poetry

Did you hear that?

Sheep mowing the fields.

Frogs mucking out horses stalls.

Old dog day at the Vets.

Rabbits harvesting new asparagus sprouts.

Hummingbirds selling flowers on the roadside.

Horse manure. Fresh mowed grass. Dying cedar. Thirsty ferns

Ash from the wood stove.

A pile of Wool blankets.

Boots and heavy coats.

Finches and twigs.

New born Twin Fawns.

Open windows and doors. laughter. Socks and light frocks. Smiles.

Ducks tending gardens.

Ravens cleaning house.

Daffodils passing the torch.

Sleeping Fungi.

Sodden moss.

Abandoned wood piles. Burbling water. Leaves unfurling. Wispy clouds.

 

I was not made to devour my fellow man.

I was not put upon this earth to devour my fellow man. It is not in my nature to bend these men to my will.

I am not here to throw them to the ground. These men were not placed here for me to pay for my sins.

We cannot be among others in this state. We do not do these things for our own enjoyment.

All that I can see, in nature, in the trees, I am welcomed into the fold that is the cold ground and the sopping moss.

One only has to look into their favorite mirror to see what is familiar, what is known and what defines oneself.

What are our choices when our mirror reflects an altered vision of ourselves? When we build ourselves, we use our body, our mind, our chemistry, and our biology.

Who do we become when we’ve had our chemistry, our biology, or our specter altered?

What is our recourse when our bodies betray us?

I did invite death in for tea, she refused me. She surveyed my garden but would not enter my parlour.

Death is not a sadist, she is an empath and we love her in her shrouds of deep longing.

We do not deserve her love, we will pine and yearn, but we are not for her.

She will live in my garden, courting mother nature.

These yearnings for solitude will empower the soul. These longings will drive you far.

What your soul has seen, what it is seeing at this moment, your moment, would only serve to drive men mad.

I am a man, I need to be a man. Do we continue to connect the then with the now? When we lose touch with nature what is it we are striving for, what is pushing us forward?

I see us, in nature, and I see us in nature. We reflect our nature back at ourselves, and we enjoy it to be there, to comfort us.

We cannot walk among the trees, breathe of them, see them, and not be part of them. We have lost when they are no longer our friends.

These men, and I am a man, these men, who will not commune with nature, have lost.

I do not wish for the light, I wish for darkness. I am allowed darkness, I am allowed to sleep, allowed to wake, allowed to live for an eternity.

I am no longer my worst enemy, as it is, that is who I am now. We are not looking for that light.

I will leave myself here, where I am, where others would like to lead. We have lost our reference point, I would prefer not one man follows where I may be set to lead.

These things may last, and they will last for many.

I would not know how to die. I know I have a place, in the forest, a place I can see from my chair.

They are not dead out there, they are not waiting for me.

I continue and I will continue on.

Writer’s block

Good day ladies and gentlemen, welcome to a very special edition of today’s blog entry.

Warning

There may be some disturbing scenes in here. No animals were harmed during the writing of this tome.

Today, at my non-writerly job at the salt mines, it was while I was getting a tremendous flogging from one of my superiors when I came up with a fantastic idea for today’s blog. I thought about that shiny new idea right up to the public shaming which was when I came up with a couple other great ideas to add. As the day wore on and the humiliation and degradation from the gallery of hypocrites and cowards progressed, and continued much longer than normal, I ruminated on these ideas as though they would be a substitute for the random cancelling of all eating for the day.

Walking home along the trail of Rage and Flatulence I had to stop to allow people, who walk much slower than I, to proceed ahead of me. My one hour walk home will now take two hours. The man behind me wants to walk much quicker than the woman in front of me and now I have odd pains in my neck and my bum. The longer trip gives me more time to rethink my blog entry idea for today. Soon I am close to home and I am able to get out of the fray. They all look upon me with envy as I enter my hovel, I’m the one with the open pit toilet inside my hovel, that’s right my open pit toilet is inside.

