The Pinecone and the Acorn

THE PINECONE AND THE ACORN


The pinecone and the acorn
went to town one day,
looking for the perfect place
for them to live and stay.

The pinecone said,
“It's fun to be away from there
and all the pines and doves,
together we'll make a solid pair.”

The acorn replied,
“I'm so excited to see the town
and all the interesting people,
those squirrels were getting me down.”

'Round and round
they roamed each city street
trying to find a suitable home
all cozy, warm and neat.

And when they were about to give up
a vision come into sight,
the perfect home for both of them
with lots of room and light.

“This is it,” exclaimed the pinecone,
as he lovingly touched a wall;
“I concur,” said the acorn,
“this is the best one of all.”

So, in they moved together
this highly unlikely pair,
and the pinecone and the acorn
learned what it's like to share.

Without

WITHOUT

puzzle without end
car without engine
sun without moon
air without breeze
rain without clouds
rainbows without storms
seasons without changes
trees without leaves
flowers without fragrance
food without water
God without life
devil without sin
fear without comfort
happiness without laughter
sadness without tears
grief without mourning
brain without intelligence
id without muse
recollections without memories
soul without meaning
belief without faith
you without me
me without you
life without love

Consuming Love

CONSUMING LOVE

I want to be
your favorite hello
and your hardest goodbye.

I want to be
your good morning sunshine
and your good night moon.

I want to be
your reason for living
and getting through each day.

I want to be
the sturdy walls
of our home sweet home.

I want your world
to turn
just for me.

Voices From the Yesteryear

(Photo by Dan Felstead of Wood and Pixel Narratives)



VOICES FROM THE YESTERYEAR

The old homestead still stands,
'thou no longer in its prime;
surrounded by memories of old.
But the band of tension is tighter,
as strong fingers of the past
grip firmly around the present.

Memories never completely die
as long as there is one to remember,
they only fade with time,
waiting …
waiting for a sight or scent or touch
to pull the past forward again.

Reminiscences are fickle things
floating in and out at will,
flashing back in retrospect
as the subconscious tries to catch up;
they can haunt one's mind with flights of fancy,
or drag them back to the pits of despair.

Voices from the yesteryear whispers through the mind,
carefully writing the essay of life,
registering the extraordinary occurrences,
but monographing the ordinary as well.
Pulling back the sleeve of time
to connect the past with the living.

Memories are a reminder of mortality
the proof we all must face,
verifying the times gone by
like suspicions on the wind;
and nostalgia promises a keepsake,
calling out with tokens from the past.

The Barn Loft

(Photo by Dan Felstead of Wood and Pixel Narratives)

THE BARN LOFT

I stand now silent and still,
a forgotten remnant from the past.
Once the farming lifeline,
now fading away, left to rot and decay,
taking the last essence of country soul.

Look closely upon my old, scarred walls,
past faded wood and splinters;
I wear my wounds deeply,
initials and names carved with care,
reminding but a few what is lost.

My ladder now too rickety
to support the weight of men,
but I’ve held great weights indeed
upon my sturdy shoulders,
sustenance for vital lives.

Will I be remembered in the coming centuries?
Or is my core done lost?
I want to be loved again,
can’t you see my potential?
Or am I just a lowly loft, forgotten and alone?

God's Face

(Photo by Dan Felstead of Wood and Pixel Narratives)

GOD'S FACE

I saw God’s face today,
peaking from behind the clouds,
golden rays of happiness beams,
glittering to the ground.

I watched in awe
from my earthly bounds,
as the sunshine washed my face,
and dreamed of a time
when he would take me home
to his palace far away.

Blessings

(Artwork by Kagaya Studio)

BLESSINGS

Dank, gray, hazy -
the day advances,
after one of pure Spring bliss;
the doldrum of winter
has reared its shaggy head,
taking us back to the chill and forboding
we are all trying to overcome.

Will this winter ever end?
And when it does, will we continue
to wish for something else again?
We seem to never be content
with what is right in front of us,
wishing our lives away for the next passing fancy.

So, bless the drizzle,
bless the cold,
bless the lack of sunshine gold.
Bless the day,
bless the week,
bless the things we continually seek.

