Worried Clocks Carry the Dream

Worried Clocks Carry the Dream

Worried clocks carry the dream within my body,

my body defiant, disbelieving the dream –

the dream someone else’s possibility, ending you.

You ask that person: Be the mother that is under, a gift. 

A gift! Accept!

Accept our life start, that is unavoidable –

unavoidably working towards wanting,

wanting a little window into connection, focus.

Focus on the fullness to be true; further open.

Further open a kind allow.

Allow whispering; process challenge.

Challenge this insight happening,

happening into the pleasure.

Pleasure sending sensations, wonder, tangled endings.

Tangled endings just beautiful vibrations.

Vibrations, harnessing, feel like the ocean –

the ocean to bring. Begin!

Begin with their beauty.

I wrote this for my own prompt, Weekly Scribblings #43: Found Poems and Erasures, at Poets and Storytellers United. I am quite good at other kinds of found poems, not so good at erasures, so I thought that's what I should try. Hmmm, perhaps not!  I really don't think I have the knack. (But then, I admit I didn't spend a serious amount of time on it. I didn't even actually erase the text surrounding the words I chose.) I only got it to make some kind of almost-sense by repeating the one or two words at the end of every line as the beginning of the next line. Below are the source materials: pages from a give-away New Agey magazine which is basically advertising various practitioners. The first attempt didn't take me very far, so I turned to another page and did some more.

Interestingly enough, what this poem does is allow me a window into my own subconscious. Recently I've been thinking about my relationship with my mother – it was her birthday the other day – wishing it had been easier, closer. As a child, I thought her very beautiful but didn't find her warm and cuddly. I felt she was always trying to make me conform, be something I wasn't. I've come to think I may have misunderstood her, and wish I could go back and make it all different. I can find these threads in the poem, so one day I might, if I choose, rewrite it to be more readily understandable to others.

Encountering Old Bones: 2.

Encountering Old Bones: 2

(For episode 1, go back here.)

‘Human bone?’ I said, ‘How can you tell?’ Sure, the man was a doctor, but he was talking about bone that had been shaped and carved.

‘I’m not that smart,’ he said. ‘We found a note in his vest pocket. If anything happened to him, he wanted the rosary returned to the family of the woman the bone came from: the family of Lily Vallee. He was looking for them, apparently. But it’s no name from round here.’

‘That sounds like a made-up name,’ said Ben, the newspaper man. ‘A stage name, maybe?’

‘GRUESOME FIND ON DEAD MAN’ read the headline. As sheriff, I made some posters with the details. Our little local paper wouldn’t reach very far. We used an artist’s drawing of the dead man’s face; he never told his own name, but maybe someone would recognise him.

I locked the rosary away but I used to look at it sometimes, and even handle it, wondering about the woman whose body was pilfered for such a ghoulish souvenir, and the man who carried it. Was it love or revenge that motivated him? Guilt or duty spurring his quest for her relatives? Was he even the one who stole the bone?

What if it wasn’t stolen? Maybe it was her dying wish, a charge she laid upon him. Then why would he take it on – unless they were close? Lovers, I thought of course. Or … mother and son? Father and …? Brother …? 

Years later a new teacher arrived. She read the old poster still hopefully decorating the notice-board.

‘Did someone take it that seriously?’ she said, aghast.

A well-known trick, she told us, out where she came from. Skin someone of his money by whispering a ‘secret’ history about a rosary in the pawnshop and a family who’d pay a fortune for the last relic of a child abducted by Indians years before. Not a word of truth in it of course. Every so often some fool who thought he was clever would pay much too much for the rosary, in hope of a great reward. After he’d properly left town, a replacement would go on display. They were carved from the bones of dead cattle.

369 words, shared in Writers' Pantry #43 at Poets and Storytellers United. Many thanks to Magaly Guerrero, and to she whom we know as Magical Mystical Teacher, for the inspiration which proved to me I can write fiction after all! (It's a bit of a cop-out ending, sorry – but taking it anywhere else would have meant at least one more episode and I don't know that I have the perseverance for that.)

