The Cowboy Rides A Black Horse
Stemming from a Challenge by Huck Hoo, today's feature goes into an absolutely beautiful set of work from a writer we strongly suggest you read, if you aren't already.
It was so good to narrate this author this morning.
From the channel description that says, "Two pieces on the site that turn this writer into an instant classical diamond in the cream color of our published pages," these are from the heart and soul of a writer, a writer who made me want a shot of whiskey in my coffee, while I looked at the plains over a dusty pair of boots fronting a crackling couldron, and then into the woods of inspiration from some of the greatest writers to live, mentioned in the second read.
I'll tag the author in the first name below, as always.
Here's the link to the channel.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRmBlhgzfr4
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Rest in peace, Shane.
The world lost a shining and inimitable talent yesterday. Mr. Love paid a beautiful tribute, and we wanted to express it here, and on the channel, along with our condolences to Mr. MacGowan's family, friends, and fans. Go easy, Shane, and thank you for your years here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEBzheJviBs
Something
My happy place is an old Victorian house. on the back of that house is a bench, and that bench faces the forest. When you sit on that bench and stare into those trees, you know that something is there. Something older than the stained glass windows of the house, something older than the books on the shelves or the wine in the cellar. Something so old that it breathes in time with the trees. The longer you sit and try to rationalize the presence, your mind starts to play tricks on you. You think to yourself, "Maybe its just the wind, or a bear." But when you really focus, you know that the something you know is there isn't describable with the words in our vocabulary. That something has always been there, and knows all pain and all happiness, and you know that you aren't alone. Sure, that thought alone is enough to unsettle most people, but that's what makes this place so happy for me. The fact that you something is watching you back, thinking the same things about you.
Confession (from my live show The Oblivion Series)
I am left tongue-tied, ridiculous, red.
As though under a microscope and stark lights
I feel you look at me with your stunning, entire self.
Do you know how often your words have occurred to me?
Naked and plain - piercing...?
Fleeting eyes and words and feet that tease me with their clarity,
Summoning up my own shy truths
Begging to be whispered in your ear
Begging to hear more
Because you've got a direct line to my soul
And I am ready for an out-pouring of my own...
Suspicious, darting eyes,
That have seen far too many lies
Falling from lips of lovers and friends
Prevents me from saying "I am in love with you!"
In an Anais Nin/June kind of way...
Prevents me from saying "You are beautiful, and unafraid!"- and I...?
Am as a twelve year old girl discovering her warm, soft breasts for the first time:
Dizzy, and proud, and alive.
Forgive me if I cannot look you in the eye.
-JTW
Person
I’m often reminded of you.
When I feel joy overwhelm me.
Joy I thought you were faking.
When joy reveals itself plainly.
When joy reveals itself through song.
When synths feel cinematic and manic
and make me want to morph my body into a star.
When I hear lamentations about our eventual fate
that still allow space for awe amid lingering angst
When I want to feel everything, everywhere, all at once
When I want to feel everyone I love.
When I am wondering where I learned how to care.
Belief
In the theater of the soul, a wrestling ring,
A bout with belief, where questions swing.
God, a nebulous presence in the cosmic sphere,
In the crucible of doubt, a struggle sincere.
The first bell tolls, a journey's inception,
In the arena of faith, a profound reflection.
Wrestling with the concept of the divine,
A dance with doubt, a questioning spine.
In the corners of thought, belief takes a stance,
A spiritual wrestling, a cosmic dance.
The canvas of doubt, where shadows sprawl,
In the search for God, where skeptics crawl.
The mat of contemplation, where doubts collide,
In the wrestling with belief, where thoughts reside.
God, a concept debated, a mystery profound,
In the arena of faith, where seekers abound.
Round one commences, with doubts in the air,
In the wrestling ring of faith, where shadows stare.
A grapple with scriptures, with doctrines and lore,
In the ring of belief, a relentless uproar.
Round two unfolds, with philosophical might,
In the wrestling match of belief, where shadows alight.
God, a question mark in the vast unknown,
In the questioning heart, where seeds are sown.
In the third round's embrace, doubt takes hold,
In the wrestling with belief, where stories are told.
The struggle with theodicy, where pain resides,
In the ring of faith, where compassion abides.
Round four, a skirmish with science and reason,
In the wrestling with belief, a profound season.
God, a hypothesis, a cosmic enigma,
In the depths of doubt, where shadows stigma.
In the fifth round's drama, a mystical quest,
In the wrestling ring of faith, where seekers invest.
The search for purpose, for meaning profound,
In the struggle with belief, where echoes resound.
Round six, a grapple with religious zeal,
In the wrestling match of faith, where fervors feel.
God, a beacon or illusion, where lines blur,
In the wrestling with belief, where thoughts occur.
The seventh round whispers of mystical grace,
In the wrestling ring of faith, where seekers trace.
A dance with the divine, a sacred art,
In the struggle with belief, where questions depart.
As the final bell tolls, the wrestling ends,
In the arena of faith, where truth transcends.
Belief, a journey, a labyrinthine trail,
In the wrestling with God, where doubts set sail.
In the aftermath, a realization dawns,
In the wrestling with belief, where wisdom spawns.
God, a concept shaped by the heart's decree,
In the journey of faith, where seekers roam free.
So, in the wrestling with belief, where shadows loom,
May the seeker find solace, dispelling the gloom.
For in the heart's arena, where doubts collide,
The wrestling with God, a sacred stride.
Unprepared...
I was not prepared for this history, this moment. Within minutes of landing in Vienna, for my first time in Europe and first time to travel internationally, we took our luggage by U-Bahn (subway) to the hotel to begin a day of sightseeing. A day including a tour of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral dating to 1147, viewing the death mask of Mozart, examining ruins of the Roman city of Vindobona, the predecessor of Vienna, and a walk through the Austrian Kaiser’s palace. Plans for the evening included a dinner of Wiener Schnitzel, and celebrating Saint Patrick’s day at the only bona fide Irish Pub in town. After dropping our luggage at the hotel, we walked down the cobblestone street in search of a genuine Café Vienna, an espresso with a generous dollop of whipped cream dusted with cocoa powder. Rich, earthy, and so decadent, the beverage was inspired by the abundant supply of coffee left by the Muslim army who laid siege to the city during the Middle Ages. The drink, served in a distinctive handled glass was originally an accommodation for the city’s carriage drivers.
Walking down the sidewalk brass letters caught my eye, words in German, my high school and college courses in the language helped me to make out. “in this building, in 1942 was a Jewish orphanage, 12 men and women and 39 children were deported to Auschwitz, and murdered by the Nazis.
I stood there, excited for the promise of coffee, and a selection of the pastries and croissants who the Viennese say originated there instead of Paris, which we could smell from the bakeries on every other corner. Yet expectation of all the joys a day of exploring one of the most historically significant cities of Europe could bring vanished and I became somber and misty eyed. 12 Männer und Frauen, 39 Kinder. I was not prepared for THAT history, THAT moment.