Backyard wildlife habitat - part #3 - bird shelters: http://ping.fm/w52r9

Short Poems

This is an exercise from a "Small Poetry Workshop" presented by my friend Katerina Stoykova-Klemer. I started with a poem of less than 50 words:


Memory Caller

The night is ominous
with the eerie glow of a full moon;
rays from the nightly orb
light the deserted passageways
calling to distant memories.
(25 words)



Then I had to write the same poem using half the number of words, without losing the meaning:

Memory Caller

Ominous night,
eerie lunar glow,
lighting deserted passageways
calling distant memories.
(11 words)

Memories

MEMORIES

Ghostly figures roam the halls,
reigning over rooms where once
they were unwelcome visitors.
A moonless night and a mysterious spirit
lead to a desolate secret,
a somber night filled with foreboding,
a time of intrigue and terror,
as a dawn,
different from any other,
arrives to roam
the cold, empty corridors alone.

My Schizophrenic Muse

I think my muse is schizophrenic. Don't laugh, I'm serious. Or maybe it's must bipolar like me. Okay, so maybe I really am crazy, after all, I did just give my muse a personality.

Although I have been writing gang-busters for the past few weeks, the writing is not taking any coherent form and I jump from one project to the next. I realize that jumping from one project to another is my typical writing style, but I really get the feeling my muse is trying to tell me something.

The one thing I really want to be working on is the least thing I've been paying attention to. Granted, I have written at least a dozen poems in the past month - and some of them I even think are good - but poems are not going to help me get my book finished. I've written an essay and 2 pieces for my Super 70s column. I've written several book reviews and several captions for the "Harrodsburg" book I'm working on with a local historian.

I have been really excited about the release of "The Women of Mercer County" because I have 3 essays in this book. I'm also super excited about the upcoming release of "Speaking Out Volume 2" because I will have one essay and at least 5 poems in this collection. I should also have an essay appear in the fall release of "New Southerner's" Anthology. And I am very proud of all these accomplishment ...

... but I think they are detours for my muse; easy ways to get my mind off what I need to be doing. So while I have completed another chapbook of poems and submitted it to a writing contest, the book I want to finish is lingering in the background. The book is being so quiet, like it doesn't want to draw my attention to it, praying that my muse will be enough to distract me.

Maybe I'm being melodramatic. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Maybe my id and my muse are plotting an evil takeover. Or maybe my muse is schizophrenic and I'm just crazy enough to realize it.

Night Terrors

(Photo by Dan Felstead of Wood and Pixel Narratives)

NIGHT TERRORS

Elements will clash,
death waits to take prisoners,
truth hangs like a shroud over a life of wrong.

Unearthly protection,
bent on liberating,
a bright, happy future has turned to nothing.

An aura of peace,
tranquility encases a mind,
entrapped with hidden secrets and fears.

Eerie light
of a watchful full moon,
leads the mind to the mystical unknown.

Thick cover
of eternal darkness,
has filled the night with terror.

Silent Memories

SILENT MEMORIES


A great storm rages
all elements of nature seem to be at war,
clashing …
the storm has broken and
it will soon be dawn;
faint rays of light will appear on the horizon
dispelling the darkness,
a moment of light,
only to be plunged into darkness again,
into the sanctuary of the past
the moment of truth, that could be salvation, is gone forever
and even the landscape has changed.
Quiet afternoons are timeless,
moments when the past intermingles
with the present,
thoughts move about unseen;
the quiet nights are longer,
deep within the dark as
opposing forces collide.
Times when death rushes by silently, unnoticed;
but there are times we invite those memories deliberately.
For one who has sought these memories
it can be a fatal encounter.

Speaking Out

Yippee!! Here is the cover of the newest SPEAKING OUT book, a collections of works by Mercer County writers. One of my poems, "See Me," is the very first poem in the book. I also have several other poems and an essay in the book.

Details on the Book Release Party will follow as soon as they are finalized.

The Crystal War

THE CRYSTAL WAR

The earth knows how to hide its secrets well,
sometimes men, too, must hide secrets,
even wage desperate battles to bury these secrets,
'cause keeping them hidden could mean the difference
between death and survival,
humiliation and scourge.
Unknown to the outside world,
Kentucky is waging such a battle,
and the cause of this battle is an addiction,
that grows and swells with each passing hour.
Under the scolding sun, the days seem hot,
throbbing with unrelenting humidity;
no storm has come and the air is still
as officers search for the crystal stash;
sometimes the stillness will end
with a gentle rain of disappointment,
but sometimes with a thundering
storm of triumph as yet one more lab is dismantled.
The sea of hope is sometimes calm and motionless,
but the sea is never still;
sometimes a force has beckoned to tear families apart
and we never know if we are being drawn
from the pain and disruption
or toward some final shore.

