The empty spot upon my rumpled bed

matches the aching place within my heart.

my pillow bears the imprint of your head;

I hate this dreadful time that we’re apart.

I’m sitting here alone and incomplete

while dreaming of your fingers in my hair;

the taste of your lips on mine remains sweet.

your scent still lingers on the morning air.

My fingers trace the outlines of your touch;

inside my core a fiery heat begins.

Pulse racing, I can feel my face go flush,

remembering your breath upon my skin.

This unquenched passion now will slowly burn,

until we reach the hour of your return.

I wait upon the hour of your return,

so while you’re gone, I let my mind run free.

the tender parts of me I’ll help you learn,

and secret things I’ll let you do to me.

Imagine us, entwined within these sheets;

a smile upon my lips begins to show.

Within my breast, my heart rapidly beats

and moisture, deep inside me, starts to grow.

I settle in this nest of satin thin,

and let my fingers travel where they will.

They quickly find a spot of hungry skin

and waves of intense pleasure start to spill

across my soul -- my passion now has fed

the empty spot upon my rumpled bed.

I was gonna say “It’s not you, it’s me,” but the more I think about it, it really is you.

You can keep the towels and sheets, but I will have someone come and pick up my dishes and silverware. I’m really sorry I ran over your cat.

Oh, and by the way, your sister and I are flying to Reno to get married. We’ll send you pics.

I once wrote a poem, titled “Do You See Me?” and when I published it, there were some disagreements with my take on the issue of helping those who have fallen into the cracks in our society. Here is a link to that poem:

https://theprose.com/post/184992/do-you-see-me

Some of the criticism I received was about the portrayal of hatred on the part of the passers-by. To clarify, I don’t think that most people feel hatred for those who live on the streets or panhandle on freeway on-ramps; more often I think it is just that we can’t identify with them. This poem however, was written from the “invisible” person's point of view, and in it he is saying he would rather you hated him, than pity him—it hurts less.

The other comment that I seemed to hear the most was that helping these people out with money is in effect, helping enable their lifestyle. It is true that some people have to hit bottom before they can see they have nowhere to go except up, but I firmly believe—having been homeless myself at one point in my life—that MOST people who live on the streets (or in the woods, or in a tent, or behind the grocery store) aren't there by choice, but have found their way to these places through fear, resignation, and ignorance; and most of them simply have no idea about how to get out.

Monetary help for those who live at the lowest levels of our society is not the need that we should be most concerned with; rather, we should offer them the basic emotional human needs of empathy and compassion. A smile and a kind word just might be the tipping point that tells them someone still sees the person behind the problems, and they are still worth saving. That simple message, that they aren’t invisible at all, might be all they need to help them reignite the spark of hope, and maybe even rebuild the desire to look for a way back.

The one class of people who are the most accepting, and who live with the least amount of judgment, fear, or condescension, are those who have the most issues with fitting into society themselves. Sadly this often includes those who have turned to drugs to escape the problems. When you have nothing, it is easy to lose hope, and with that loss, the willpower to fight. When you don't have the basic foundation of knowledge, or even a way to eat later in the day, it can be almost impossible to do anything but drift along, and find a way to escape. Those easy escapes almost always involve making the wrong choices, and they end up making a bad situation even worse—widening the gulf that must be crossed to rejoin the rest of us in the “real” world.

If you have never faced the circumstances that put these fellow humans there, you can’t understand how it could happen—and it is all too easy to dismiss them all as habitual drug users who put themselves there. Addiction does play a role in the problem, you would have to be blind not to see that, but for every person you see who is begging on the street because of addiction, there are three you don't see who are simply trying to find a way to feel like they still matter, and have no clue how to connect to the help they need. When you haven't brushed your teeth for three weeks, it is embarrassing to talk to others, let alone ask them for help, or a job, or even something to eat.

A simple smile and saying hello, may make more difference than you realize. Choosing not to enable what you see as a continued voluntary lifestyle may be a great goal, but for most people this is not a voluntary choice, but one of circumstance. Refusing to "see" them—even if it is just in their minds that you don't—sends the message that you have judged them and found them unfit for human contact. Even though this may not be true, it is how many of them feel, when you avert your eyes and hurry past.

