it isn’t all precisely painful truths
found here in the tapestry of words
my wordly garden
also grows glorious hydrangeas
and roses alongside
equally beautiful wildflowers
but even roses have thorns
and some consider wildflowers
this gardener, not naive enough
to believe that plucking the
precisely painful truths of life
makes it any easier or more perfect
I prefer my unmanicured
and unruly patch
to the pristine beds of lies
properly curated conservatories
I shall tend my dandelions just the same
late night with friends
another state, another world.
movies we know all the words to,
songs we don’t remember all the words to,
games played but never finished
somehow cleared from the table.
copious amounts of alcohol
all in fun
sleeping on the lawn
a foreign couch
the floor is just as cozy
in this state of affairs.
even the numerous dogs from last night
have disappeared in morning light having
found a cozy bed and person to sleep upon.
being the first awake is magic
quiet and serene.
I hate being without my laptop; it has been 11 days and withdraw has set in. I can’t write like this; I’m from the wrong generation! I know. I know. I complain of trivial things, but it is seriously cramping my style.
I do hope to be back from my writing break next week though. I have missed my creative time this week so dearly. Nature Camp has had me so worn out that eating, sleeping, and bathing are pretty much all I’ve done besides camp this week. But in return it has given me new fodder for writing and inspiration for my creativity. I’ll gladly take that in exchange!
Taken from the essay, “Of Love” by Sir Francis Bacon.
mornings meant for quiet
dream storms have passed
in waking hours
bask in the morning light
chasing shadows and tails
reflective morning silence
[In response to One Word Prompt]
As a child, my family and I took week-long vacations to Ricketts Glen State Park to camp out in the mountains. We’d spend the week encountering wildlife, hiking the trails and falls, swimming at the Lake Jean beach area, and biking around the camping loops. I loved every minute of it.
I remember one trip in particular that stands out. It was the summer I met Tom. Tom was an elderly gentleman who played the bagpipes at the wooded amphitheater across the lake. He enjoyed playing there because of the acoustics. The beautiful and mysterious melodies that danced across the lake drew me in; I was entranced. I remember racing around the lake at dusk hoping to catch his evening performances. He was the first man I’d ever seen wear a kilt and traditional Scottish regailia and I was in awe of his bizarre plaid-bag-with sticks looking instrument and its oddly haunting sounds. I vaguely remember him letting me squeeze the bag and being delighted by the honk it made.
I wish I could say that I remember more about the man or that I’d somehow remained in contact, but that isn’t the case. I do however remember half expecting and later hoping to hear his music each year as we returned to our family camping spot. I don’t recall ever seeing him again though.