We all have something that we want to make
for no other reason than we want it to exist.
~Wislon Miner, When We Build
I expose a tender, still-hurting place.
He responds: Maybe that’s the lesson you need to learn before you’re allowed to go on to the next life.
Cold. Careless. Cruel. Calculated?
(an accidental alliteration)
What to do but keep walking.
Sad feet stain the forest road.
A muddy pond sinks me lower. Sympathetic trees attempt a rescue.
Signs wave at me.
He punctures the silence with a single word, punctuated by his point: Look. My eyes follow his finger skyward.
A hot pink balloon is, trapped in the paws of a grizzly pine.
To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product – the finished artwork. To you, and you alone, what matters is the process: the experience of shaping the work.1
A struggle with my daily drabble. Three discordant points occupy my mind, defying order; a disparate triangle.
Kendrick Castillo. Student (their child!) dies defending his Colorado classmates during (another!) school shooting. We the People christen him a hero.
Kurt Cobain, beautiful, (self-deceased) idealist. All apologies.
Brown Bird in my garden, perched atop a sunburned finial. Teacup size, befitting call of teakettle, teakettle, teakettle. Translation: In the sun I feel as one.2
I called the rain and it came. Night alone was insufficient.
Come on baby
To witness and permit my dis/quiet. My cheerless lullaby.
La, la, la, la, la
I sigh my side of the story. The dis/respect and dis/honesty. A sincere betrayal. My ridiculous indulgences. On repeat.
Baby take my hand
Loved falsely. Without strength and without fruit.
Baby I’m your man
Evicted moon and runaway stars. I laugh at the poets’ dependence on the subcelestial. Ha! I am the fool with avian heart. Writing per requirement. (By far my weakest drabble!) A dead end bitterness.
Don’t fear the reaper