Here is a story idea that I am working on. I don't know what to do with it, so I am posting as a SLOPPY copy. I can picture the unfolding story, but that does not mean I like the way I see it. Much less, I kept changing the senctences-- and I feel they are worse. Therefore, I am submitting as an idea to others, myself, and perhaps a challenge to work on it further. I will add that I just started this as a response to the "Work Drama" fiction contest. Obviously, I veered offcourse, in more than one way. Yes, it needs major editing This original SLOPPY copy of "Checkers and the Pawn" is left unfinished on May 2, 2016 I decided to go for a walk. It was my lunch break and I needed the exercise. Given the workload and some stale communication with co-workers, I wanted the space, too. In fact, I hoped the day would skip to end. I was through with the employee drama! However, I did not ask for the oncoming impact of a clown's clumsy left foot. I had breathed in the sunshine, walked in the shade of the trees, and otherwise enjoyed Spring's welcoming presence. Time, though, has a way of working against me, even "off the clock." So, as soon as I left I I found myself, again, approaching the meager edifice of my dreaded office. This fear was postponed,I was feet from the propery entrance, when, no joke, I heard what sounded like the three stooges' "Hello" tune. The fast-increasing intensity of noise caused me to look up behind me. I turned quick enough to see Checkers the Clown pole vault in my direction, with his vehicle intact. (Now, I may have gotten creamed with more than a pie, but I fainted. Instead, I found myself waking to a red nose in my face. The clown who nearly hit me helped me to my feet.)
Itching to type, not knowing what to write. I resign my effort to communicate. Yet I am compelled by pen, if I had it, or by blank slate, which is my brain... to add something else to an already-claustrphobic "board." So mindless thought can find rest some place. Sorry, if this adds to your nightmares. At least I will sleep freely. until the cranium-crushing commenses again.
My brain is actively crashing to sleep, so please forgive the major mistakes. (Who am I kidding? I mess up when fully awake. ) It was back in 2005, at the tail end of our trip. We had sung in airports, in a lavatube, at a wearhouse in Fiji, on the bus, and in a mall; in front of doctors, teachers, children, parents, the elderly, and others. We had swung from high-up, dropping into a mountain's spring. We had fun. We shed tears. We learned names and stories. We already had experienced more than I can recite here. But it culminated at one point, a crater's ledge in Hawaii. I thought of a powerful song, the lyrics therein. As I scanned the horizon, holding there against the sea-blue and that of sky, I saw an airplane, an ocean-liner, and a lighthouse. Oh, the sun's shimmer was also present. And I got to take it in with a shot of my 2 dollar disposable camera. But even better, I recorded it with my eyes. My heart took in the meaning of it All. And I recited the tune to the important lyrics... And then it was time to climb down from my journey's peak. And soon the sun was clothed in cloud and covered by night. And I found the magic fade with light, never to see it again. ...unless it wishes to be seen again. And so I share this, this fragmented memory, as well as my pixilated photo. But nothing can capture that moment's Majesty; nothing that I have to show, at least. Yet I sense there is More, even more to what I then witnessed. Yes, there has got to be More to Experience. "Crater's Ledge," however, is enough for me. but. we. shall. see. --~#A
"Who cares?" They gather to see what's going on, but they seldom do anything more than gawk. They point at the thrashing going on, but they hardly stop to help you. They point their cameras and phones, looking for hits of a different kind. They are your friends, hiding in the crowds. They are your relatives, waving out of anxiety. They are your peers caught-up in the fight. But it is you who bleeds... waiting for nobody... "who cares?"
Get those hands washed, use soap. Get those feet off the chair. Sit up. Get those elboes off the table. Stop the banging, this is no time for drumming. Wait for everyone to get seated. Keep your eyes closed. Pass the food, in the right direction. Don't play with it. This is the last time I'm going to say it. Can you say please? I didn't hear you. Are you finished? Take your dishes to the kitchen. Wash them. Dry them. Put them away. Okay... Who wants dessert?
