What is this life but a way station, a stopping off point, a waiting room? If this is the beginning and end then what in Heaven’s name does it mean? To be born, to struggle, to have joy, to die. What about all the people whose lives are short as a mayfly’s, or long lived and miserable? And even if a life is long and the best it could be, is that still all? Is it all a cosmic joke? An experiment? A Star Trek holodeck? A dream of God? Being fertilizer for a tree is not much comfort when awareness has evaporated on the breeze.
Just asking myself the hard questions. I am not trying to preach cause I just don’t know enough.
Twiglets#234 A twiglet’s aim is to “prompt” a thought. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is.
My, how the gods have aged, white haired yet without wisdom. It is hard to love old gods, withered and feeble, doddering with rage and lust. Zeus pushing his walker shuffling after Demeter losing himself in the tall wheat.
There’s a massive blank space in the universe, one billion light years across – of nothing. As empty as a politician’s usefulness As blank as a poker-faced gambler As bare as a treeless plain… It is a puzzle, an enigma, a perplexity. How can there be a span of nothing in the midst of something? What keeps the something from falling into the nothing?
And how can a heart be so empty when you’re surrounded by such a magnitude of love?
I watch the seconds slip from the clock on the wall where do they go? into the past? surely by now the past is running out of room And as I write this poem a solid minute has gone and it frightens me those piles of time mountains high how much left stockpiled for later? I’m not afraid of death only of being left without you.
Quickly Dropping Names “…in some way make use of the names paint companies dream up for their colors.”
Dead Salmon FARROW & BALL DEAD SALMON 28
“As a fisherman and a foodie, I always have nice thoughts about DEAD SALMON. I see a salmon resting in my creel or on my plate in a neighborhood restaurant. Clients, on the other hand, often can’t get past the image of a dead fish, so I just don’t tell them the name. But they love the color. It’s like a pink that’s gone gray over time and taken on this wonderful patina. Moody and gorgeous.” -Philip Gorrivan
Her silk dress lay on the floor puddled, like dirty snow on a plowed highway, like a dead salmon washed onto the shore. like a stinking heap of trash left to molder. She would wake up alone head heavy, eyes blurred, fumble into her silk dress humiliated once again.
She’s a breath of fresh air on an airless day Rosemary with her Russet hair and Blushing Golden cheeks She stands on tiptoe to pick the best, the Golden Delicious-ness of fruit hanging just in reach. A basket on her arm to carry them home to bake a pie for Jonathan, an Epicure/an delight.
Above the dining room buffet hangs The Angelus by Millet. The steeple of the Chailly-en-Bière rings end of work day for the pair, heads bowed for the call to prayer and at their feet potatoes in a basket, though, Dali in his youth saw a casket and later proved true his suspicion. Under layers of paint a rough depiction a small, rough image like a wooden box. Did Millet’s first attempt show paradox between their child and the Christ child in Angelus birth and death reconciled?