The wordSwork's most favorite portal is deemed to be, "stream of conscience," (SOC), reason being that i intrinsically relate to and have propensity for thinking on a level of mysticism blended with philosophy, science an' bits of what some may term "religiousness" or spirituality, aka, (in my case, christian precepts).

     I find SOC in particular, (and many of the portals as well) serves as strong catalyst to incite my imaginative, creative juices into writing action.

     SOC is a great term in that it is for me like a literal transcript of what I'm feeling, seeing, sensing, processing . . . touching with my spirit at the moment along with sprinklings of previous experiences, consciously and particularly subconsciously.

     Ah yes, stream of conscience, all that it implies. When the stream begins to flow; it flows then increases momentum in volume like a creek to river. The current carries my perceptions into a realm of impressions undulating with the wonder of this incredibly divine reality called life on planet earth. The written word. An amazing invention.

the thrill of victory,

the agony of defeat

to the victor, the writing marathon

or the arena's battle with the foes

goes the classic spoil,

publishing of the author's works

with all the world to share

hurdles formidable to jump

who will cross the finish line,

akin the writing athlete's 583,000 novel words?

leo tolstoy's war and peace,

j. r. tolkien, et als, writer runner athletes of the mind

for the written works of art to the cheering crowds

the poem, the prose, the story, genres no limit

whatever literary piece

the athlete's endurance is required

measured marked, degree of strength to endure

stamina's training endure and not faint

long nights of introspection's reflection

days of burning passion

traversing plains, hills and rivers, oceans feelings,

through valleys dark, deserts dry

of writer's block, or cramp

not succumb, nor be weary

athlete scribe of the pen

sleepless nights in running search of elusive epiphany

yet unfazed, unnerved to serve, fulfill

the burning need and crave

to form coherent means convey

through the paths and tracks of the course,

though obstacles in the way, unphased

isolation from fellow humanity,

running writing tireless

search for lost, obscure, fragmented meanings

translated terms, terms concise, precise

that fit just right for a perfect stride

words redundancy avoid, run the course

the narrow way, words that flow

take writer's pace to the finish lines

gasp for air in moments of ecstasy

in pursuit of passion's need to run the write

if the ink runs dry, relief awaits in the course

quench your thirst writer's run

it will yield another route

writer's run remains in the race

runs with the power of the pen

stays in the game running with the words

wrestles, fears not combat with the foes that would thwart

impedance threat athletes attempts to form

thoughts invisible into the visible for the spectators worthy

athlete writer harness, subdue as you run,

your thoughts into words, plot their course

in your strides to fly above the sundry barren frames of existence

pass the torch of their meaning, dreams and expectations

pass the torch of writing's sport

to catch the fire, share the sparks

and blaze with light the reader's mind

the author is the athlete poet in the arena of olympiads

runs the race from dawn to dusk

never weary in the sprint, to the full length's marathon

long distance strides to catch the sun

and pen it down

before it slips into the dawn

sprints to paint the story

write it down

share it with the hungry arena

the writer athlete does mourn:

"unless i run my heart does burst,

i cannot stop this race to write

my lungs fill with emotion's dread

to write my feelings my thoughts to spread

my glistening sweat,

salty sweet on my breast

as birds of prey fly after me

to peck my eyes, rob my words

and scatter them in piles

along the track to alphabet confetti,

steal my mission and my goal

unless i run the write

down to my finish lines,

wreath of glory on my brow,

literary piece to the world give

for human deeds and feelings manifold inscribe"

another write, the author poet victor's run

pursue and fill the plot

fulfill the readers' thrill applause,

satisfy their yearning's crave

for wielding swords of words

in the arena of the match

across the finish line another write

another chapter line by line

another poem stride by stride

quench your thirst by swallowing words

the sprint and the gallop of the quest

to write the highest epiphany

leap across to join the ranks

of the classics, the writing athletes of the mind

to the sounds of readers' cheers, exalted or low

of written works spilled across

the track of need for the race to write

How do you find your pitch?

how do you tune your craft?

you stretch it,

is strongest

just before it snaps

taut

can snap,

hurt yourself or someone else

take a guitar

loosen it,

tighten it

interesting sound - 

loose

try tightening at extreme end of

loose,

razor’s edge of the extreme side

loose sound

repulses,

even sickens the ear

too tight,

high pitched

annoying,

unpleasant to the ear

painful even

somewhere in between

is 

scale of possibilities,

but not as difficult as

looking for a needle in a haystack

you can find that spot by

turning it like a jeweler

looking for the right place

to cleave a rough ruby stone

somewhere 

some Point

is Exactness

Not must be,

but rather:

Is a Perfect Point

not indefinite or relative -

Perfect.

