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I took some time to read some writings on previous pages, and hucks artwork... all fabulous. It's been awhile since I shared anything..the business has become so busy that my creative side gets ignored in regards to writing... but last night I had the itch, so here goes:
There once was a beautiful young maiden,
whose heart was on a string -
she patiently awaited
for what True Love would bring...
but what Fate had cruelly dealt her
would cause her heart to sting~
for two men came a'courtin,
a Pauper and a King.
The Pauper wrote her love songs,
for he had no money for a ring..
his songs were sweet and so was his voice~
she loved to hear him sing.
The King had many riches
and bought her a diamond ring..
he had so many riches
he could buy her anything.
She knew her feelings for the Pauper
were not a passing fling,
with him she felt a safety,
like her heart was in a sling.
And although the King had riches,
so she'd never want for a thing,
he never wrote her love songs,
and he surely couldn't sing!
So the Maiden chose the Pauper
over the wealthy King..
she chose to live on love songs
and returned that diamond ring.
So the moral of this story....
if you haven't learned a thing....
is to follow your heart~
and whatever makes it sing! ♥
Pocono......that is so very sweet.....like an old English ballad where the lady leaves her castle to lie with her gypsy lover.....
unfortunately in those ballads the lord usually catches up with them at their campfire and confronts the love-matched couple and it ends in tragedy and mayhem when she says something like: "its very well I like your hall well your satin sheets but better is my little Mattie Groves, who lies in my arms asleep."
Lone star reflections:
The texture of the Texas landscape is somehow inescapably lovely yet vastly and incoherently desolate. It's flatter than a silver dollar hotcake, as if long ago God gave this land a wink and a promise but eventually decided against returning to complete the final touches.
Motel neon glows and sputters at dusk but does not beckon, greasy truckstops reek of pungent diesel, roadside diners assault the nostrils with the odor of burned coffee, mixed with the uncomfortable scent of yesterday's waffles and cinnamon past its prime.
In the desert, everything lingers alone in a seemingly random emptiness. Time seems not to move in any direction.
And sometimes, if you listen carefully enough, and wait long enough, the chaparral of sage and mesquite can be heard trilling a night song of solitude that has a way of drifting like wipsy fog vapors, heading straight to the center of your soul.
Dry thunder makes a habit of hollering in the distance and bright lightning always seems ready to do a $5 flash dance at the drop of any old Stetson.
Dark oil derricks, silhouetted against a dusky skyline, always remind me of mechanical dinosaurs stuck in tar pits.
Still, my mind wanders.
Corpus Christi is Latin meaning the Body of Christ. It's celebration honors the Eucharist. I ponder this for a while, longer that I had intended, under the shimmering starlight.
I consider visiting Selena's gravesite in the morning at Seaside Memorial but decide against it since I don't like the idea of leaving flowers that have no choice but to die in my absence. Perhaps another time, if it should ever come.
Then my reverie is intruded upon by the harsh snort of an eighteen wheeler's air brakes as it pulls off the highway for a rest stop.
All of a sudden. a lone star makes its presence known... and as I watch it... it follows me all the way home.
NilsssonWhat a treat to find your prose poem about Texas.....I really enjoy that style of writing and use of words and images to paint.....I try my own hand at it from time to time....I have some examples on my C-D blog....along with lots of other stuff. You are writing about a part of the country that I dont know well....I drove across texas on my way from California to Maine....so I spent what seemed forever but was really only 3 days in Texas. What a diverse state! I havent seen you on line before.....it is nice to meet you and I really enjoyed reading your piece.
Nice to meet a kindred soul, Elston.
I spend most of my time on the Other topics forum but venture here from time to time where the inspiring and creative spirits convene.
Nice to meet a kindred soul, Elston.
I spend most of my time on the Other topics forum but venture here from time to time where the inspiring and creative spirits convene.
I spend most of my time in a thread I started in Community Chat....called "Our Open House"....and I enjoy the "Screaming Headlines" game. I venture into my state forum from time to time....but then I get burned over there and pull back....I have gone to your blog and read some of your entries.....very enjoyable.
I've always thought of rain as being the result of angels shedding their tears at our folly as the drama of humanity unfolds before their eyes.
I care about rain. I love everything about it.
I adore the changing of darkness and light. I treasure every splash kicked up by a car tire, every gurgle running along a tin gutter, every echo bouncing off an alley wall.
I'm enthralled by its every gleam on slick pavement, by every shimmering neon reflection flashing from every all night diner that ever was and ever will be.
I marval at highways smothered in the essence of its dewey mystery.
My parade yearns to welcome its damp demeanor.
If it would pour I would ask for more.
Give me a patter and I would demand a splatter.
I admit that I don't have the sense or the inclination to come out of its soaking charm.
Storm drains sing a special lullabye to my alert ears.
Rain has a mesmerizing mystical mistiness that calls to me, tempting me to taste its freedom, cajoling me to join it in its realm and I can never say no to its haunting beckoning.
It always consoles me. Its ambiance engulfs me like the warmth of a secret lover, always dreamy and drifty. Never letting go. It's tappng melody enchants my being more than it will ever come to know.
I'm softly drenched as I dwell in its sweet, wet innocense. Rain has no idea where I came from and no idea where I'm going, but for some reason it never stops clinging to my soul, unrelenting in its moist quest.
I hear the rain whisper about places that I wish to visit again and again and again.
Yet I fear an unflinching isolation as a departing illusion washes over me. A still water reckoning has arrived... yet some special passions can never wither.
I watch carefully and wait with no expectations for its rainbow to find me.
The rain must fall.
The rainbow must flaunt.
The rain melts into my heart and glistens like there will be no tomorrow and never was a yesterday.
Rain brings a soggy reality to the landscape of destiny and washes it clean.
I remember times growing up when rain was my only friend in a house full of family and I would savor its sounds and fragrances for untold hours, just listening patiently to what it was trying to say. I was never disappointed in what it told me in those quiet times. Then I discovered I was listening not to patters of ponding rain at all but to the voice of stillness enveloping me in an other world that was hiding there all along.
Rain has promised to never forget me. Ever.
I believe it and always will.
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