Strike down the poetry. Throw it in a coffin. Nail it shut (the coffin, too). Bury it, under dirt or water. It does not matter. Just get rid of it. Pour acid over the originals. Wipe the memory completely. Just be sure to relieve the world of any of my rhythms or rhyme. Dissolve your interest, and critiques. Walk away empty-handed. There is nothing here... for much longer. The shadow of gawdy furniture fades, as will any remnant of what's been written. So... do away with it. See how you feel. Then, as that feeling builds, or the plethora of sensations set in, record those emotions to vent. But do not share them, or you will be confronted about them. Then, like me, you will seek answers. And they are not what you desire to hear. They vary but are the same in message: Kill it off. Plug the outlet. And leave it behind. And you will... due to unspeakable pressure. However, I might add, it won't work. By the time you silence your living creation, it will have learned the art of playing dead. It will have learned to hold its breath, not losing hope. And will have memorized its way back to you. Therefore, if you do all the above, be warned: you will fail. Because poetry is like the superstar born to a pauper. It is greater than its source. But, like any concerned child, the poems will seek you-- crying to be saved. And, since you are not really a beast, you will do just that. You will rescue the one you meant to evade. And you will find yourself feeding the need. And the superstar, however immature the act, it will grow in strength. Eventually, having learned all is needed, the poetry will begin teaching. If you don't learn, then someone will. But, mark my words, you cannot put away your words. They reoccur, they develop, and they spread in time. So, I urge you, don't spoil them, but neither injure your gift. For a poem is more precious than a flower, it is oxygen for the hyperventalating individual. And, you will find, your poem is a friend. It means to defend you. It means to protect. It means to guard. Poetry is, therefore, nerothing to be rid of. Rather nurture, build up, and guide it well. For... in time... despite your intentions, your poem will save you grief, as it takes the brunt of infliction. You, then, need not swing or swipe at unfinished efforts. "Rome was not built in a day." But neither did it build itself. Your reflections aide your journey. Your poetry is an empathetic empire. Your poetry isd reams at work. And its only purpose is another. Sincerely, Once Retired Poet
When I was a freshman in high school, I had to run around the track for a mile's distance. I remember the cold, brisk punches against my chest. I huffed as I hoofed it. I sprinted to my goal. It was more of a line, where I'd say: "It's finished." But whatever it is called, it took more than good will. The rain came to stop me, someone nearly tripped me, I was losing breath... slowing down. But then someone yelled at me. "You're almost done!" So I licked the frost off my lips and kneeled focus to the prize. I wanted it badly, more than a medic and a blanket. I was ready to leave the lanes. So peddaled with fierce interest, adding momentum to my pain. My feet were soaking dry, as I wound up in the rain. I was energized with passion, to meet my end in sight, that I could not stop when I got there, and I went further than the rest. Then I hit a patch of puddles. And slid off my finished course. I ran through the fence. And I landed in the stands. I was knocked unconcious, until pulled up to my feet. Then I heard my coach yell out... "Good job. See you guys next week."
As a child, looking at clouds showed more than white fluff against a blue backdrop. I saw gators, dancers, pacman, fish, flamingos, and the list continues on. I was smitten with the challenge to seek and find. It was not what was in the air. But what was on the mind. I could see a painter, and a painting come to life. I could watch a couple kissing, or see two opponents in a fight. what I liked about my cloudclusions, I never had to be right. They were all figments of my imagination, more than concrete precipitation. They were part of a game that needed no coins. I was invited to stay, only if creativity joined. Otherwise, looking at the clouds became a dull choice. But they stayed alive to me-- when I was a boy. Now, however, I look for the weather. As if it ever leaves. I no longer watch the cumulus circus above buildings and trees.
Wallpaper Flower, the glue is losing hold. You are hurting from within. You are falling into pieces. And I mean to catch you. But you are self-divided, and I am only one. I mean to catch you, but the air further splinters the fabric of your soul. A piece is carried there. Another elsewhere blows. You are too many parts. And my heart breaks because I know. That part of me is now missing. What we once were is nomore. But I can salvage bits of shreds of what is on the floor. (I might add more later...maybe) Note: Inspired by wallpaper that is peeling off as I write this.
There is someone who has a smile that silently calls for my attention. Her smile is genuine, matching her eyes of compassion. As great as that grin is, she is even better. But does she know it? There is someone who works diligently with strangers. I am one of those unknown folks. Still, I sense she cares about me in particular. But does she know it? There is a someone who I kind of admire. She is the topic of this this poem. She thinks she is the student, but I learn from her kindness. But does she know it? Her influencial spirit is welcome any day. Her character is worth noting. But do I tell her? ... She'll never know.
