'a
Were too hot for the pasta
So he live-streamed his balls and bologna
Two Brothers were certainly right
About how heavier-than-air could take flight
The others crashed twice
And some even thrice
So two or three wrongs don't make a Wright
Louis Pasteur got concerned
When all his attentions to his lady were spurned
He offered milk of human kindness
She said, "Shove it kindly up your ass!
Unpasteurized, it must've soured and turned
Archimedes said, "Eureka, I've found it!"
When he put hot water around it
His erection was buoyant
With empiric enjoyment
But the water displacement had drowned it
Hedy Lamarr was a Hollywood beauty
Who wanted to do her immigrant's duty
She went from Howard Hughes-bopping
To frequency-hopping
'Cause she loved radar more than her booty
_________
BONUS: the inventor of divorce
***
Henry the VIIIth was a big thingdom
Who was above all living things in his kingdom
But a corkscrewy spirochete
Chartreuse and indiscrete
Took him down to his grave a'dribbling