Once inside my hovel I am so cold and hungry. I light the cat on fire and stuff it into a small tin box. That starts to warm my hovel and soon enough I can put some potatoes into the box. I go out to get another cat. I can see some people are still walking home while I am at home already, using my toilet, burning the cats and making potatoes. I throw rocks at them, that’s what happens when you’re late. I finish throwing rocks, I go back inside to commence with the excessive drinking and swearing.

I take out my quill, scrolls and ink. I sit down to more alcohol and begin to write, but instead of writing I sit and stare out the window. I look around my hovel and make plans for cleaning and decorating, I stare out the window some more. My hourglass is running and will empty soon; I will need to go to bed so I can rest up for tomorrows rancid shift at the salt mines. I look at the blank paper and I freeze, I cannot move or think. I forgot about all my ideas that I had been thinking of at the salt mines.

I cry: writer’s block! That’s right folks, looks as though we have ourselves a good old case of writer’s block here at The Rusty Prose.

I told myself to write it out anyway. So I did, and I could not get through a single sentence

I didn’t forget, I just couldn’t formulate one idea I had into a cohesive sentence. I convinced myself to write through it but nothing was working, I guess I wasn’t feeling it, or wasn’t ready to tell that particular story, either way, it was was a struggle. I tried, one sentence after another came out like mud, they were horrible and hideous, I had to turn away.

Well, this was my way of bashing my way through a writer’s block. It may not be pretty but it’s better than the dribble I was putting out, or the blank page I stared at for what seemed like an eternity. I had to admit defeat and tell myself that it wasn’t working, so then I changed my plans all together and tried something different. Sorry if this too made your eyes bleed but this is one of the reasons I started a blog, to ramp up my creative energy.

If it happens again I will turn it into an opportunity to practice my poetry.

Philosophically speaking

Cancer poetry

The Rusty Prose is in dire need of some renovations, some spring cleaning and I need to plow the back forty, however, we need to make time for writing and reading. There’s always something to be done around here but Real Life (TM) calls for me and, as much as I love it here, I need to pay the bills. I found this while doing some Spring cleaning.

This is a poem I wrote sometime after my ordeal was coming to an end. I don’t know when I wrote this originally, but this version has been edited. I read this at a poetry reading a few years ago and got a nice reception, odd though, there was only one Cancer peep in the house that night and she loved it. The non-Cancer peeps (do we call them civilians?) were a little stunned but appreciative. Civilian or not, they were all poets & writers and I was well received.

This could use a little more work, but I wanted to print out this version first, maybe I’ll keep it this way. I hope you like it. Do you write poetry?

 

Philosophically speaking

Cancer, as a philosophy,
asks the question; what if.
With a period in place of a question mark.

Surgery, as a philosophy,
Asks the question; what was
Without any punctuation mark
What so ever.

Chemotherapy, as a philosophy,
Asks the question;
WTF!!! in bold capital letters.
With three, yes three exclamation marks.

Cancer is a declarative sentence.
Surgery is a dangling participle.
Chemotherapy is seen as a cure for the mundane.

Cancer does not know,
Surgery does not care,
Chemotherapy does not
Think about it.

Don’t know, don’t care,
Don’t think about it.

Cancer, is my frothing and bloodied war horse.
Surgery, is my banner, my bunting, and my crest.
Chemotherapy, is the weight of my armour as I am flung face first down into the muck.

Death Was Not Pleased

I just found a poem that I wrote six months after my final Chemo treatment. I was still in quite the state, mentally shaken up and physically exhausted. I am proud to say I wrote this with my non-dominant hand. I’ve cleaned it up a bit but this is how I found it, I’ll leave it like this for now, maybe later I’ll do another rewrite but I kind of like it this way, raw.

Death Was Not Pleased

When Saturn devoured his child,
He was unapologetic.
It was out of self preservation.
Death was not pleased.
Death did not make a deal,
With Saturn.
Death left Saturn covered in corruption.

Death was not pleased;
Saturn had devoured his
Own children, each for
Self preservation.
Death witnessed Saturn
Covered in corruption
and did not make time for him.
Death allowed Saturn
To reap what he had sown;
and so now children
Dance on Saturnalia.