Encountering Old Bones

 Encountering Old Bones

At first I thought he was dead, lying there in the desert, his legs and extended arms protruding from behind one of the sparse cactus plants. Then I realised he was consciously holding up his rosary. 

‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘looks like I’m the answer to a freaking prayer! How about that?’

I got one of the team to give him some water, slowly at first, then lay him across the saddle of the pack-horse and make him secure (moving some of the baggage to our mounts). He was damn near collapsing, and couldn’t seem to talk but only gasp and grunt, yet he still clutched that rosary with fierce persistence.

We couldn’t tell what he was doing out there, apparently travelling on foot. Sure he needed help pronto, but did he also need jail when we got back to town? Was he running from the law, or escaping some desperado? He’d have to have a guard on him, either way.

We knew the way to the springs, which our guest obviously didn’t. We camped there overnight. We did our best to make him comfortable, but when we tried to get food into him, it dribbled back out of his mouth. He was barely conscious. Tom tried to gently take the rosary out of his hand to settle him on the blanket, but he half-roused then, muttered something that sounded angry or desperate or both, and clutched it tighter. We figured he was delirious, but not much we could do apart from give him another drink before we bedded down, and more when we woke.

We got under way again early. We shielded him from the sun as best we could and stopped now and then to give him a drink, which he could only just manage to gulp. We took him straight to the doc in the little hospital when we arrived. He was unconscious by then, but even in that state his fingers seemed glued around his rosary.

The doc found us in the saloon later, to tell us the poor man was so far gone he couldn’t save him. Then he told us a curious thing: the rosary was carved from human bone.

To be continued.

369 words written in response to Weekly Scribblings #42: About Those Bones at Poets and Storytellers United.

(Episode 2 is here.)

What Price?

What Price?

Sitting on the ground at the edge of the car park, just outside the doors into the shopping centre, he blows the deep notes of his digeridoo. Its sound is resonant — as they all are, connecting to the earth — yet more mellow than some I’ve heard. It’s not an easy instrument to master.

I remember busking. I don’t think it’s big earnings in a small country town like this. I don’t see how it could be.

And I know, too, the need to get your art out there, to share and communicate. This expert player has something to give. 

It might be his only job, I think. (Where are the orchestra spots for didgeridoo players?) Even as an Age Pensioner, I can spare $5. When I come back down from the shops, he is just laying down his didge for a break, stretching out his legs in front of him and leaning back against the wall. I stop and fish in my wallet, then drop $5 in coins on his mat. 

 He looks up, and I see that he’s young, maybe twenty. He gives me the most beautiful, light-filled smile. 

‘Thank you, my sister,’ he says.

‘Thank YOU,’ I say, meaning it.

I walk away thinking how gracious he is, and gentle. 

I thanked him for his music. I might have thanked him for a great deal more. His people were here first. Much was taken from them. Some think we whitefellas ought to be paying rent. Suddenly, $5 seems very little.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #41: What's the Price? at Poets and Storytellers United.  (252 words.)

Walking Away from 2020

Walking Away from 2020

Can we walk away
from this apocalypse?
And if we might,
where to?

In the time of COVID,
walking away
consists of
staying at home.

Our poor minds
in our lonely heads
now walk away
into strange places.

We are walking away
from the selves
we used to be —
collectively.

We do not know
our destination:
the road, or all roads,
uncharted.

In the great cities
streets are empty
without movement
as if useless.
 
 
Although this was written to my own prompt for Weekly Scribblings #40 at Poets and Storytellers United, I had trouble getting into it until I gave myself a structure. When the first couple of verses were all I had, it was fairly easy to turn them into 17-syllable American sentences, but arranged in four lines each, and keep that form for the rest of the poem. (Yes I know the first verse is technically two sentences. Hey, even Allen Ginsberg, who invented the American Sentence, did that occasionally.)