A Blog Anniversary and a Writer’s Thanks

 

a6eef5b0-e901-4fb8-838e-4ba187acfed8

The writer at his post

Just received a note from WordPress congratulating me on the 6th Anniversary of this blog, A Thing for Words.

Wow! I’ve been on WordPress for six and on Blogspot for one year before that. That’s seven years of sharing my work with you readers online.

It also means I’ve been walking this second-chance trail for eight years. It’s kinda saved my life, in addition to enriching it for an hour or so a day. Sitting at this desk almost every day with my head down and imagination up (pretension alert!!) breathe some life into a heart and soul that could easily slip back into the dark.

So, if you’re a regular at my joint or not, I thank you for your continued support and encouragement. I hope I’ve added a spoonful or two of light into your days, too.

Advertisements

Sacraments of the Snow

fullsizeoutput_b5e

So small is each worker,
yet so united in communion,
that they cloud my view
of what their force builds.
It’s their lot in my back lot
to shape a scape as placid as
a pearl’s face, with whom
even selfish moon feels compelled
to wed it’s center-stage light
in the blackest February night.

But this congregational effort
to absolve the dark transgressions
and from chill gray winter
will only stand as a tent village,
a home temporary as a sinner’s promise,
for these crystallized raindrops
set to ascend back north
when the river ice cries out
and floats south to the sea.

On this Sunday, the frozen souls
will whisper prayerfully
from matins to vespers
in vestments so chaste,
as the soles of sinful men
sully this pristine place of worship,
this mausoleum where they await
the rapture of equinox crawling
beneath the southeastern horizon
toward earth’s resurrection.

Conspiracy to Commit

heart-prison-window-25529149

If not a high crime
it surely was a misdemeanor
he relived along with
his fantastic projections
based on what-if and if-only.
But the five-and-dimer
never made his big score,
only cased the joint,
admired the merchandise
and drew closer and closer
in a tightening coil
until he choked on
the perfume of the object
of his obsession.
He sighs, replaying
all the times he coulda
and shoulda. But it was
his heart ending up
her stolen property.
In its place he keeps
the faded Wanted poster
to keep him warm while
doing life in solitary.

Another mashed-up metaphor strung out over 100 words in what might be an anti-Valentine’s Day poem. But really, it’s a love poem in its own way.

Dawn, Feb. 11, 2017

fullsizerender-24
You stir, cough, roll over and peek one-eyed at the clock signaling in garish mini-sunrise that it’s 6:30 AM. Kicking off the covers, you swing to face the wall while your feet search for slippers hidden in the coolness of your bed’s shadow. Scuffs beneath your feet, you shuffle to the window and pull back the curtain just a crack to see the consequences executed by the overnight snow. Eyes blink their reconciliation with the alarming alchemy cosmically metamorphosing the black-smudge base metal of yesterday into the platinum of a new day. Wedding cake duplexes and cupcake SUVs suspended from the clouds by steamy exhalations surround the cul de sac as gray dawn doesn’t so much rise as just happen. Crows calling in cacophonous amity, scratch away the comforting blanket of bedroom quiet. Four inches? Six inches? Does it matter? You still ache from pushing aside Thursday’s storm, so what’s to come when you eventually step into the subarctic day is just another pile of potential, frozen and tossed upon your front step like a million Sunday papers. You crack your back, grab some socks and head downstairs. Weekend’s come and it still feels like Thursday.

Welcome to my shivering, shoveling, sleep-deprived world. And I count myself lucky to be here in it.

There With You, Here With Me

the-muse-gabriel-de-cool-2

The Muse by Gabriel de Cool, 1895

I defer to you
when it comes to experience.
I haven’t been in your skin
when the time came to Yes or No,
Stay or Go, Be or Not Be.
You’ve made your choices,
even though you might believe
some were made for you.
But our lives have not
been a grand accident,
some Big Bang that
set in motion a journey
we’ll look back upon and
play in our lonely final repose
at lightning-fast forward.
Someday the final credits
will roll and you and
your epic life, that
singular litany of Dids and Dones,
stands a good chance of
no longer Doing, in that
final spark of experience,
perhaps I’ll be there with you.
That’s because while I experienced
these visions of lives
both real and imagined,
captured and chronicled
as I, alone in my skin,
tend to do, you’ve been here

…and here…

…and here…

with me.

Another Spoonful of Dreams

spooning

I dreamt you allowed me
to hold you, and I did, as
I dreamt you’d want me to.
And I recall wishing
my skin was soft as yours,
my embrace strong,
yet tender, too.
My chest I pressed
against your back,
your breast
my hand caressed.
I needed to know
if heartbeats echo
or mirror-beat as one.
But this was only a dream,
one many nights I’ve lived,
in which I’m not the me
by dawn’s light I see,
but one you’d wish hold you
how you’d want enfold you
on those nights
it’s your dream to be held.

Sat down late this afternoon and along came this 100-word piece of free-written, stream-of-consciousness run mushily amok. Must be the approaching celebration of mirror-beating hearts and mated souls . Oh, and the imagined dreams of my dreamy imagination.

a·ban·doned, adj.

refilling-cartridge-1003-0113-long-live-pitmans-shorthand

The crisp heartbeat rhythm
he’d hang pictures upon
dulled to a matte thing
reflecting nothing but
whispered brushstrokes.

In its place,
an amber-light ache,
a cautionary Don’t
raising its hand,
a bleary ellipsis en route
to comma and then
the silencing dot.

In the white field’s
vacant stare,
he thought of then,
of that, of her, of them,
of eyes, of laughter,
of tears.
Of abandonment, of regret.

So he turned from them,
dipping his pen into the well
of almosts and sortas.
But what good were imprecise
words if they couldn’t
bring that face into
his inky hands again?

Nothing happening here today. Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Move along. Move along…