I normally find myself asleep at a particular time, but that was not the case today. Early, before morning tapped my mind to wake. I found my body sleep-driving to the local 24-hour eatery. Hungry and waking, yet wanting sleep, I scrounged for change-- so as to resist over-spending. (I tend to do this when I am tired and hungry.) It took a while to actually do, however, since my mind kept nodding off, even as my body grew restless. Eventually, I reached into my back pocket, thankfully pulling out less than I planned, and so I made my purchase. The food was sub-par, but the savings were great! By the time the freshly-made hold-me-over was in hand, half of the sandwich was devoured. Much faster than my arrival, the sandwich had left its wrapper. Ah, "so good." Again, it was not the taste that overjoyed me; rather, I settled for something less. And, with that, I made my departure to face the day. This was good. I was waking, not crumbling into a pile of exhaustion. But, I was also aimless in my approach. I had no clue as to where to go next. It was too early for my routine schedule. So, seeking to find purpose on this particular morning, I drove winding streets of morning's calm. I had no plans as I travelled, but I found slight turmoil when I saw a detour on my route. I thought, as though it mattered, "What? Really? Uhg." Now, there was no frustration as that part of my day was under construction. I merely mean I was surprised that thought to turn around was required. I had a sign, but I felt no direction. So I pulled into the nearby parking-lot. Once there, in a space of mindless control, I put my head on the wheel with hands on the dashbord. I found myself surrendered, waiting for an answer. "I don't know what to do." Just then, as I said those words, my hand fell near an old paper. In fact, it was something from my childhood. It was a reminder of how time flies... even when mornings crawl. And it put perspective over my eyelids, as I had begun weeping. Eventually, as if the tears sped up time, it was time to go. My day as ususual was before me, just... like... that. Only, this time, I was a little more grateful, possessing renewed reason for staying awake. I could have dismissed the wetspot in my heart, too embarrassed to go public. But I am driven by revelation. And this random piece of mind reflects my humble reminder: "Be still and you will know."
Disclaimer: i just wrote this once, no editing. Sorry, this is how I write it. I may edit in the future. My writing habits are bad laundry in a fierce machine. I am sure to be better, when no longer soaking. The correct procedures have been taken, or so I hope. But the reality is, like whites and reds shirts should not mix, so are my thoughts. They are spinning, before being sorted. But I know that not all my input will yield the ideal. Yes, I wait for the buzzer to sound off. If not that, then I look for a spill. It is only a matter of time, then I we will see. Do the proverbial shoes fit? Will something become a trend? Or will my efforts' turning hit an end? It can be hung out, left to dry. Left for the birds, bugs, and nature to take at will. My attempt to write can be news that was... never. It can be a hidden frustration that teases without demonstration. It can become its own undoing. It can unwind in the turbulent shake of life's consequences. It can dangle without a chance of another day. My chance at submitting something awe-evoking, it can be labor that robs rather than pay(s). But it is not the laundry that matters so much. Instead, while important, the greater point of adding words to thought, they are fun. And they can be just as important as sockless feet in a nearby stream. They can be like that tuxedo that makes the vanguard a little vain. My attempts at writing are not just dirty laundry, praying to see the light of following day. They are a light in my darkest moments. They represent my hopes, like a world without laundry-- or the need of it. (Of course, there are far more necessary issues) You see, my writings are jeans, playing in the mud, as it rains. And, you know what? I'm smiling. The laundry is a headache. But that fabric of creativity helps me more than I will ever improve it. To spin another day, --my thoughts
Okay, so what now? You pulled over, so what? You are on me, like a cat chasing a lazer. Have I annoyed you? Well, have I? You roll your eyes, forgetting that I see them. When will you listen? Your mouth works, so how 'bout them ears? You project food with your frustration, missing my attempt to explain. Am I getting through to you? Do you comprehend? I seek clarity, but you are twisted, hungup on yourself. Note: Road rage incident inspired this. A man got all flustered and literally started to drive his vehicle into another.
Old photos stood up in my eyes. I had forgotten the places and experiences, the relationships and dormant memories. But as i clean, for need not Spring's schedule. I find that my lost lot of good times were etched in failed intentions, discarded in History's chest of disorder. Yes, they were as gone as they were pleasurble. Yet, destiny is a pest, a sneak, someone who gets what she wants. And, it turns out, my past holds value to Lady Future. She delved into chaos, bringing back irreplaceable joy. My thoughts are now brimming with thanksgiving. My suveniers are mine again. Still, it is the fullness of appreciation that I reexperience. I'm alive! At least.... In my rekindled reflection... They're all alive!