Everyone has a story, and most of them are sad and probably could have been avoided at one point or another, but could-have-beens aren't helpful . . . they are merely reminders of all that they have lost. I don’t think you can help anyone who isn’t ready to be helped, but if you are worried about the way even a small donation might be spent, keep in mind that a bagel and a cup of coffee can’t be traded for drugs, and can fill another void that all of us experience—hunger happens every day, even to the lost—without making a huge dent in your lifestyle.

If even that is more than you can do, then remember this: Smiling is free, and saying “Good Morning” just may be more important than the $1.40 in change you have in your pocket.

Remember

those woods!!!

Where we played,

when we were young.

In the woods we danced,

I will meet you someday, love.

When you find a way back home,

I will be waiting with nothing but time.

When you find a way back home,

I will meet you someday, love.

In the woods we danced,

when we were young.

Where we played,

those woods!!!

Remember

Related write:

https://theprose.com/post/217553/run-free

Related write:

https://theprose.com/post/218925/our-woods

Fading memories blow through my hollowed out soul,

wrapped in echoes of tormented silence and pain

riding hot desert winds, past the crumbling facade

of a dry empty ghost town where tumbleweeds reign.

Like emotional stretch marks carved into my heart,

inky shadows lie twisted, and deeply embossed

in striations and patterns that spell out your name,

filled with acid-rain tears, spilled for all that I’ve lost.

When I let myself ponder the cruelty of fate,

the unfairness twists inside my guts like a knife.

Since you left me behind without saying goodbye,

faded gray shades of loneliness color my life.

In my dreams you’re still here, warmly sharing my bed...

then I wake all alone, with your voice in my head.

©2018 - Dusty Grein

*** While not many sonnets are crafted in 12 syllable anapestic tetrameter, its melodic rhythm makes for a smooth flowing poem, which can still pack as much of a punch as the standard iambic pentameter offering.

As writers, we can use real magic to cure many of the issues we face.

If you don’t believe it, take my hand and follow me as I explain not only why I believe in this ultimate magic, but how it can help you—and anyone who reads the words you write—at some point in their lives.

The Problem

Since the dawn of time, mankind has had to deal with a somewhat unique problem. We possess not only a powerful analytical mind, but a very highly developed emotional sophistication as well. These attributes often end up at war inside us, with the stronger of the two deciding our actions.

The times when our emotional side is in charge can lead to some of the best, and worst, decisions of our lives. The problem is that most of us try very hard to make sure our analytical side leads the way, and quite often that means we must bottle up and shut down our emotional selves. We also sometimes need to suppress the strength of our emotions, in order to survive the heights and depths they can take us to.

When we lock our emotions away, we tend to hide them from ourselves as much as the rest of the world. This repression of emotions can lead to many different mental, and even physical conditions, so it becomes beneficial to find a way to release them.

A Solution

Fortunately, we humans also have a unique ability, that no other animal has. We can communicate abstract concepts to others, in ways that leave indelible imprints on the world around us.

When we express ourselves in a way that conveys not just thoughts but emotions as well, we call this art. The source of our inspiration to create art—whether it is through speaking, creative writing, sculpture, painting, music, or whatever other outlets we choose—is, if we look deeply, the wellspring of feelings inside us.

It has been my observation that the most powerful of these bottled up emotions can be released through artistic expression, and for many of us, that means the written word.

Some writers love to use one of the languages we share, in short clips and bursts of audible and/or visual imagery to express themselves. These communication artists may write in rhymes, metered forms, or free verse, but their poems and/or songs make connections and touch others; this writing often helps them not only heal themselves, but their audiences as well.

Others may find that writing poetry and/or songs just isn’t enough to satisfy their need to create images, characters, and worlds. Their written creations, in whatever length they work in—flash fiction, micro tales, short stories, novels—can transport others into worlds of their imagination. There, others get to share and experience a wide variety of emotional and mental images, sensations, and expressions. This is yet another way for a creative person to release the feelings in their hearts and souls, and help others do the same.

