It was so much more vigorous
Than what she’d done before
For when she did it all alone
She felt she could do a little more
But now with breath ragged
And contented smile upon her face
She put the medal round her neck
And was glad she’s run the race
Padre
“Are you ready?” Edgar asked.
“Is anyone ever really ready for this?” Hank responded.
Edgar looked around the grim-faced armoured men around him. “I guess not,” he finally replied. “Just remember your training, and you’ll do fine.”
Years of work perfecting foot-work, and controlling his breathing passed through Hank’s mind. It all seemed so simple then, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if he messed up, and failed the others? Self doubt began to swell.
Then suddenly the director shouted, “Action,” and Hank’s first professional acting gig, a beer commercial, began.
Padre
Mighty tool ready
Iron head, and haft of ash
Thing of woodman’s skill
Feller of mighty oak trees
Resting in a stump so still
Padre
Thee(s) and thou(s) no longer a thing
They have for most an archaic ring
As teachers imbue knowledge
Of some Danish prince
The unfamiliar phrases
Make our brains wince
We sit in class – quite subdued
“To be or not” leaves us confused
And yet for some – the enlightened few
The rhythms sink-in and spark something new
Rhymes fill your imagination and there they stew
You start writing poetry – what else can you do?
If something like this has happened to you
Then share a verse on how it is true
Now with no more gilding the lily
No further ado
I leave the next verse – up to you
Padre
Please do give it a try and share.
“The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them (Genesis 3:21).” Well, the serpent should have know better.
Padre
Jim Adams‘ challenge this week is to “find a song with a harmonica in it.” I considered writing about the Beatles’ Rocky Raccoon (which I hope someone does), but being a word-person rather than a musician, I went with a song that while without a harmonica accompaniment has the instrument (slang “Harpoon”) mentioned in the lyrics.
Me and Bobby McGee was written by Kris Kristofferson. It was posthumously released by Janis Joplin in 1971, and became the second No. 1 single in American chart history to be released after the artist’s death.
The song has been song or covered by Roger Williams, Waylon Jennings, The Grateful Dead, Loretta Lynn, Kenny Rogers and The First Edition, Gordon Lightfoot, Dolly Parton, Olivia Newton-John, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson.
Lyrics:
image: ScienceAlert
Why do I write? In one sense it is to express myself. In yet another, it is a deeper art in which I express possibilities. The idea of ideas – possibilities beyond expressions of myself, but of things not experienced (at least) by me. These inspired thoughts are the subject of this rambling musing on muses and musings.
Inspired is a simple word – “to breath in,” “to receive spirit.” But what is the muse? Love poems come easy to me when I am in love. My lover is the best muse possible for such poetry.
But what of my darker works?
It is amazing how diverse prompts from daily life can come together to take-on lives of their own. It is evident in the writing process of my poem Saving Face. This poem was virtually spontaneous at about midnight after a long day. The night before, I had watched a film which informed it. The day was ending with news of a huge explosion in Beirut. Deja vu was my initial reaction, alongside with a cold shudder having had friends killed in the 1983 bombings there. This began a series of free associations which culminated in the poem.
So what was that process? The shock of an explosion in Beirut brought about memories of the young men killed there in the 80s. This in turn led to the patriotism they (we) felt about service. It made the loss seem greater. Then the realisation, that in 2020 we send our young women to war and its horrors, as well as our “boys.” Memories of my own service, and of the iconic image from Apocalypse Now of a camouflage-painted face became an image of the “face of war.” The idea of war as a political agenda, and of politicians needing to “save face,” brought to mind Saving Private Ryan. Who then would save these young faces of today – this new generation of “camouflage faces?”
But the process does not end with the dual meaning of “saving face.” The structure itself had its muse. That inspiration was the aforementioned film watched the day before – Blade Runner 2049, Face, Face, Face.
So why do I write? I write to sort the bombardment of ideas into something tangible, something less chaotic. I write to give the struggling ideas dome rest and peace.
Padre
I will revisit the Muse musings soon, and how love and loss, and new love inspire me.
Pixabay
When I was at school, I was quite proud of my cursive hand with its requite swirls and flourishes. Many hours were spent trying to replicate the elaborate script that, in white on green, spanned the front of the classroom wall just below the ceiling.
But times, and life moved on and I found myself a teacher in the UK, where my adorned writing caused confusion among my students. “Sir, why does your ‘n’ look like a ‘m’ and your ‘m’ have three bumps and not two? Yes, I had inadvertently wandered into the realm of “joined writing,” in which cursive was seen as archaic and unnecessary.
But tides and time wait for no man, and even “joined writing” became something to forget. If a student could master a keyboard, why spend time with the mastery of a pen? To touch type was the new scribal talent.
I have often heard students moan “my arm is breaking,” if they needed to hand-write more than a few lines of text. Primary teachers speak of students who hold pencils gripped in closed fists, rather than between index and thumb.
How far have we journeyed? Where will it lead? Will writing in the future even be a thing we need?
Padre
Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge:
Today’s prompt: Write a piece of prose or poetry around the words cursive, touch, and forget
David Altmejd
Michaengelo said – every block of stone
Has a statue hidden there inside
It is just for the artist to
Find it where it hides
We too, often our true selves hide
Hoping that others won’t see
What we have buried deep inside
Because of our insecurity
We conceal our aspirations
Things – we truly want to be
Ignoring that deep inside
Our SELF wants to escape and make itself free
For so long I did bury – my love affair with words
Wishing one day – that I might find the nerve
To let my composition
By the world to be heard
So in these few verses
Scribbled swiftly – to a prompt responding
May it be to you – your wake-up call
For your buried self’s absconding
Padre
Photo by Tobias Bjørkli from Pexels
They were coming. It was as simple as that, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Six weeks of preparation, the amassing of supplies, and contingency plan after contingency plan made and then scrutinised, made the reality of the situation no less real. They were coming, like a biblical plague of locusts they would arrive just as the promise of Autumn beauty was taking hold.
Katherine sucked it up, and shuffled the pile of papers on her desk, and glanced around her room at the pristine displays and wondered how long would this sanctuary remain unchanged. Yes, Year Nine was coming.
Padre
