Seated at a banquet
Points made to fly
Forever on a blanket
Stars fill the sky
A star will sometimes stumble
A star will sometimes fall
And down the star will tumble
Till nothing is left at all
What do they do you may ask,
“What do they eat?”, you say
They never dream of doing a task
But dance the night away
Every person in north America is the right way up, but on the other continents either they have glue on there shoes, or every single person has been bitten by a radioactive spider...
What does the ocean say to the sand on the beach?
Nothing, it just waves.
The dust rolled past as I curved my back, trying to loosen my cramped muscles. Sweat spilled down my face, and into my eyes; blearing the long road ahead. An occasional tree would roll by and offer its ragged shade to rest under, but I could not stop for fear that I would get lost when my dad's red bike disappeared into the hazy outline of the desolate road, disappearing in the heat waves that lazely rose upward. I blinked.
Two hours of cycling for a normal person, even in the best of weather, will deplete one's strength. This was different though. This was Africa, where the sun beats down on even the strongest and drains the strength of those who attempt to challenge it. My Dad was also there cycling about ten metres in front of me. He would pass an occasional word of encouragement back whenever he got the chance.
Suddenly my bike hit a rock and I fell sprawling on the ground. I bellowed, as pain surged through me. I looked down. My leg had numerous gashes and blood mingled with sand, giving it a frightening appearance. I quickly looked up and gritted my teeth. Each thump off my heart released another wave of agony. My bike, carried by momentum rolled on for a split second, and then fell to the ground.
My dad circled around and came back to me. He looked concerned and yet his love for his firstborn shone through. He said something about how he wished it had happened to him, instead of me. He took a paper towel, and before I could stop him, poured his last remaining water onto it. A few drops fell onto the parched earth and quickly evaporated. I knew he must have been thirsty as I was; water was as precious as gold. Then he gave it to me and I began the tedious process of cleaning my injured leg.
As soon as I finished, my dad and I hopped on our bikes again. My leg still throbbed and every time I saw a rock I slowed down. I could hear our destination in the distance but it was almost half an hour until I finally saw a glimpse of the waterfall. We finally reached it. It was beautiful. Light sparkled on the water as it roared down the steep, water worn wall; crashing into the sharp rocks at the bottom. There was a small pool of water at the top of the waterfall, fueling the beast from the many mountain streams, trickling into the pool. My dad and I made our way to the top.
When we got to the top I was too tired to look up, and it was only after I caught my breath that I was able to raise my head. My breath stuck in my chest. Before me was a sight that took my breath away. It was like a painting; every detail distinct and clear, as if the scene had been frozen in crystal. Soft rays of sunlight seeped through the branches overhanging the water. The air was cool and brushed over me. Flat, moss topped rocks protruded from the still water. I reached down and slid my hand into the freezing water. It eased the pain from my raw hand. Delighted, I carefully started to wash my leg. Then my dad told me it was time to go and I reluctantly got to my feet. I cast a longing glance back as I picked up my bike and pedaled away.
was a tree
just a bump nothing big
was a dumpster
just a scratch not to worry
was a t-bone
as that car crossed the highway into the side
that I sat in as my head hit windshield
just some whiplash, a bump, and nose blood
was a fender kiss
just a dent nothing major
tipping the old van over to its side
as I crawled out the busted windshield
just some bumps and cuts, alright
got rear ended
spilled some coffee, nothing burned
burst a tire
running over a concrete berm
Who knows how bad the next will be
or if I'll walk away next time like I have before
which is why every time I leave the house
I kiss you goodbye
just in case
it really is
untitled six-word story
I miss remembering her name.
. . . . . . . . .
A Tale Of Death.
Death The Fear Of Many,
Thought as an evil by every,
Yet cannot be escaped by Any.
Death A Blessing Truly,
From the suffering of a meaningless life, there is to see.
#poetry #life #motivation #inspiration #quotes.
©Alipoetry, All Rights Reserved.
The bearable heaviness of obstinateness
I know that you won’t listen to me, but I will, however, give you some advice. I am your future self, as unrealistic as that could sound, and I was given the chance to talk to you, completely unaware how that was made possible, but still using the miraculous opportunity, without however feeding the illusion that I could change you or coax you to do something against your will or code of life. So I will try to go easy on you, I do not want to stir your reluctance, you hate to be given advice in the same way that I still do and we cannot do anything about it, we are temperamental, wilful, boisterous at times, people do not really like us, even if they may admire us, so you have to learn how to live mostly alone and cope with what you represent and the reality, which cannot be changed.
What else should I suggest? Nothing and simultaneously a bunch of things, which you will ignore and I cannot blame you. But what I have learned for sure is that you can lead a much more serene existence if you let your tumultuous emotions free. At first, it might feel difficult, unreasonable, because you have to let your shields down, and it is in a certain way, but, as you commit yourself to it through discipline and self-observation, you will acquire inner peace and will be tremendously receptive to the beauties around. And women will find you less abrasive and will appreciate your charm.
Goodbye. And do not take yourself too seriously! Believe me, or otherwise, you’ll have to understand it the hard way, which is a painstaking one. So would you like to pay attention to me? Just once? No? Ok, nevermind.
To Dorothy Parker and The Drink
I guarantee when most us think of famous writers and booze, we immediately call to mind the likes of Hemingway, Faulkner and Bukowski. Hemingway staring out at the sea, slamming a glass of whiskey on his desk. There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. Faulkner sipping mint juleps from his favorite metal cup, swishing it in his mouth through one cerebral musing after the next. I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it. Bukowski sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, chain smoking and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. I do all my writing when I’m drunk. All the time I type I’m drunk.
