Who Has Time to Be Bored?

Not me.  In the last week I’ve come across so many interesting ideas that can be turned into books, that should be turned into books.  But where is the time?   I sit here now with my eyes closing, heavy with a threatening sleep.  But no! I want to write this.  I want to read and explore.  Time runs out it seems, every day.

I guess it’s a warning, that time is always running out, that I should use my precious portion with great care.  That doesn’t mean I have to use every moment to produce something material, but every moment should matter. 

That’s all.  I wanted to share that with you, as I sip my juice and read about horses and how they continue to change the lives of people today.  Just another idea, waiting for development.

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I’ve Been Writing a Lot…

 

 

mach writing Josef_Löwy_Handstudie_vor1872
Josef Löwy: “Handstudie” 1872.  Public domain

 

 

I’ve been writing quite a lot for several years now.  At first I wrote a book about personal experience.  Many people begin with the personal when they first write. After I finished that book, I cast my eyes out, and saw a universe of interesting subjects.

A blog followed–on Godaddy.  Then I opened a Twitter account. A few children’s books followed.  As the years passed, I wrote more books and found more mediums on which to feature my writing.

WordPress offered a convenient platform…and so here I am.  It may be my temperament that leads me down different paths.  Or it may be a symptom of the times. So many opportunities exist for people who want to write.  There’s no such thing as a closed door anymore.  We all have a key and an invitation to enter.

I’m blogging today about two lovely opportunities for writing, besides this one, that I explored this week.  Both of them are on Steemit and both are extraordinarily accessible to just about anyone.

The first I’ll mention is dedicated to haiku writing.  This has turned into a weekly exercise for me.  This is supposed to be a contest, but I don’t write to win.  I write because the community and the exercise are enjoyable.  Each week we are offered a picture and are asked to write a haiku in response.  This is a link to the contest.  My haiku is on the bottom, in the Comment section (under @agmoore).

Another exercise I’ve engaged in this week is a short story contest, Tell A Story to Me.  Contests abound on Steemit. I rarely win, but I do have fun writing for them.  Tell a Story to Me really captured my imagination in this round.  The prompt was the Golden Record.  My story is done, and I’ll post it on Monday.  The theme is so rich I can see this story developing into a book.  I’ll let you know how that works out 🙂

One thing you’ll notice, as you navigate around the creative writing blogs on Steemit, is that a lot of names reappear on different blogs.  There is a true creative writing community and after a while you get to recognize different writers and their styles.  You also appreciate how writers grow as they practice their craft.

And I don’t know much about cryptocurrency.  Steemit pays rewards in cryptocurrency.  But that is not the attraction for me or for a lot of people who blog there.  Maybe we’ll make money and maybe we won’t.  But in the meantime, we’re having a very rich experience.

I think I’ll try my hand at a haiku here.  This is in response to the picture featured in the contest.  Can’t show it…might be considered plagiarism.  When you read my haiku, you’ll see why I don’t win the contest 🙂

accent accent

Sunlight warms the pier

Wisp of a brown leaf withers

Atop its shadow

Recesses: A Really Dark Poem

 

 

Swamp public

I’m posting a poem here with a bit of hesitation.  It is a dark piece, and not at all representative of my writing.  I blame the darkness on my subconscious.  As readers of this blog may know, I grew up in challenging circumstances.  In a previous blog, A Burial, I refer to a grim episode in which several of my dogs were poisoned.  The family never discovered who poisoned the dogs.  Each poisoned pet had to be buried.  Since my father was absent, my older brother took charge, as he often did.

It was winter, and the ground was frozen.  My brother was obliged to improvise.  He found a bog, deep in the forest, in which the deceased animals’ bodies could be dispatched.  The mud would absorb whatever was thrown onto it.  This constituted a sort of burial, the best he could manage.

Years later, when I began to write, I searched my mind for inspiration.  The poem posted below came to me, almost in an unbroken stream.  There’s little doubt I was healing an old wound.  In the poem I imagine a murder, in a swamp, but this time the murderer doesn’t get away.  My subconscious metes out a rough justice.

Here’s the poem.  Beware: It is dark.

 

Recesses

In the rustle of the swamp reeds

In the ceaseless crackling clamor

Of the swamp’s pursuers and pursued

A very careful and interested listener

Might have heard

The faintest sigh

An expiration of breath

Blended casually and perfectly

With the flow of generation and degeneration

So its individuality

Its particularity

Was lost

 

No one heralded its passing

Except the swamp’s general chorus

Of insect and animal activity

Which signaled without prejudice

The birth and demise of multitudinous creatures

 

In the wetness of the earth

In the dark and malodorous puddles

Seeping through an eternity of swamp grass

The smallest rivulet of blood tinted the ground

Blended with greater streams and

Became indistinguishable

From the enveloping deepness of their color

 

Through tangled trees and weeping weeds

He fled

The mute rebuke of her still presence

Propelling him

The hours since he killed

Darkened the earth

Until night dwellers rose from their nests

And joined the uncensoring cacophony

 

He knew this dense and murky world

It would have granted him a bed

Had he stopped

He could not

Panicked by the specter of her face

He pressed on

Past the creeping oozing things

The silent crawling essences in the mud

 

He was wet

From his excretions

From excretions of soil and plant

His shoes heavy with moisture

His clothes clammy

He became as like the swamp as he could ever be

And it became less a friend to him

He who confided in the swamp

Discovered its treachery

 

He was lost

The absolving obscurity which had drawn him

To commit this deed

Ordained his destruction

 

The first rays of sunrise did not penetrate

To the depths of the swamp’s floor

Rather they gradually colored the dense undergrowth

And muddy pools of its recesses

Only moments before those traces of color appeared

He fell

 

His body slumped to earth

Perhaps his head hit a rock

Or an exhausted vessel hemorrhaged

A rivulet of blood

Tinted the ground

Blended with greater streams and

Became indistinguishable

From the enveloping deepness of their color

 

In the depths of a wild and immense swamp

Amidst the hawing and cawing

Of embattled entities

One predator and his prey

Rested

The swamp protected the secret of its protégé

And with the force of irresistible passivity

Received the final traces of his crime

Into the fabric of its all absorbing life