The Last Cicada - Re-Post Poetry

The last cicada sings
Into the crisp fall air
A final call of
Fall’s end, winter’s era

Leaves cling
To branches high
Not one wants
To release and die

A father dreams
Of his son’s flight
But silence returns
From this season’s night

[Chorus]
Seasons change
Seasons go
Season remain
Ever so slow

Summer leaves
To find its fall
The stillness breaks
Upon us all


The last cicada sings
The final tear falls
We are cold
We are so small

A baby cries
Her first breath of life
Mother’s arms are gone
An women will live in strife

[Chorus]

Sometimes we must burrow
Deep into the earth
Waiting there, searching
For the matter of our birth

Remembering when we can
That as this begins
We can return as
The last cicada sings

[Chorus]

The last cicada sings
Into the crisp fall air
A final call of
Fall’s end, winter’s era

Leaves cling
To branches high
Not one wants
To release and die


NOTE: in the depths of a hike in SC, i heard a lone cicada. while only weeks before i had heard the deafening noise of their community screaming, only one remained. the words above come from that last cicada's song.

Sunday Coffee Cup - Cafe Roche

Jazz floats through the space accompanied by a pleasant din of community conversation. A chat about home repairs, banter about the most accomplished local jazz groups and the common agreement that this is the best coffee served in tow are all a part of my morning today.

I often drive the short distance from my home to Café Roche on Sunday morning. If you’ve been there you know why. There is a welcoming eclectic mix of décor and people– always. Today’s coffee cup doesn’t come from my cupboard and isn’t adorned with a clever saying or photo, but it is rich and familiar in both its simple form and steaming content.

I enjoy my stops at Café Roche. This morning is a writing day, so I’ll nestle into the back corner of the use to be white sofa and pound out an hour or so worth of creative writing. Maybe I’ll write down my thoughts about the current craze around Tebowing (oh I have some strong thoughts about God and football), or continue my work on “Things I Wish I Had Said from the Pulpit”, but whatever comes the energy here will help. It is strong, animated and stimulating – just like this Sunday Coffee Cup.

Note: If you like, find out more about Café Roche over at Sarah’s blog.

Ebook and Wishing

Time passes quickly...

Have you ever had regrets? Do you find yourself sometimes wishing you had done or said something you didn't? Truly?

I believe it is often NOT too late. Not while we have breath and a small resemblance of sanity...

Oh. Update on the e-book. 7 of 10 chapters written.

Going Social and Did I mention...?

Did I mention that I was taking a bit of a break from blogging to work on an e-book? Yes, it's true. I'll be back, soon...

I did overhear this today: "Don't make me go Social on you!" Have you ever "gone Social" on someone or some business? Why? Did it help you get a positive resolution?

The Road - An Incomplete Tale

Introduction

I stood in the gallery, surprised. The new “Rural Life” photo contest had caused me to leave my normally secluded life and travel to Charlotte, NC to view the collection of photography from across the state. I had been enjoying the various landscapes, pictures of freckled faced, overall clad youths and studies on an assortment of farm-life objects: plows, daisies growing in tin pots, wagon wheel sentinels on dirt drives. Then there it was - a black and white photograph of a too familiar road, that road. That road, eternally dark and damp, always leading out of town to the same house, the same now seldom remembered history. The story is all but gone as are those who where there, but I am thrown back tonight, to a time before, a time before I knew of malformed creatures and a darkness so completely void of light that it could seized your spirit in terror, a time when I was waiting beside that road...

Hear It Read - Audio Post

I wanted to try posting some audio to accompany the written word. I've reposted a short creative piece I wrote a few weeks back and added an audio message. Please let me know what you think.

Thanks to AudioBoo for the technology.




Before she quickly brushed it aside, her single tear drop traced a trail - like a silver scalpel slicing so quickly through flesh that the very bone is revealed before blood begins to rush through the wound - such was this tear - a momentary revealing that she cared too much, that her need was too great and that her hope for recognition, salvation actually, would not come. Not tonight.

Freedom Diving

I thought only death would be so peaceful

My ears are useless, muffled and deaf

I don’t breathe now, lungs stopped

Idol

My heart slows, relaxing under increased pressure

Sight is all that remains

An opaque vision of color and life

Serenity

I can’t stay here

This momentary peace must yield

To the screams of my lungs and mind

Up

Toward the surface

To the world of air breathing creatures

And over stimulated demands

Note: On free diving in the Atlantic near Bermuda.

The Reverberations of Poet's Pen

while reading a poem over at Nevine's, i was reminded of how deep poetry, and creative prose for that mater, reaches into my being. it is a living witness to the full gamut of my life, even though i am most driven to write when my spirit is in pain.

yes. for the scars that remain after the battered soul heals, for the ongoing hemorrhage of internal hope, for the fears arising from tortures too ghastly to be mentioned, for the pit of despair where rests stagnant laughter, mired in decay... for these pieces of the poet's being... there must be poetry. for in the words of the verse, hammered out on life's iron fist, i often find relief and sometimes, in moments of purest grace, wonderful questions.

Amusing Inspiration

Did Jung refer to you
Anima
Flit and a wisp through
My lungs
Stealing my breath

Are not you the artist's
Muse
Singing and dancing by
My passions
Making off with my propriety

Thank you

I Need More Pressure!

A couple of years ago, I took a creative writing class. One of the techniques we discussed was the idea of scheduling  time to write everyday. The idea is that just as the sculpture needs a block of raw stone from which to create, the writer needs a block of raw words from which to create and develop their craft. I've practiced this technique off and on and have seen it work. Another way to 'see' this is to think of those regular pieces of writing as drops into a pool. Before we can swim we need to fill the tank.

Lately, when I sit to write I often experience something best described as emptiness...a lack of words and ideas. Reflecting on this I wonder this: I often tweet and write status updates when I am struck by a creative thought or idea that I think is worth sharing. Once it is shared, I tend to move on to the next thought. So, I wonder, does the instant sharing of nuggets of creative writing via Social Media rob the the creative mind of the inspirational pressure of accumulated ideas? Do we keep our vessel empty?

Have you ever experienced this?