Hoarder
There are moments caught between heart-beats that fall into crevasses where they nourish our dreams. Streaming rivulets that escape our conscious daylight world swell these moments until they become full-grown nightly adventures––what we have hoped blended with what else might be possible, tempered by fears and regrets. What part of us orchestrates these dreams has never been discovered––some grand arranger of self that does not allow itself to be controlled by any conscious part of us, perhaps. It is a cinema we construct for ourselves—a relief from or a censor of or a collector of those parts of ourselves we would otherwise not deal with. Those parts of ourselves we struggle to forget and throw away? There is no detritus in our lives. Some great hoarder within us reaches out a hand to capture and arrange them, then calls them dreams.
The dVerse Poets Pub prompt today was to write a 144-word flash fiction piece making use of the first sentence in my essay above.
Pasiano has trimmed back the bougainvillea so this fern arch has to furnish the interest for awhile.
For Cee’s FOTD
Taken from my backyard. The sunsets have been incredible for the past month!!!
Equal to the Challenge?
Whereas the stage of life for folks my age is likely terminal,
the young are at a stage that is best described as germinal.
They boomerang through life, it seems, from one thing to another—
from party girl to partner, to wife and then to mother.
Their progress through this life is one that we have laid the ground for.
Where we have already been is likely where they’re bound for.
Those obstacles that soured us are ones we hope they’ll solve.
I guess that is the means by which humans must evolve.
War, disease and famine, global warming through pollution—
we set up each problem. Will they create the solution?
Prompt words today are boomerang, terminal, young, sour and progress.
I bought this wood carving at the orchid festival in Mazamitla. I love its primitiveness. It wanted to come stand under the dusty miller and amidst the ferns.
For Cee’s FOTD
Touching Boys
Blushing cheeks and fluttered lashes,
cotton frocks with satin sashes.
That first dance, paired with a boy,
equal parts of fear and joy.
Sweaty palms and faltering feet.
A different style, each boy you meet.
Shyness, then––a major dose.
Terror he’ll hold you too close,
then, affronted when he doesn’t.
Wrong when he was and when he wasn’t
romantic in that pre-teen way,
as forward as that time of day
permitted, with your parents there.
Beaded foreheads, scraggly hair.
School dances never missed.
Holding hands, but never kissed.
Except one time, when cheek-to-cheek,
that butterfly kiss, furtive and meek.
Eyes met for just a moment, then,
to celebrate your mutual sin.
Oh the terrors and the joys
Of school dances and touching boys!
For: https://lindaghill.com/2020/02/14/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-feb-15-2020/
First Guest
On a load of firewood brought in from the brush,
I found a hidden passenger–a tiny woodland thrush.
Her chest was full and spotted, her voice was pure and sweet.
She fluttered down from mossy branch to hop around my feet.
Now and then her piping voice insistently orated
whatever controversy it was that birds debated.
Then patiently she stopped her motion and commenced her waiting
as though she found my company a trifle irritating.
I admit it was despicable I had no food to offer—
no caterpillars, spiders or woodlice in my coffer.
No elderberries in my fridge. No pokeweed in my cupboard.
I fear I do not qualify as avian Mother Hubbard.
The cabin I vacationed in was small and isolated.
A solitary traveler, I was neither matched nor mated.
And so this avian visitor was much appreciated,
although my talents as a host were somewhat addlepated.
I opened up the cupboard and found a millipede—
a meager little morsel—a paltry little feed.
But the thrush dined most politely, then dove into the dirt
of a nearby planter in search of her dessert.
A fat green salamander rounded off her meal.
And though I somewhat questioned their culinary appeal,
I mined a nearby cobweb for beetles, ants and flies,
then set a tiny plate of them before my small guest’s eyes.
She gobbled down each tidbit, then hopped up on a chair
(as though I’d placed it there expressly for her derriere)
and gave a lovely concert—her tones both clear and bright
before she took her exit—flying into the night.
The rest of my vacation, I had guest after guest,
but of all companions, that wood thrush was the best.
Hers was the very easiest meal for me to cater
and she the only guest who served as exterminator
Prompt words today are waiting, debate, isolated and despicable.