Here’s an illustrious example:

Anyone can reach into scrambled letters and try to play the game

or dip a spoon into a bowl of alphabet soup

not as fun or neat as SRABBLE

but the result is a jumble of edible letters

not bad if you’re hungry

What is the probability that the letters will fall in the right order to spell

any meaningful word other than the definite article, a

or abe, or abraham, or metaphor?” (or capitalization?)

would you choke if you dipped your spoon into the soup, pulled it out 

and just before you put it in your mouth saw the word idiom?

spoon not being large enough for elaboration or quizzical

so it is for us authors,

create,

creation,

creativity

does not happen by itself

intelligence

must intervene

introduced into a closed system

Here’s our moment to undo the disrespect of the idea of a chemical primordial soup having created us humans in our search for extraterrestrial letters. 

Letters can fall from the sky you know, in the form of ethereal air like entities, sometimes referred to as epiphanies.

If alphabet soup can create simple or complex words then I am persuaded to believe that words can put themselves together, (which means that alphabet soup is endowed with intelligence, mmmmm goood.

I can see the blockbuster near you:

Invasion of the Alpha  Bets, Aliens from Andromeda, Starring Charleston Heston

Out of the milieu of primordial soup, vowels combined with consonants, microwave radiation, (form of lightning), leaked into the bowls of unsuspecting hominids, excited the atoms of the soup to create heat energy and behold: The Word(s).

Musical Score by: Lady La La La

What is the next step in the sequence of intelligent form and advancement to the creation of a word from a letter? 

Letter?

Is it sentence?

Intelligence forms sentence and much

Much more

that would be you and me

fellow authors

From one end to the other, outside of the ends

of the string in Monica’s boutique

of words

in her soul

lies no sound

but fuzzy logic

string theory sound

Ultrasound 

is soundless to humans

only machines and

some animals can recieve its

soundwaves to register

We may or may not be looking for a needle

but looking for one is almost

necessary if we are to produce exemplary 

written work

have any of you ever looked for a dust mite

under a haystack when writing?

From one end of our string to the other lies

the perfect frequency note, phoneme, word, sentence, paragraph, poem, novel, 

No sound at all

It takes a strum from an outside agent 

a mind, a will and a scribbler with a 

scribbing instrument

such as pencil,

or electronic device, 

cell phone, word processor

of one kind or another

until we find it

the 

Perfect Piece

Poetry is the silent communication of hearts’ song melody.

