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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| The only thing I have to blog about today is heat, sweat and struggle. It's ridiculously hot here. There is no way we should be in an extended heat wave in early June. Before you cry "global warming", let me say that the last time I remember an early heat wave, it occurred in April and we were all fooled into planting flowers. Then, just a few short days later (they are short days, it being spring still) we had snow and ice in early May. Honestly, I would be alright with a surprise snowstorm. As far as I know, it hasn't snowed in June in New England since 1815. So very little hope of that. Obviously, the sweat is a result of the aforementioned heat, so we won't delve into that. The struggle is that this isn't my first post in June. I am going to blog for The Bard's Hall contest and wish I had known about it before I wrote my first June blog post. But if I edit that post to add the link to the contest, it changes the date on the blog post to today. The problem is that it's a much better post than this one. I even wrote a poem, for crying out loud. It's far too hot to be poetic or philosophical today. So, I would advise anyone reading my blog to immediately stop reading this post and go read the post from the third. Or maybe wait and read the next one. With any luck, it will be better than this. "The Bard's Hall Contest"  |
| There's a media prompt this week, It's a song about pretending to be something you're not in an effort to try to please others, or perhaps to make up for your own insecurities and how this pressure makes you a liar. Although I know people like that and perhaps, have felt that pressure myself at times, something quite different came to mind. And so I have written this poem. I am putting it here in the blog, killing two birds with one stone. I swear, I didn't kill any real birds. Not that I wasn't tempted. The Mockingbird The mockingbird cares not if I sleep Crying out from a nearby tree He explains to the risen moon That he can be all he was meant to be Not a robin, a chickadee or even a loon He sings forth his practiced rhythm Hiding himself in the thick of the leaves He does not mind his plain color or form It is enough for him that everyone believes That he is not a tiny bird, but a car alarm |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts