Hoping my muse left one more idea behind I tilted my inkwell forward and peered inside. Just as I feared the bottle had gone dry, not even a speck of blue left for me to find. Setting it down with a sigh I reached for my quill, and began to chide, how I long to watch you glide, stain this page with your colorfully dye, but even your once beautiful indigo has petrified. In frustration I began to cry how can I write without the help you provide? Just a semblance of an idea, and I would have been mollified. Why, with just a drop of blue I could paint the sky, won’t you even try? The object of my demise in silence obstinately replied. Angry I tossed the quill aside, against the blank of my paper I watched it collide, and to my relief a fleck of a thought began to solidify.
There’s something in the way a carpet of leaves speaks to me, curling wisps of summers past. Beneath my feet, crisp, with the hint of romance. Auburn shades brushed along winding paths, wind swept, eager to dance. Earthen scents rising up to enchant, a pallet of colors mixed to impress.
How very small we are
beneath the star,
when viewed from afar.
What is mortal man as a whole,
but fleeting grains upon
a windy shore.
Our hearts barely begun,
here and gone more swiftly
than the setting sun.
Over triflings we rise and fall,
in hopes our name upon
historic page be scrawled,
but at the end,
beneath the marble,
one and all,
is where we sprawl.
In gossamer beams of golden ray
motes of grey delicately sway.
Streams of warmth through glass-en frame
cast bits of light upon the fray.
Through an opening a breezy sonnet begins to play,
inciting the grains into a frenzied ballet.
Gust with excitement the conductor gets carried away,
bellows his breath, and into the shadows they run away.
“Hand me the milk please.”
Rebecca’s husband nudged the milk carton forward about an inch. Signing Rebecca leaned across the table and reached for it herself.
“Is this a joke?” Sam spooned another heap of processed sugar into his mouth. “Did you put this on here?” Rebecca held the milk carton out.
“What?” Sam stared glassy eyed at the milk container his expression blank.
“Sam! Did you put my picture on here?”
“What are you talking about?” The sound of Rebecca grinding her teeth was audible.
“My picture, here. Rebecca tapped the carton with her index finger, saying I’m lost, nice joke, but I don’t find it amusing, and where did you get this picture of me I’ve never seen it before?” Sam blinked like a deer spotlighted, all he saw on the red and white container was the brand logo, and the health box they posted on the back. After stating that he didn’t know what she was talking about the couple spent twenty minutes insisting that the other was lying, and or crazy before Rebecca tossed the carton milk and all in the trash bin.
Now she was going to have to stop at the store on the way home from work to buy a new one she thought angrily. As practical jokes went this wasn’t funny. Not only hadn’t Sam fessed up to the stunt, he made her feel like a loon for insisting he had placed her picture on the box. Fuming she marched into a little whole in the wall quicky mart she habitually passed on her way to and from work but had never thought to patron. Feeling spiteful she grabbed the skim milk knowing Sam despised it and started towards the counter. She stopped mid stride and stared in disbelief, there on the back of the carton was her picture below the words LOST in large black letters. Rebecca felt her stomach twist in slippery knots. The cashier, a small man that looked to be as old as the out dated linoleum at her feet greeted her cheerfully, welcome dear, you look lost, perhaps I can be of service.
In times of distress,
when ones in duress,
and every day is a test
designed so you can’t pass
you can either wallow in the mess,
and hope for the best,
or harness the chaos,
and make life your conquest.
Last night my taste buds were all quite agreeable that my chosen entrée was wonderful, to the eyes it was beautiful, to the nose, delectable, but by morning the stomach had deemed my selection unsuitable. I of course found it’s means of rejection both cruel and unusual, being raked across hot coals would have been more pleasurable. Having left me feeling abysmal, my view of last nights feast has change considerable.
They say ignorance is bliss, but is it really, after all what you don’t know can seriously hurt you, that being the case aren’t they really just saying, don’t tell me, let my conscious be happy? Truth means accountability, ethically, morally. Even if one refuses to except it’s validity, once a truth is known they lose the loop hole of deniability. On the flip side the most truthful statement ever written is, the truth hurts, after all, once you know the truth there’s no going back. Perhaps that is why some will go to the greatest of lengths to deny their noses despite their face. Excepting the truth is painful, the truth demands acknowledgement, and the adjustment of ones viewpoint, both of which requires open minded humility. Ignorance is only bliss until someone upsets your reality by pointing out your stupidity.
Where once another’s bruise
would make ourselves feel abused,
this selfish loop, of me first,
casts our heart in noose,
choking off the life force we need,
to empathize with another’s hurt.
The roar of thunder stirs the blood, the slash of lightening, the heart to pound. Beneath the moon rise the storm takes possession of the skies above. Tearing down the stars one by one, whirling about with uncontrolled calm, to pour it’s fury down.