The Challenge

The Challenge of life is to welcome challenge itself, not for ego, not for attention, not for riches, but for the dim glow that grows into brightness, illuminating the person you were meant to be when you were only a small spark in the Heavens.

I Might Imagine

I might imagine, or I might not, that love is a smile beneath a small straight nose, deep brown eyes, and dark chocolate tresses falling around my face as she sits above me.

I might imagine, or I might not, that over her head, green leaves laugh in the summer breeze, and lake waves lap whispers against round stones.

I might imagine, or I might not, a soft kiss, moist and tender, warm upon my lips, and the brush of fingertips at my brow, with words of welcome.

I might imagine, or I might not, a mountain trail, rough with stones for tripping, slow with time for talking, waterfalls crisp with splashing, and the summit for rest.

I might imagine, or I might not, two sets of footprints pressed into wet sand, hands clasped, sun overhead, and at night, stars.

But I shall not imagine, for I could imagine more that would not be imagining, for I am thankful, grateful more than I can say, reaching for her hand over twenty years hence from dreaming, and still we laugh, sigh, love.

And we imagine.

Are Made for Believing

Dreams

are made for believing.

Have you had a

dream lately?

Perhaps to do so

you must first

believe in yourself.

She Called This Hope

As she sat upon the hot sand, sea birds calling overhead, a warm, salt breeze entered her being. She called this Truth.

The sun peeked from over the waves, casting pelican shadows, and it was a  glowing disc, alive and shimmering. She called this Honor.

The sun continued, traveling the blue, cloudless sky until it set behind her, and the great orange ball of the moon rose over the waves, and she called this Respect.

The next morning brought a sky filled with anger, rage at all that was believed, but what was nothing more than lies that soiled the land. Lightning flashed wicked strikes upon the deep and thunder rolled and boomed and settled, its echo a whisper across the distance. She called this Ignorance.

But before the night, came the true gift. As the clouds sailed west, as the wind scattered the velvet mists, as the calm returned to the sea and the slight spray dampened her face, a rainbow formed, a bow of color across the horizon east.

She called this Hope.

The Seduction, and the Hope. A Dedication.

Written in second person point of view, present tense, as an exercise, but much more importantly, as a dedication to those who struggle with drugs. I am thankful that I can only imagine what you are going through. I doubt I am even close.

Please, inside your shattered life is a good person who wants to live again. Give him or her that chance. If I can believe in you, without even knowing you, others, I’m certain, believe in you. Now–you need to believe in you.

For those who like to wonder about such things, the punctuation, especially the lack of quotation marks in some places, is intentional.

The Seduction, and the Hope.

You sit on your parent’s sofa, watching TV, changing channels rapid-fire. It’s all boring and you scratch an errant itch. Your face is rough with stubble, your underarms reek, and bathing is an afterthought.

Your mom walks in. Curlers. Pink robe. Grungy slippers. Bright red fingernails.

“Is this all you’re going to do all day? Sit here? You could at least take the trash out. Cut the grass. Do something … “

In the recliner, your dad grunts. “Yeah. And while you’re doing all that, dammit, get a job too.”

You stare, then wipe your nose with a finger whose nail is in dire need of trimming, and you spread the yellow smear on your jeans, which are slick from sitting, stained from mayonnaise, and smelling of spilled beer.

You punch the remote’s off button, rise slowly because your back aches, and walk down a darkened hallway, taking a door to the stairs to the basement, where your room is.

Placing your bare feet on the first step, you close the door behind you, then stand there.

A scurrying in the walls–you wonder how long it will be before the mice or the roaches or whatever it is will take you away from this world.

Anything would be better than this. Just one more step down these darkened stairs– No. Not a step. A stumble. Hello, new world.

But basically, on your deepest levels, and sometimes,  even on the shallowest, when the meth or the coke or whatever you can get from your dealer deadens the pain, you know you’re a coward. So you flip the light on, and it clicks, causing more scurrying, which, perhaps, is in your muddled brain, or what’s left of it.

The stairs, and your bones, creek. You run your tongue across your teeth and swallow on your way down. You taste like gray film looks, and your teeth have things growing between them, you’re sure.

And at the bottom of the steps the dank smell of your underground room zips through your sinuses like a warm, wet ice pick. You shake your head, flip on another light, and your own sofa looms before you. It’s worse than your jeans.

That’s probably where the roaches live.

If you sleep there one more night will they take you away? Will the come and eat your eyes right from their sockets? Leaving you even more blind than you are now?

You sit and fish the crumpled paper from your pocket. It’s been stuffed in and brought out so many times it feels like what a rat uses for a nest. You open it. Smeared blue ink. You call the number and before the ring stops in your ear, he answers.

Yeah?

It’s me. What do you have?

