Dangling Thoughts

I see the thoughts like worms on a hook to catch the sight of others. They seem tantalizing at first, then sad representations of what I could not finish. What do I hope to catch with these thoughts? They are not bait, as I hoped they would be.

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Looking Towards the Horizon

The indefinite line of endings and beginnings is hard to focus on this misty morning. Mirage? or Absolute? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head so I must look forward…although whether I turn is forward. Trees have given up their leaves, leaving physical sight wider. My mind has its own sight.

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Bloody Mary Sunday

The glass was lifted. The drink was imbibed. It had been so long since she tasted the mixture that she had to reflect on the moment. Cocktails were fancy, but her current life was plain. She felt the decadence of the moment slide through her. They called the drink “bloody”, but what she experienced was an invasion of juices, spices and other sensations less lethal.

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The Color Parade

These are the days when we cling to a whirling pinwheel of color

that goes around so fast, the dizziness of it tires us even for dreaming.

I cannot hold onto sky or land or ego itself

in this circling.

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It’s been a long while since my last submitted piece has been accepted for print. I am baffled, since just before that I had four submissions accepted and rocketed out into the world. What has changed? Is the fault, dear Brutus, in myself or the stars? I feel as though I am back at the beginning of my writing life. I shake every morning to think of myself as done. I care for my poor ego which hides down deep in the gut of me. I am no longer loved or thinking of roads not traveled. So I let the pain wash over me and then on to other moods. No one can read their own conclusions until long after they happen.

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Going off soon to a wedding. I always am amazed at those that last and those that falter. I never planned to marry a saint, but sometimes I know I did. He also has his non-saintly days. No one could have ever convinced me years ago that I would be sitting on the cusp of my 80s beside the wild man I met so many experiences ago. Yet here we are. I wish the couple we are seeing locked in wedlock the same time with as many twists and turns as life can take to keep things interesting.

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Writing the great novel

Most writers hope to write the novel that outlasts a single run in publication. I am no different. But I won’t write formula which seems to be the road to lots of sales and notice. So what writers have written their own pathway, ignoring the main road. Perhaps James Joyce. Perhaps George Eliot when she was looking at her work in her feminine mirror without a male identity to hide it. Perhaps Dostoyevsky who was writing in his own blood and tears. I have a novella which is coming out for publication. I have no idea about any formula to shape it. Great or soon forgotten?

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Shutting Ears

When men rail at me I do not care to listen. I have heard volcanos sigh and seas roar out their displeasure at men’s mastery. The hunger of the winds has drowned out my thoughts. The thunder over scaled me in my answers. I am not given to the scream, but to the silence to let it pass. I await the stillness that takes away the pain of anger. My ears are filled with quiet when they surrender to my lack of answer.

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Looking Past the Obvious

On this world of masking we now are straining to guess what the masks hide? Where is the expression of reality that lives beneath such faces as we contrive to hide our true ones? Is there a face under that contrived suggestion we want to convey? Bare-faced lies? or just masked lies?

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Crows in the Garden

Their midnight presence contrasts to the scattering of bluejays, cardinals, and white bellied snowbirds. They are hungry. They are hungry enough to war with the usual guests at the seed table we present. Their call is sharp and definite. Their wings make gestures of dismissal. They will eat inspite of the protests around them. A murder of crows? Don’t discount it!

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