100 on Writing

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It comes in waves, the good, bad and ugly. It sits in my soul, scratching to get to a page. It is my nemesis, my beloved, my best friend. Word upon word, building, crashing, digging deeper into the shadows where others live. Schizophrenia? Maybe. Lurking below the surface of a rational mind is a Dr. Suess inspired ride. Voices of pasts, of futures yet to live. Waiting. Waiting to dance across the stage, speak whatever words fall from frozen mouths to ink dipped quills that tap, tappity tap, tap, tap tap, in keyed up rhythms on letters fingers dance upon.

100 on Beast

It sits in me, this restless urge to fight the depths of what I do not know.  To bring light to the space where darkness grows. The void, pitch black, the feared and the not. Sacred somehow in its time and space. Of me it does not care, I am merely the beast knocking at its door. The fire breathing tendrils and caught up smoke, trapped and panting with rapid eye. I am the nothing to its all. The attached and unaware. Still I dive the depths and search in frantic waves. This thing that is me, aware and free.

100 on Hunger

Its sits inside me, an eternal flame, demanding quietly, gently, something more. Breathing it in, breathing it out, it hungers for all I can give. Every experience, taste and sound it wants to know. Every touch it wants to feel. A bottomless pit I cannot feed enough. It wears my skin. Knows no bounds as it reaches for you, eager to sample yet again another sweet drop of tumultuous heat, rousing from the deepest places in me to the sky.  Somehow to bear witness, to prove with nothing more than breath the sanctity of us. Satiation there will never be.

100 on Bliss

The salted sleep, the ocean waves, sand between my toes, safety, peace, the world revolving round, trees in the wind, all the simple things neglected or that which has been taken for granted. The heart fractured and now opening, healing, the stars in the sky, books, fingers entwined. The innocence returned with wisdom entwined. Songs, peals of laughter, dogs barking and a smattering pitter pattering of rain falling. Knowledge life’s enumerable pains all pass. It is not the big moments remembered, more the day to day grind forgotten in its simplicity and the growth of soul, now that is bliss.

Books…

Those mystic things With timeless beings And worlds standing still They give my heart a thrill I walk through pages Of all the ages Battling countless foes And sharing in characters’ woes Whether digital, found on a Nook or Kindle  My how my battery does dwindle Or found on a self As if placed there by an elf With hard or paperback in hand I sit or I stand Until I have read I cannot go to bed They catch me with their hooks Those magic things I call books.

100 on Content

It is a word I rarely use these days. Seems I misplaced contentment upon entering the birth of another year. Funny how strongly I held it, how well I remember the feel and the taste. For something that so quickly slipped my grasp I do not recall when it was lost. I’d chase it if I thought that was wise; drink it in greedily the way one thirsts on a hot summer’s day. It is there, lurking, felt down below where the Soul grows. A fissure waiting to explode, I’m content within the knowing the peace is stirred from underneath.  

100 Words on Adapt

I’ve adapted to the chaos, to the push pull, to the thoughts going round and round on this merry go round here alone inside my head. I’ve adapted to the dance of two steps forward one step back, of singing a little off key. I’ve adapted to never knowing just how things will go and the unexpected surprises and ambushes life likes to throw. I’ve adapted to the fact change is one of those things I can love and hate, sometimes at the same time. I’ve adapted to knowing what was, is no longer what is. A never ending process.  

100 on Paw Prints

You were not mine by paper, name or deed. I didn’t pick you out or bring you home. I wasn’t there for the puppy years. In curses your name passed from family lips. Stubborn and smart. Our mini cow. Your place is cemented in my heart. I will miss your steadfast ways, the beast always at my side. The couch and floor are cleaned of drool. No thud of head echoes around the room. There is no pantry guard or quiet ankle kisses. Emptiness has claimed the spots you occupied. And yet, there are paw prints embedded in my heart.

Wild Horses

Wild thing, heart unbroken, moving free across the miles The tundra your playhouse, the whispering grass and wind, your friends Traps set, now sprung. Magnificent beast fallen to your knees Ropes they strap upon your flesh Binding and herding every muscle’s movement. Centuries fly by, the taming has been done Loyal as an old dog Except when the human hand nears your skin The touch – electrified barbed wire – Brings with it the mix of fear and trust built up over years. And there, for a moment, beats the heart that still roams free. Almost visible to the naked eye, The beauty of such a wild thing.

100 on Dubious

  It had been a dubious affair, the light stain on the bed forewarning. How many had gone before? How many had he called his amour? She had known. The little voice had told her all the gory details. Protector of mind, body, heart, it spoke the truth even when she chose not to hear. Nor had she paid any heed to the claw marks grooved by time along the oaken bedposts. Not when his eyes roamed and ravished. Or when he claimed what she freely gave. Right up until the end, she would have sworn the pain enhanced the pleasure.