From Out of the Light

I was painfully aware of time slipping by as I sat before my 17" flat screen monitor. I had up a blank Microsoft Works screen, the cursor flashing impatiently, waiting for me to put my fingers on the keyboard and create something magnificent.

My friend Carlton607 had put me to task to write something upbeat after he read a few of my poems and found himself drained from the effort. Not so much that they’re awful, but for the emotional impact they imparted on him. Rather grim, emotionally charged, and bluesy poems they are. Well, I thought I was up to the challenge. Boy! Who was I kidding?

I tried writing about my trip to the redwoods in Eureka California. Somehow, it seemed very lame to me. What could I say about trees that hadn’t already been said? I could talk about the awe I felt, how looking up to the dizzying heights of the treetops didn’t even reveal a wisp of blue sky. How I could feel the charge of Mother Nature flowing up through the soles of my feet from her life giving earth. Or, how I felt as miniscule as the gnats that were making a meal of me in the presence of these behemoth trees. Trees that have graced the land since the beginning of time for this young planet we reside on.

I thought about children chasing fireflies in the relieving coolness of a summer night, Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum, dewberries, tall glasses of sweetened iced tea and corn on the cob. The simple way of life during the fifties, where no one locked their doors, children were tan from playing outside and not the pale pallor from sitting in front of a TV or computer. When life was life! Not cluttered with the conveniences and contrivances of our modern day times.

I wanted to write about fairs and cotton candy, the heifer that took the blue ribbon for best in breed. All the sights, sounds and smells. That big, blue stuffed cat won at the ring toss game. The lights on the Ferris Wheel against a curtain of blue-black night with an accompaniment of bright stars. The thrill induced screams of teenagers and young adults on the Tilt-a-Whirl as they spun at a terrifying rate of centrifugal force speed. Of the tinny sound of the carousel’s calliope playing Pop-Goes-the-Weasel in its omp-pa-pa way. Colorfully painted wooden horses in varied poses of head tossing and snorting. These fantasy steeds bearing delighted children pretending to be cowboys riding bucking broncos or fair maidens on chargers with their Knight-in-Shining-Armor whisking them away from dragons. The mouth-watering smells of fresh popped corn oozing with melted butter in paper bags, roasting hot dogs, and the musky sweet scent of sawdust that littered the fairground.

I was compelled to write of all those happy times that were fond moments to once children like myself. And we all draw a collective sigh with wistful smiles creeping upon lips that generally hold the burden of keeping a stiff-upper-lip as we make the best of our adult lives.

Then, from out of the light, my realization, I had written them. So, there you have it, Carlton. My humble offering to meet your challenge.