The Kentucky Underbelly

THE KENTUCKY UNDERBELLY

A strong star has pierced the mist
and vague outlines appear on the Kentucky underbelly,
elusive now, but soon
they will reveal themselves for what they are,
remnants of a shameful secret,
the broken lives and innocence lost
to the frailty of childhood existence.
But the mist within the mind
and the mist that protects action from reality
are lifting,
and what there is to be seen
is witnessed by no strong star,
but by something as frail and frightening
as the human mind.
We are constantly searching our memories,
searching into the past to unveil moments of our life
clouded over by time and by our fears;
but the forgotten population,
the young ghostly haunts have fragmented our psyche
with the hurt crying and damaged tears
of our shameful secret.
The beautiful landscape of
the beloved Bluegrass is forever pierced
and stained by the senseless horror
and death of our young.

Thunderous Secrets

THUNDEROUS SECRETS

Flashes of lightening in a sudden summer storm,
only time will tell if the frightening glare
has come to illuminate or destroy.
The truth strikes with fiery force
sending thunder to shake the very foundation,
shattering the uneasy calm.
Desperate secrets long held close to the soul
have slowly been revealed
and truth cuts across time,
searing the heart and steaming the mind open;
ancient wounds beyond the cure of time and truth.
The foundation lies deep in the age old rock wall
of rival cliffs and crevices,
the thunder of heaven can't shake the storm
that disturbs the earth
threatening to topple and destroy
a prize of great wealth running out
from the jagged stones of death.

Journey Out of Time

JOURNEY OUT OF TIME

A yellow haze obscures the morning sun
and the meadows and fields appear bleak and desolate
in the curious half light;
it's as if day and night have intermingled
and two worlds have become one.
An invitation to enter the waking world and the world of dreams
as the past becomes another time, another identity;
candlelight hours illuminate an evening long dead
with the fringes of life again.
A journey out of time, past the flickers of future and melancholy;
the dark mantle of deception that transforms diabolical schemes
of forbidding gloom.
The night winds murmur through ancient trees
like memories;
hushed voices speaking in whispers
that transcend the living,
igniting the past to merge with the future
and the dead to merge with the living

Humanity

HUMANITY

A chilling mist falls around the shattered remains
of a life once known;
oozing into the subterranean caverns of my mind.
The drifts that lead my soul from the vast reality of existence
are primeval whispers,
an ancient call,
tempting me to think the world will never change.
But I cannot forget the world is a dancing place,
full of energy, knowledge, and love;
encircling the deep for times gone past
and scanning the seas for the essence of humanity.
It tries to glimpse a flash of silver fortitude in the sunlight,
then swoops down to be engulfed in a tidal wave
of quiet moments
before landing in a watery grave.

Musing Mondays

I'm a week behind, so last week's MUSING MONDAYS post was about borrowed books.

Where do you keep any books borrowed from friends or the library? Do they live with your own collection, or do you keep them separate? Do you monitor them in anyway.

I don't put my borrowed books with my own book collection because if I did, they would never get back to the proper owner. I normally keep library books and books from friends on top of my piano. The piano is right inside my front door, so this is an obvious place for me to use. This way, I can see my borrowed books before leaving the house, just in case I need to return them.

I try very hard not to borrow books from friends, mainly because I don't like to lend out my books. After you have had a few books go missing because you have lent them out, you learn to be more possessive of your books. However, I do check books out of the library on a weekly basis - for research, book reviews and pleasure reading. Having them within eye sight keeps me on track with my reading and reminds me I'm on a deadline to finish books and return them in a 2-week period.

Keep Me Safe

KEEP ME SAFE

Are you looking at the moon
as I look at the moon?
Do you see the same face as I?
Will you make the same wishes,
dream the same dreams;
is you destiny entwined with mine?

Although the fullest is as predictable as time,
do we each interpret it in kind?
Or are your hopes on a parallel path,
never to catch up with my mine?

I wish upon the shimmering orb,
a face as old as God;
I see the features carefully etched,
never changing or fading away,
and I pray a chant from childhood days,

“Pretty moon, please keep me safe.”