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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I bought the worst coffee in the world. I didn’t realize it was the worst at first because it was mixed up in the coffee can with some of the old coffee and that helped take the edge off it, I guess. Or maybe my sinuses were congested and I couldn’t smell it. It smells like road tar under a hot, summer sun. It doesn’t taste much better. I think it’s made from wet leaves, mud and something they scraped off the floor at an oil refinery, I tried adding salt to the grounds. Okay, it’s slightly less bitter road tar. I can’t throw away coffee. That would hurt me on a spiritual level. Maybe I will freeze it for use when I really need it and will be glad of any kind of coffee. Some more dire time, like after the apocalypse. For this morning anyway, I am drinking it because it’s coffee. And bad coffee is better than no coffee. And I won’t say which coffee it is. Coffee, after all, is a personal taste. Besides, they sue people for Yelp reviews these days. Opinions will one day be totally outlawed because they offend people. Then you’ll all have to drink this nasty coffee and you won’t be allowed to complain. |
| I really like WDC as a site for writers and their writing. I really don’t like it as a political forum. That is not to say that I never wrote anything with political undertones or even overtones - probably way overtoned but completely missed by those who are of a different political opinion because even my overtones are really subtle and they can’t imagine anyone thinks THAT way and not THEIR way. And that’s all I have to say. I might occasionally write something that references generally accepted themes of freedom and human dignity, but I'm not going to fight with you. For one thing, I don’t know you well enough to worry about convincing you of anything and you don’t hold enough sway with me to convince me of anything. Discussion of issues is important but there’s not much of that going on, or at least, not much of any real substance. There are really excellent forums for that kind of thing. But I like WDC as a forum for writers. So, write something. Just my opinion. |
| The media prompt this month has reminded me of our family's brief stint as caretakers of a garden snail. I know very little about disco snails (other than what they told me in the song) but some deep diving into the care and feeding of snails makes me very glad that we didn't keep one for long. Did you know that snails are hermaphrodites and can reproduce without a mate, laying dozens to hundreds of eggs at one time? *shiver* Anyway, here's my snail poem: Snails are everywhere they say though I never saw one, till I moved away Away is a somewhere, though it closer be to the ocean, what some might call the sea It was there The Boy found a snail on the siding Was it slithering up? perhaps downward sliding? I said “I think it is just enjoying the view” “Whatever”, The Boy said, and launched a rescue It didn't matter that it was slimy and wet The Boy vowed it would make a fine pet Until, while in The Boy’s hand it did linger And left a trail of poop on his finger. |
| Poetry is not just a matter of finding words that rhyme, Even though it is oft believed that free verse is a crime. Yet these classical-minded poets say nothing beyond mere speech. Ordinary words in cliched rhymes While against free verse they preach. Must I endure a thousand lines of love and dove and moon? Tired emotional playthings they shove at you and swoon. All great poets are dead, I think Those who held power in their quills. All poetry lies between their lines Never in these modern shills. Still they persist in rhyming schemes from dawn to setting sun. Instead of rare, poets everywhere And yet in truth, there are none. |
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