A new decade of musings from poetry to what inspires; casting words like seed worldwide.
I've read poetry that opened my eyes, realize now mine have been closed when I write.|
The drive north is easier than south in summer.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist. -NEIL GAIMAN
And here I am
A new start for an old blog -- replaced by "SuperNova Afterglow: Shining Brighter" , now at capacity as of 2018, focused on specific writing projects and goals:
Having no specific aim going forward...
I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting in 2014. I'm always ready to say too weary. Compulsion compels me, instigation informs, and still here I am...bright, full of light and dark, revealing hidden colors and shapes. That was before...
I hear what you are saying...but especiallly...what you are not.
Yes, I struggle. But I'm getting through it. How are you?
I've gone by other aliases. People remind me of that. Sometimes restrained, it's hard to understand what I write. It will be clear some day. Hard to hide what's in my heart. I'm making no apologies going forward for my feelings. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. Not sure how we'll feel about that.
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.'Now that I've figured out the ever changing rules of your game, you take the ball away, no longer engage me to play. You pay a price for this kind of friendship. I lose, I guess.
|The wonder of you
scrawling, etching a black sky
with whitening snapshots
strikes fear, should I near.
Reassemble my particles
with your canon blasts
in murky sky battles
I pleasure to watch
feels centuries old.
On that horizon
with a glimpse of sun arriving --
low grumbling, reminding
this war goes on,
returns almost nightly
like renewed complaining.
I douse the light inside
to dream for an hour more,
reminisce how you shook me,
awake in both an old
and a new world.
Using a morning thunderstorm (metaphor) to wake from a dream of personal loss about someone who troubled like a storm, with love and regret for the thrill and the loss of a stormy co-existence.
Entered 4.10.21 in The Writer's Cramp - no show
Was a static item (since deleted and preserved in blog)