Poetry is the poetess poet entwined in love or hate,

She is the harshness of life

Combined with its blessedness

To make tolerable/palatable

The willing ear

Tho meaningless

To the unattuned

Poetry is life translated into greater beauty

It makes the ethereal perceivable

It is life to the laborer who

Yearns after more than bread

And seeks words beyond the brutish

Poetry is feminine,

A queen with a man as her King

Her words are beauty

But she is able to dispense appearances of utter horror

Yet uses her powers to paint horror beautifully

She finds comfort, provides food for

And quenches the thirst

Of all Earth’s laborers

Which fellow laborers,

Beasts or nature can’t give

Poetry is indefinable

No one masters her,

But she provides meaning to everyone

And shares with everyone

The simple and the great

She provides a bridge

And knowledge of

Eternity and God

With those who spend time with her

She appears out of thin air

I love her Magic

WORDThe loveliest lines I can imagine,Written wordsLike the lines of Michelangelo’s Sculptures Created of white marble, Marvelous, words,Stones, immovable, For works of genius. How can the hands of mankind Create From dense particles of stoneInto lovely forms, the human body?So too, words from the invisibleMade into beauty . . .Alchemy, The written wordEtchings of divinityGranted to the mortalGateway to immortalityGrid of civilizationAvogadro’s numberElectron, numerical technologyRenaissance statuesPainted with fine oilOn satin sheets of gold threadedMother boards illuminated By lightThoughts, like mistsEthereal, Transcription to wordsAt times, laborious taskBut essential.The flow may be fluidLike the silken locks of Angels’ hair, At times slow like a rheostat’s Dimming lightNew words will ariseFrom authors’ passionsTo describe secret depths Translated over chasms of What was lost from humanityLifting him From the sundry,And the mire,Delivering precious contentInvisible cathartic synapse For release to transportBeyond drudgery, And brutish earth, lowest plane.Mere existence otherwise,Absent mind interface And wordMore will comeSeasoned craftsmenForming even nowAnd always, due Providence Yet to be . . . To handle wordsLike sharpened sword Carve reality and see A deeper meaning than just to be Consult the masters and escape,Follow them and their likeRead the words . . .Aldous Huxley, John Milton, Isaac Asimov, Jack London, Inventive handlers of the magic tradeJules Verne, Descartes, Socrates, Di Vince, ChristCountless more . . .Mix it up, eat the words,Masters of written word, Use their script, indelible, Escape the pillageOf evil minds who would distainPlunder libraries to kill the soulOr persecute the handlersWith threats And burn, erase or otherwise destroyForce concealmentWords are hidden in other worlds, Minds, some destroyed for evermore,Some in Books, plain to see, Some unnoticed, in caves . . .Clay pots in desert wastelands, Holy scrolls, Isaiah’s booksAgainst all odds, foundBy wandering shepherd boyCasting stones into a cave Words lie hidden far yonder Star bleached sands ’round Face on Mars, Ancient pyramids there,Long gone mysterious raceTheir words await Carnarvon’s dazzling discoveryChinese cuneiform, Rosetta stone, hieroglyphics, Arabic swirls, algebraic,Aladdin’s lamp, Hebrew script, TorahCambodian doily, snowflake lines,Morse code . . . cursive script.Da Vinci mirror codes,Arthur Clark, Khalil Gibran,Words wielded as hammer and chiselTo sculpt, shape, break . . . move Mountains of ignorance, fearWords used softly,As wisps of air, Sun’s light on alpine meadowFlowing eternity,LoveIron mind from red dust Mortal earth, conceived Brought to life Tools, inventions, Ladles molten iron filledSteel, nakedFragile human Fleshly arms, fingers bloody,There standsPorous skin, translucent,Flesh and bone,Confronting earth rockMarvel flesh WordIron submits!Schematics of alpha numericDots, tittles, bars and spaceReflected to pupil and brainSeemingly from thin, inspired airSkyscrapers, Buoyant iron, Air breathing machineSubmerged, ’neath infinite tonnageOf salt and water pressureFlesh, shadowy, in dim lit aislesPlotting, breathing, devising, ThinkingTinkering wordWhile others above sleepSome ride or fly in thin alloyed,Metallic steeds created by powerOf wordsBy word, enemies vanquished, Minds stirred Mobilization, imaginative forms, Made materialThe meek rose strong, Ordinary folk from sleep awoke Confident, Fought courageously.Oppressed were liberated andSome framed great writs.Constitutions, holy books,Laws and legacies birthedSet in stone and written in hearts Human heritage mixed in blood Pen your words authors, poets, Scatter seeds,Stir imaginations Raise those who sleep Awake the dead Give joy to the sadFlight to them who cannot walkSet free the slaveSend love to ones who grieveOr haven’t hopeIn the beginningWas the WordAnd the Word was made fleshAll things were made By the Word, theVisible and invisibleThe Word spoke: “Let there be Light!”

wish that i could gather the atoms 

that vibrated your voice, 

your breath, 

its heat of warmth, 

its fragrance scent . . .

your molecules

. . . so long ago

wish that I could collect 

their dissipation, 

scattered so long ago

and hear, and smell

their essence of you . . .

so long ago

wish that I could see your image,  

it's frame in my mind's  eye

rewind an' replay 

each moment's movement 

of your touch . . .

your smile, 

your laugh,

your body . . .

so long ago

gone forever, 

your molecules' atoms scattered through all eternity, 

fallen settled scattered swirled

on the fabric of earth and space

inhaled, exhaled swept up and rippled

sieved an' strained through time before and after

ever moving, somewhere, 

your being, 

your mineral dust, 

elemental essence somewhere still

within my reach

your spirit, somewhere still

as i move through the ethereal 

of the knowledge that is you

i reach out with my spirit,  

my thoughts feeble centered on you

grasping with a desperate mind 

i listen pensively, 

perpetually attuned with spirit radar

eyes attuned, 

i see,

i hear through the veil 

separating you an' me, 

i sense your presence love

your benevolence,  

your cosmic compassion, 

wish that I could return

to those times, 

those bubbles in place 

the moments of magic 

where they occurred 

when they occurred

again imprinted upon the fabric 

of time and space 

moments that escaped my hold, 

slipped an' lost forever by my feeble grasp,

time flowed on and on . . . 

. . . and on 'til today

with me it's victim, 

it's puppet slave 

art draws the eye

attracts mind and soul excites, 

takes it in with quiet breaths, incites awe

art feels like its moving even though it be standing still

it comes in many colors' shapes

like lines of life mixed with love and hate 

art makes sounds though it stands silent

. . . take me back

to ancient 18th century americana country roads

by meandering brooks

weathered barns and stovepipe flues and tin lanterns

leathered tans and bamboo fishing poles

the musty scents, the whippoorwills

white church steeples, frozen lakes simple peoples

earth's sweet havens, more innocence peace

tranquil days, firefly nights, lazy moons, quiet voices

when earth lay still, more still than now

. . . take me past, friend ghost of time past

to times i admire most,

captured by your realm

just for me and those who crave to follow

those few times where life was slow, tasted sweet and full

outside the midst of wars

take me to that past

where honey thick dripped from golden combs

high up oak trees, hung by yellow buzzing bees

. . . take me back friend ghost of times past

when air was filled with a child's play

running in tiny bits of time by paths of peaceful minds,

though they lasted but a moment's spark,

let me there remain with shallow breaths of being,

never let it pass, leave me lost

lost in another time,

before today my wearied mind was thrown,

exposed to present violence

news unrest with few notches left

on strike of atomic clock's to midnight

. . . take me back, can you leave me there?

to bask and play, lay my head on mother's lap

where rest will ever stay,

no worry dare ever take away

a land with no upheaval,

no threat of murder's plot by man or spirit beast

no break of day to ignite night's fear,

nor thumps and crashes at my door,

impending doom prophetic told

take me to another realm where my thoughts will ever stay

filled with hallowed roads in all directions

meandering by eternity's brilliant light

cast out of eden

delivered to the jaws of death to a mighty, vicious foe

poison darts in all directions fly 

flying serpents invisible to our eyes

spitting venom from fanged, needle sharp teeth

malicious narrowed eyes, vertical pupils yellowed grained

always at the ready to strike and strike again

eons time passes by

hit and miss,

onward on, we try, try, and try 

our babies cry and die, die, die

throughout the ages past,

eden's portals closed, buried under sands

secrets buried deep beneath our sleeping feet

the keys to unlock linger on the winds

this sphere of earth keeps rolling, spinning around the tired sun

peace on earth

good will toward man

the words ring loud and true every day delivered, 

drowned out by raging sounds of bullets

cries of pain and despair as the world turns

the earthquakes rock, the fires burn our trees

signs light up the sky

enough to make the stoutest hearts to cry

to cope, to lose the awful truth we sink into our minds

our work, our love of pleasure, some of us our pain

peace on earth

far from it, 

it seems apparent

unless one goes into the desert deep

but even there given enough passing time

eventually leads to voices in the air

murmuring things to torment the mind, 

reminders of eden lost

turn rocks into bread

peace on earth of a different kind

the kind spoken by an author whose power guarantees his promises

peace available to all, any one who knows

its not of the kind attainable by mortal man

who constantly employs his mind to invent it

but it doesn't last, it never will, like most inventions of its kind

eventually entropy overtakes by rust and tendrils of decay

another war, due another shortage of world goods

greed sets in and steals the show, 

disease and deaths in tow

manic world with all its systems

peace that's offered since the breech in paradise is the solid truce

between God and Man

good will to him offered by the one offended

available to them in taking

peace on earth, good will toward men

still rings loud and true throughout any season

in the heart available to all for the taking

hard bought one day here to stay

by the blood of his holy son

when blood spills on steel we may

hold our breath

when bad news hits hard,

maybe the dreaded word of death,

the c word for cancer,

the pycho ward,

the verdict,

our breath involuntary holds,

and so,

light headedness

the fainting spell

despite our will however strong

at times we hold our breath

it teaches us to know when we hold our breath its cool

to feel more alive,

reminds us well that's its okay to want again to breathe

our breath to hold by our will 

gives at times our desperate minds

to breathe again is cool

reminds ourselves a breath is precious still

consider those trapped underground

megatons of rock above,

with darkness deep profound

the panic suffocation chokes and gags

the spirit by the throat

a crippled airline flight

your withheld breath,

a freefall dive from miles above

high altitude of grief,

childhood pain,

five brothers on your chest

the panic fight, the muffled cry of fear,

the urgent need to take a breath ensues

hold your breath to challenged match

in underwater diver's plunge

until your lungs feel hot to burst

will make you feel alive

depression's weight on your soul

the pain despair withholds,

your wanting to breathe in

its ugly claws tears your heart and mind

kills you slowly at a time

suffocates your wanting to live on

you hold your breath crying out

in silent agony,

but soon enough you suck in air

for another try

another moment, however brief

of vital respiration

although you feel dead inside

you're somewhat glad you're still alive

your last moments on this earth

might make you love the last breaths that you take

for you hold and contemplate

the slow inhale,

slow exhale

when you by circumstance,

see a living picture come serene,

a mother holding baby to her breast

sunshine reflecting off a young girl's hair

walking on a foot path in early morning air

you might think you must have courage 

sometimes just to take another shallow breath

must have strength sometimes just to live another hour

as you slowly suck it all in

you make another deliberate inhalation

it may not be that you're afraid to die,

but more that you'd rather live