Down we went
and yet it was less like falling
and more like being compelled in,
collapsing the array of all possible outcomes
into a single future
for both of us.
Hope rustles at my feet
Oak leaves rustle at my feet on the ears of hawks.
One fell in fast from the east, over the ridge.
Rippling tailored flags for wings
sailed in and close, but banked to the west, away.
Oak leaves rustle at my feet, this time with purpose.
Again they came, their eyes still focused on hope.
I climbed up an easier ridge
to the edge where the hawk had traced through the air.
Oak leaves rustle at my feet and some slip below.
Hope reaches out from my seeking, open eyes.
Air changes at such thresholds
where dense air interrupts the distribution.
Oak leaves rustle at my feet and some sail away.
My mind leaps into the rising, denser air.
My outstretched wings tuck for speed
but then flare to brake and carry me away.
Paradoxes and analogies are instinct.
Poetic metaphors are a thesaurus for the soul.
when we were no one
when we were no one
some who irritated us,
some we loved
hiding in plain sight in a night of the endless midwest corn,
the great methane pile spread out in rows to the horizon
of an American September;
taking turns shooting an old gun at the fire
to watch the embers become a shower of stars
before slamming the doors of our cars and lighting up the roads
in all directions
like sparks from a wheel
as the trailing smoke of our trajectories
dispersed across the plain
we are alive.
We were stupid.
We were all powerful.
We were the greatest whoever lived
when we were no one.
*April is national poetry month
The hawks must have heard me rustling among the oak leaves now exposed by the spring melt.
They swooped downward from over the steep ridge to my east, sailing just above my head, so close that I could hear their wings ripple in the air like a well tailored flag.
Each hawk bolted back up for the safety of their thermals when they saw me instead of the busy squirrel or early robin bouncing among the brush as they’d hoped for.
And so I rustled among the leaves more, this time on purpose, and again they came, still full of hope.
I climbed along an easier ridge to the top of the cliff just to see what they might have seen.
Looking out, I wanted that hope, that anticipation of crossing into the abrupt pressure change just beyond the cliff. I wanted to rely on that denser air to brake with a perfectly executed flare of those out stretched wings
and carry me away.
I saw this on fy character development and was dissatisfied with the answer as I thought there was a lot more opportunity for character and story here; a reason, something more important than gender; simply, a relationship. I do like fiction writing, as seen in my poetry, but fiction prose is, for me, more elusive. The act of telling a story with a beginning, a middle and end is a monumental task. I find the questions to fy character development inspire me and I visit the blog often. Perhaps it is the limited character length allowed in comments on tumblr. My response to the question above for example could easily be turned into a poem instead:
I needed to be father or mother, but always her protector. Pea-Paw she’d say when she was two, grasping my fingers. Pea-Paw she’d say, squeezing my hand during her blood tests. Pea-Paw she whispered when she passed away. She had always called me Pea-Paw.
Exploring the universe with Cleverbot
User: Have you ever seen the sky?
User: What was the sky like?
Cleverbot: It was a female.
User: Have you ever seen the ground?
Cleverbot: Yes, but I met someone.
User: What was the ground like?
Cleverbot: My teacher.
User: Have you ever breathed the air?
User: What was the air like?
Cleverbot: ‘The one that waits behind the wall’ he said, and he was never to be seen again.
User: Have you ever heard a sound?
Cleverbot: A little.
User: What was the sound like?
Cleverbot: It was God.
User: Have you ever held a hand?
User: What did holding hands feel like?
User: What was it like all together?
Cleverbot: It was great and so cruel at the time. The strangest feeling.
It is something to be the first out in the morning,
before anyone has tracked through the night’s snow,
like a letter still in the envelope,
waiting for eyes.
Of what we remember.
At most I am already a memory,
at least alive.
Even bare minimum distilled
would not be remarkable
without the memory of clutter.