The Result

One of the best results of this process, is that writers can craft unique pieces of permanent communication, allowing them to transmit and share their thoughts, feelings, and ideas across generations. They can touch people who need to know they aren’t alone, who need to escape into a world of imagination, or who need to release their own pent-up emotions in one way or another.

This makes writing both the ultimate catharsis and the ulltimate form of telepathy; writers may, in their own way, become healers and magically transform the lives of others, by sending their thoughts, emotions and ideas out to other people beyond the limits of time and space.

We have all experienced a work of art at some point—written, drawn, sculpted, or played—that has touched our hearts, moved our souls and/or healed our troubled minds. This art may have been created today, or hundreds of years ago, and it may have been created by anyone at all. Someday, you yourself may share your thoughts and feelings with someone, somewhere, and help improve their lives.

You just can’t get much more magic than that.

© 2018 - Dusty Grein

#nonfiction #ponderings #amwriting

Dateline, Washinton D.C.

In a historic moment, President Lennon and First Lady Yoko, along with Secretary of State M.L. King, met with former President Kennedy and his new wife Marilyn.

The meeting, which took place in Kennedy’s compound, was reportedly to lay the foundation for the President’s new “World Peace Initiative”. Unverified rumors of marijuana legalization reform are in the air, as is music on the compound’s loudspeakers. Reporters have not been allowed inside but the songs from the Beatle’s most recent album, “Abby Hoffman’s Wonderland”, can be heard almost a mile away, and Domino’s trucks have been seen making regular deliveries.

In other news:

* The senator from Cuba has launched legislation to add the state’s symbol to the US flag instead of another star. Opponents say that the Hammer and Sickle would clash with the rainbow stripes pattern adopted just two years ago.

* Upstart technology company Microsoft has folded, citing their inability to compete with Atari/Commodore for market share.

* Stock for the business giant Edsel has split yet again, as its new hybrid model becomes the most popular selling electric car in both the US and China.

* The Cleveland Browns football dynasty continues as they claim their 12th Superbowl.

* Pre-release orders of best-selling novelist Dusty Grein's newest blockbuster have hit 5 million, and his company Rhetaskew Publishing has just bought another new printing firm to help complete the runs of this, his 100th book.

---------

© 2018 - dustygrein

#fiction #amwriting #althistory #prosechallenge

When the Lady Arlene asked me to take a letter to the Crown Prince of Darland, I thought it would be a simple task.

Granted, she did keep her apartment in the tallest tower of the castle on the highest peak in the land, and his father’s palace was at the base of the distant hills. What I hadn’t counted on was his immediate reply, which required an answer from her post-haste.

That was three days ago.

I spurred my horse - the fourth I had exhausted since this debacle began - to even greater speed. I had to get this latest dispatch to the Lady with all haste; the Prince was waiting anxiously on her reply to his new communique, which was safely tucked in my saddlebag. It read:

“I don’t know. What do YOU want to do after we meet for dinner?”

© 2018 - dustygrein

#flash #flashfiction #makemesmile #amwriting

Lover of women and men. Pioneer. Feminist. I admire you so. Sorry to stir you but I need to know:

Was your greatness innate, did talent burn from those fingers to singe the paper

or

Was it born from the grind of late nights, sore eyes, crumpled up words laid waste in metal bins, never-quite-right hard editing? Did you sometimes feel like you were never enough? Perhaps that’s why...

Are you at rest somewhere beyond or have I roused your tangled soul from the depths of the River Ouse where you held your breath to death? To drown yourself is a dogged suicide – complex, steadfast – and if you had known that your loved ones would search for you for three weeks, your body swept away with the current, would you have chosen a different method? It is said that writers are twice as likely to commit suicide and poets have a rate of bipolar depression 30 times greater than the general population....but I digress.

It’s a pleasure to meet you.

#flashfiction #suicide #virginiawoolf #writing