Sunday, August 7, 2011

prose

While searching through old journals and sketchbooks I found some prose that seems still breathing to me, still alive after long years of time passing over the pages of faded memory.  I had forgotten that I used to write my own kind of poetry or prose.  It surprises me that I forgot this once furtive activity!  What follows is a sampling, not in any particular order.

8 Sept. 2010

And what I was,
was as a view, a place,
a dream I hung unto
beyond reason.

The colour of the water
when the sun went down
beyond the bridge, the golden gate.

The stream that gave out to a marsh.
The footpath that was lost.
The mist that obscured the path but led
down a different road.

High above, the cliff and the wind
upon which I cast the never ending
dream of myself.
Remember me.



27 October 2010

I’ve learned how to be
in the moment
and not worry about what’s to come,

To be riveted to you
in your eyes and the feel of your smile.

Otherwise I must be
of the world of
measurements and judgements,
Go this way, not that,
Stay on time, rise and shine.

There are only the feelings,
large and small,
the simple moments,
maneuvers and accomplishments,
smiles and tears and
the beginning and end of it all.


10 February 2011

I make art to regain my self worth
from the child that was taught she was worthless.


24 November 2010

Wrap me up in
the vision of
that harsh
landscape of home.
It is a tonic for me.

Falling down to sky,
rolling down the brae,
washing my soul in mud
and trodding on the bones
of my past.



24 December 1988

Clash of cultures,
clash of the absurd
that burden down the masses
like a town of fools,
like a crowd of children
following a clown
through a mine field.



27 January 1989

Fierce independence
is a way around
lonliness.



28 January 1989

Home,
Here,
The shadowy dwelling
of a memory.

Retold like stories
from a stranger’s past,
Not mine.

The pictures are of someone else
called childhood!



6 April 1989

Try to talk,
think through my hands,
the pen of personality.

The resulting storm
an accident of words
stumbling over themselves,
trying to stand up
to an uncertain point of view.


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