The question, as usual, is what do you have–monetarily?

I’ll have to get something together. My parents don’t leave cash out anymore, and there’s nothing here worth selling. …

Not my problem.

I realize that but–

Like I said, not my problem. And you don’t want to make it my problem. Do you … ?

You swallow, and you swear you feel the tiny prick of roach legs in your throat.

No. …

Then don’t call me until you have what I need. Then I’ll have what you need. Are we clear on that? I won’t say it again. And if I have to, I’ll send someone over and your parents will know something’s wrong when they smell your rotten corpse in your basement. Then you’ll be their problem, not mine, not anymore.

I … I won’t call again. Not until–

Click.

You throw the phone and it hits the wall with a dull thud. A hammer into a skull. Hot tears fill your eyes and you gag and retch and fall onto the cold concrete floor, finally throwing up, adding another yellowish-white stain. You cry. You beg. You ache for understanding, for forgiveness, for hope.

Hope?

It’s been ages. Once you enjoyed. Once you loved. Once you created. Once people–good people–loved you. And you loved them back.

Hope.

You find the phone behind the skeleton of a chair. You find the phone book in the laundry sink. You find the page, rip it out, then read the number. You slowly dial. You want to get this right. No mistakes. Not anymore.

You hear a voice.

“Hope-line drug addiction hotline. Can I help you?”

A gentle sigh exits your lungs. You blink. A weight lifts from your soul.

And you hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And on the Souls. Poetry.

The silver fishes dance

and waves break

and pelicans wheel

turning into wing-driven darts that

dive beneath foamy crests.

A gull’s complaint.

And sand that is warm on

the soles.

And on the Souls.

Air heavy

salt-laden taste.

Children’s footprints and mother’s laughter

with father’s smiles.

And the surf meets

with gentle whispering breaths.

And the silver fishes dance.

 

Harry Bernstein, an inspiration for all writers, and an inspiration for all.

I had not heard of the ‘young’ man.

An amazing man and an amazing story …

From the Growing Bolder FB page:

Without Spice

a single silky warm raindrop

clings to her nose.

brown eyes see through me

clear, luxuriant.

lashes blink.

moist lips

oh to taste.

all this and more

twenty-one years

or twenty-one hundred.

she listens

she supports

she understands

trust runs rampant

as does respect.

are there differences?

of course

but what is life

and a relationship

marriage

friendship

without spice.

It Is Time.

hate forms on the tongue

colors, signs, screams of unknowing

cups filled to oveflowing

droplets of conversation

truth

what is and isn’t

streaming away

wasted.

communication isn’t screams

isn’t signs

isn’t pointing fingertip daggers of hate

on any side.

language: words, love, caring, understanding …

empathizing in all things

slips into rapids drowning

muddied puddles of filth

ears, hearts, eyes, all clogged

hands that could reach

makes fists

frozen hearts stabbed clear through

with icicle knives of misunderstanding

that might

that could

melt

harden.

where does the compass needle aim

to which direction

to which emotion

to which might it lead?

alas, too many have none

but the clamoring voices of those running

on hatred fueled engines.

who should fear

who should care

and why.

not a soul, wisps of what once was and

what once could have been are racing toward more

and more hate.

whose eyes will open

whose ears will hear

whose hands will reach in kinship

to each of us

together not

separate

joined not

split asunder

listening not

ignoring

and considering what

each of us …

has to say.

the automatic knee jerk of hate

broken clean and cast

healing

fresh bone knitting

new cells forming

it is time to renew

it is time to care

it is time to wish each other … well.

Our Craft.

Words are magnificent things. With them, a person can communicate numerous emotions ranging from the love in a child’s eyes to the rage a man might feel at being forced to do something totally beyond his control.

Readers understand this, and that’s why we read, and if we’re able, that’s why we write.

Also we write to bring new experiences, new feelings, and for me, new perspectives on the joys and sorrows, and hopes and tragedies, people might feel, could feel, if they lived in different lives, in different times, and in different situations.

Yes, the novel I’m currently revising has both: a man that has to endure an existence he never knew could take place, and his child, who in one scene answers his mother’s question about how much she loves him by spreading his little hands wide and saying, “I know, Momma, this much!”

Two distinct sides of a coin: one complicated to the extreme and one as simple and sweet a thing as we might imagine. To say I’m enjoying this work is a vast understatement, and I’m positive that right now, those reading this may well be nodding their heads in affirmation.

There’s no doubt about it, writing is a craft. And as I’m sure many of you reading this know, learning that craft, delving into its intricacies, both gentle, and not so gentle, is an amazing thing to do,

WordPress is filled with people like you and me, people reaching for the stars within themselves.

As I write this, hopefully your fingertips are reaching for and possibly touching your own particle of brilliance.

J.