Sparked by Words

Archive for the ‘Just a Thought’ Category

A New Eden

Words might inspire but

no value befalls without action, nor

nor do all the hovering words in

all the languages of the world

speak nearly as well as

digging the shovel into the ground

that seeds can be planted,

for inspiration lasts only as long as

one shower, water enhancing

the sensation imagined,

yet imagination lasts only as long as

one stands under the trickling drops,

wondering when to turn off the water,

exit the shower to recall the

thoughts made brilliant by heat,

echoes, and dampness,

then to tease out the single line

worthy of writing to begin

to plant story, that in time

the bounty can be harvested,

a table set for celebration, and

seeds poured left hand to right,

right hand to left, and back again,

water trickling down and down,

prodigal with promise of food, drink,

ideas to discuss, to plot, to invest,

and dreams to nurture,

vowing more words to rise

before the season of bounty ends,

then to consider from where

the seeds first had come,

who the first planter,

who the gardener, and who the one

who labored long to harvest,

and would seeds appear once more

or take flight forever,

or in a moment of serendipity

bequeath the legacy of

a passion for inventing,

a trove of readers,

a yield of love,

that you and I might one day

decide to grow our garden

and plant our seeds and pray

for rainfall, sunshine, fortune,

then welcome all to the feast

of words gathered from Eden,

hoping to leave the miraculous

breath of curiosity that might inspire

you and you and you and you

with words that tell a story

amen yes amen

 

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Wheat Field by Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy CCO Creative Commons

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Tell Me a Story

Every work of fiction requires of the reader a suspension of disbelief somewhere along the trajectory of the story. Otherwise it would not be fiction.

Like the Golden Gate, fiction bridges one realm to another. In this case, imagination to story, reality to lies.

To be successful at constructing the lies, first know what truths you are wrecking. Research, study, learn, then depart. Daydream a while. Nightdream too.

Stand outside in the dark and look up at the stars. Know they are not there, and not aligned to form shapes and signs. That’s all a part of manmade interpretation, begun eons ago to make sense of the unknown. To imbue mercy over savagery. To offer future from despair.

Even without letters, even without language, the first humans saw story in the heavens and danced it around the fire at night, telling the clan. Animals, danger, flight, love, children, hunger, death. Auweh!

Write. Write some truth. Write some lies.

How well you entice your readers despite your lies marks how talented a writer you are. Readers must forgive your fiction.

Write well, and they will savor your work and you will be asked to return.

To write more lies. To make sense of the unknown. That’s the nature of fiction.

 

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Image prehistoric Native American pictograph, courtesy CCO Creative Commons

 

 

 

 

Vista

A lake imparts a majestic vision only by the terrain surrounding it – the mighty trees, the grassy hills, the faceted boulders. Otherwise it’s just a large puddle.

A novel endears readers only by the story execution within it – the flawed characters, the twisted plot, the unexpected resolution. Otherwise it’s just a pompous dictionary.

Life requires inner strength and outer empathy. Otherwise it’s a meaningless existence.

 

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Digital painting courtesy Pixabay.com

Wasp Nest

Story is a loose thread pulled until the whole spool unwinds, all the words tumbling out like wasps from a struck nest. The writer arranges them into pleasing patterns of words that sting, of words that placate, of words that provoke. The writer then is the papery hull of the nest, tattered and empty.

Until the next story comes along. Now buzzing with ideas. Building a new nest.

 

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Image courtesy Pixabay.com

 

Forgiveness

Thou shalt forgive, because one day you will need to be forgiven – the forgotten Eleventh Commandment.

This one was written for me.

I will stop cursing you if you stop killing innocent people.

I will remember those who died as they fled. The ones chewing bubble gum, the ones in their letterman jackets, the ones wearing braces, the ones studying for a test, the ones who stuttered when answering, the ones practicing dance steps.

The ones who were always late, the ones who were always on time, the ones with new haircuts, the ones learning code, the ones who played soccer, the ones who cheered, the ones learning Spanish, the ones learning English, the ones painting in art class.

The ones who forgot their homework, the ones writing an essay, the ones practicing flute, the ones struggling with algebra, the ones struggling with verb tenses, the ones who aced chemistry, the ones who nearly graduated. Oh my God, the ones who nearly graduated.

The ones who were crying and frightened.

The ones who died as they hid.

The ones who will never be twenty.

Who will never be twenty.

I will remember their names.

I will not remember your name.

I will forgive.

But sometimes you bastards make it pretty damned hard to forgive.

We’ve all had enough.

Enough already.

 

 

In memory of the students and staff at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida

 

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Photo courtesy Pixabay.com

For Those We Love

We begin by wailing and sobbing, harrowed with grief over our loss.

We pray for the one who is gone, for we who are left behind, for those who will acquaint only in story.

We beg answers to questions never resolved except in metaphor, thoughts that weigh more than the sum of their words.

We make fists, then open palms, hold hands, and grasp shoulders, swaying as a group so that none fall.

We share memories. One is spellbinding. One is provocative. One is a revelation. One is tender. One makes us laugh.

Our tears dry while the sorrow rises with our amens and we step forward. The first step hesitates, the next holds ground, then we lose count.

We will never forget but we move on but we will never forget.

There is an order to paying tribute to those who have passed. The order controls the bedlam that otherwise imprisons us.

It allows a semblance of freedom from unrelenting despair so we can return to order.

Today, though, I am harrowed with grief.

 

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Photo of girl courtesy of CC0 Creative Commons

 

Forward is the Only Possible

Like smells that dissipate over time – skunk and cinnamon, lemon oil and wet dog – past fame doesn’t fill current space. Whatever accomplishments I achieved yesterday – a good deed for a stranger, a well written paragraph in my work in progress, an angry retort I wish I could annul (not glory but shame) – are not enough for today. Tomorrow waits to be filled with distinction.

The past is a nebulous landscape, the future a cryptic horizon. Only the slipstream under my feet energizes today. Today exists for an infinitesimal moment, archaic while the moment passes.

Waft cautiously, ingest deeply. Exhale with resolve. Roll up my sleeves, engage today’s pursuits. Smells invigorate this moment, an elixir of potential.

 

 

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Alchimiste, 1648, by David III Ryckaert

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