It's a rarity that I speak to a male writer who doesn't also list one of these men as an inspiration. Feel free to swap out Philip Roth or Henry Miller and so on and so forth, as the cup overfloweth when it comes to mysoginist authors who have some notable experience with or kinship to liquor of all kinds. Now, this is not to say that you cannot learn valuable lessons about both writing and life from these men while at the same time recognizing that some of their work - whether only in part or in its entirety - is chauvinist drivel. If through time travel or otherwise I was given the opportunity to speak to one of them, I would first happily pick his brain about process and then just as he is expecting a compliment to conclude our spirited discussion, I'd lay a quick punch into his face and run, laughing all the way home.
As for their own glamorizing of and/or fascination with alcohol, this must be a similarly nuanced conversation. People often think that alchohol fuels creativity by relaxing the mind so it may open wider, or that it heightens emotion, thus allowing for a bloodletting on the page that Hemingway could be proud of. But I wager that it is less so the alcohol and more so the tragedy or mental illness or insecurity or anger (and the list goes on) that causes them to reach for it that truly fuels these writers, and what makes their work sing. Can you be a writer without pain? Without being a little mad in some way? Surely. But will that writing speak viscerally to the reader? Of that I'm not so certain.
As I myself drink and read, I have a particularly visceral reaction - one of rage - that becomes quite palpable when revisiting excerpts from the aforementioned writers famous works. Some write of alter-ego-type characters commiting an array of heinous acts - the most grotesque of which is often to rape women quite casually, without regard to age or mental capacity. While simply Googling any of their names in conjunction with various derogatory terms for women and/or their body parts produces a breathtaking plethora of results. You can forgive a young cunt anything. A young cunt doesn't have to have brains. They're better without brains. But an old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between their legs.
At the same time, as I read them, I'm also driven to raucous laughter. They recount with incredulousness women who don't succumb to their charms, while quietly footnoting that they happened to be covered in their own vomit at the time of the encounter. The absurdity of these shrinking men shouting their machismo on every page as if somehow writing it down will make it true sends me into fits of cackling like the witch I am as I sit at my desk drinking tea from a black mug donning the words"Male Tears".
I hope the next time you think about alcohol and writers, you think of someone new. Someone arguably more worthy of your attention. Tonight, I've decided to drink to Dorothy Parker, who unlike her male compatriots, didn't self-mythologize in her writing while under the influence. I'm not a writer with a drinking problem, I'm a drinker with a writing problem. Instead, she makes the reader laugh with her lethal wit and biting insight into herself and others. Her work explored all the things that mattered - race, violence and inequality - giving you a window into the social activist she was off the page. When she died, having no one, she left her entire estate to Martin Luther King, Jr. and suggested that her epitaph read, Excuse my dust.
I Forgive You
When I opened up my sock drawer, I considered if I was hallucinating,
“For crying out loud, what happened to all my socks?” The drawer was empty except for one pair of little girls ruffled anklet socks, with an unforgettable red ribbon woven through the center of the ruffle.
They were unmistakably an exact replica of my favorite sox when I was like six years old and I wore them and wore them until the fabric became so worn and unraveled that I cried when my mother said, “Give them to me before they fall off your feet!”
“No I won’t!” I cried standing my ground like a monumental statue. Having to forcibly remove them off my feet looked as if it pained my mother as much as it pained me. Nevertheless, off they went into the trash despite my rigid protest. I remember how angry I felt, how out of control of my own destiny, wishing that my mother would leave me alone and let me make my own decisions.
“I hate you!” I screamed out from the next room with all my might. “I wish I had a different mother! Give me back my socks!”
But that was thirty years ago, and although in a nostalgic way I appreciated seeing my old favorite socks brand spanking new come back to life under my control, I assumed they would not fit, serving no purpose whatsoever other than leaving me in a sockless dilemma. With no immediate alternative to adorn my feet, I decided to give them a go, slipping them on hoping they would cover more than my big toes.
Miraculously, they not only fit, as soon as I slipped them on, I became that 6 year old again, but in body only. My attention quickly turned to all the disadvantages my current predicament was about to impose and I instinctively thought about calling my mother for advice. Funny, when I was six, I had no idea how much I needed her guidance. Now that I was myself a Mom, I understood, but unfortunately it had been five years since we laid my mother to rest, so I knew I was on my own.
Sitting down on the floor with socks that fit and my grown up clothing swimming around my tiny body, I could not help but think about what my mother said to me right after I totally eviscerated her the last time I had worn my favorite socks.
“I understand how you feel, because I too was once a little girl that thought I knew better than my mother. It is my job to look out for you and sometimes you will strongly disagree with me and sometimes you will even feel like you hate me, but I assure you those feelings will pass and I forgive you, because no matter what you say, no matter what you do, I will always love you anyway.”
It had always bothered me that I never said I was sorry for being so mean to my mother on that day, still believing that she had no right to take away my favorite socks.
It was then that the closet door opened, ever so slowly, and before I saw her figure, I knew exactly who I was about to see. Stepping out of the closet it was my mother; not as I last remembered her, but as she was on that day way back when;
“Look. I brought you your favorite socks. Remember?”
“Thank you mom. Yes I remember. But I really don’t need them anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I have all I need right in front of me and I’m glad you are here because there is something I need to say.”
“I’m sorry for the way I treated you when you took my socks away from me. I loved you then, I love you now, I’ve always loved you.”
“Oh honey. I know you do. I’ve always known…..did you really think I came here to bring you back your socks?”