
Echoes of Starlight
When I saw the moon, I thought of you.
A compliment, to be sure, because this was no ordinary moon.
This was echoes of sunrise all bottled up in the darkness of night.
A moon so bright, it cast shadows of midday on the forest floor and sprinkled the perfume of romance across a late summer night.
I thought of you because the moon was like you: brighter than the stars, but only brave enough to shine every now and again, more beautiful than the sun because I could behold with my eyes all the splendor of its light. One cannot look upon the sun, but the moon? In its ever-changing cycle of wonderment? One could look at the moon for all eternity and never grow tired of seeing the marvelous little ways it had changed.
And when the moon hides?
That reminded me of you, too.
For when you are gone it is the blackest of nights and the echoes of starlight no longer reflect in the shadows, so I hide in my pillow until darkness passes and the morning light shines through my curtains. A comforting light is the sun, but none so precious as the moonlight. None so precious as you, ever-changing, ever the same– a tide in the marrow of my soul pulling me forever into your gentle gravity.
Yes, when I saw the moon, I thought of you.
the grey duplo cat behind the couch
i would have been about two at the time
one of those memories that sticks around
for no apparent reason to a grown mind
but something important to a small girl
it must have been the last summer
that my family still functioned as such
i was experiencing blisters for the first time
my heels had been rubbing the backs
of my red shoes and making small wounds
mum told me to stop picking them
i don't know where dad was
i travelled through the lounge room
across the whole world as far as i was concerned
to see my favourite toy on the ground
my little grey cat lying under the grey couch
she had dark stripes on her back
and big paws stuck together by plastic
no one else remembers her
i don't know if i told anyone where she was
that was the last time i saw her
it will always be the last time i saw her
Cisgender: denoting or relating to a person whose gender identity corresponds with the sex registered for them at birth; not transgender.
Philosophy: the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence, especially when considered as an academic discipline.
If, as a species, we ever come to the point where the phenomena of men identifying as men and women identifying as women becomes a philosophical study, as if reality were something subjective, we will have achieved a level of hubris beyond even biblical proportion.
We might just as well spend our time asking why an acute triangle identifies as an acute triangle and not an obtuse triangle. After all, it's just a label. The conversation would be a waste of every single moment spent. Change the acute label all you want, it will not change the fact that none of the angles are equal to, or more than, ninety degrees. Nothing would change the facts.
If, however, we were to discuss, academically, the phenomenon of non-cisgender, philosophically or psychologically, we might actually come away with some new areas of thought. Likewise, we could discuss the psychological integrity of a person who genuinely believes that an acute triangle can become obtuse simply by demanding that other people refer to the acute triangle as obtuse, but regardless of the academic conclusion, the conclusion will never be anything other than academic.
Lost
Put a stone in my shoe,
walk a mile or two
and let the cold air brace me,
take me far from nothing
to something else entirely.
And the sun shines in uncovered eyes
my breath takes on it's own life
burning muscles tear against the ground
somehow I'm running and chasing the clouds.
Wind up bleeding, breathing hard
and the feet are in pain, there's a dagger in my heart
and somehow I'm suffering all over again
found through the pain, and grounded again.
Clinging on to life, precious blood and movement
even in routine there can be sanctification
somehow all roads lead to home
and the fire in the sky guides my walk by night
as I hold on to that which rends me and
lends me a perspective that I hope to understand.
When you're living still there is no loss that can take you
until the time comes to go over that final hill
and be acquainted with the maker.
Oh, the faith it takes to live that way,
and the trust that comes with answers
undeniable guideposts and bring purpose to pain
so we only suffer shortly.
We will only suffer shortly.
in the window
i thought i saw
in the window
my lost love.
my doctor told me
it was grief.
i thought i saw
in the window
my old enemy.
my doctor told me
it was bitterness.
i thought i saw
in the window
a glimpse of the Grim.
my doctor told me
it was fear.
yet the last thing i saw
was the worst thing of all:
i thought i saw
in the window
myself.
my love, gone.
my enemy, gone.
even death,
the uncomfortable comfort,
gone.
i was alone.
and as i watched myself i saw
my skin begin to ripple,
my eyes began to bulge
my hair began to fall.
i was aging before my eyes
each second a decade of time.
with the last of my strength
i clawed for the door
took the bus into town
and knocked on death's door.
and my doctor told me
with a youthful smile,
that he appreciated
my donation.
my words
my words are a CABLE,
tying together PARAGRAPHS
regardless of the DISTANCE.
each letter is an EQUATION
built up of imaginary numbers.
my words are my
vulnerability,
opening up the beating heart
and hoping that no one
will BAN my existence,
or enact my PROSECUTION.
my words are
rolling hills
for children to TUMBLE down
and scrape their knees
on PATTED-down dirt.
PRACTICE for the DESPAIR
of the modern world.
my words are
far from DEMOCRATIC.
they are the kingdom ruled by me,
their monarch.
they rise up in honor of me,
and fall in honor of me,
each day a new form of SACRIFICE.
my words are here to PROVOKE,
to PREDICT a world beyond our own,
like an impending asteroid,
threatening to obliterate us
while we wallow in CONSTRAINT.
my words do not QUALIFY
on their own.
they must be SQUASHED
together with ideas to be
brought to life.
without it, they are INCAPABLE
of growth.
my words are my GENES,
stories of families and worlds,
experiences woven into fantasy,
each world a new ASSOCIATION
between me and my dreams.
my words are my own.
cradled in my hands,
i cultivate them to perfection:
not perfect, but instead
strengthened by
their flaws.
Hands Of Fire
Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.
Getting situated here at the SW HQ, but we wanted to throw down a video featuring one of the talents on this beautiful ocean of words. Author is tagged in the comments below. Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJfxRU7hqvc
And, as always.......
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Reel Life
Staring at an empty pitcher when you're a thirsty crow
Or expecting harvest when there are no seeds to sow
Imagining, eating a freshly baked loaf of bread
While not having money to even buy a piece of thread
Expecting an 'A' when you skipped the exam
Or expecting an investment return from a scam
Praying that money falls into your pouch
While you haven't even left the couch
Being a hero on screen or as they say, in reel life
But not having done any charity in real life
Do you see where I'm reaching for?
Vicarious life is not worth fighting for!
A New Found Frame
From out of the sheets of rain emerges
A new found frame of mind...
Where once a burgeoning hate had slipped
Beneath the loose folds of flesh behind the neck...
Now all the barnacles have been scrapped from the Bilge, and the
Sun can shine down
Through the windowpanes, and every reflective
Surface that hastens to be found is afforded this light...
Ah, is not this frame of mind so precious?...
It glitters like the diamond in the rough...
The blindness turns into a myriad of flashes,
And then the images come swimming in in droves...
Because awareness has now risen
Like the phlegm from buried depths
That is launched out of the lungs, and clears
A pathway for what's next...
The man in the raincoat and fedora is unbuttoning his coat, and
Glancing round...
He sees a way out in the clearing,
And he is thinking more profoundly...
From out of the sheets of rain emerges
A new found frame of mind...
3/22/23
Bunny Villaire
Edit#3
The Gentry
Gentrification...
It's a sick, sad situation...
Playing the game of real estate,
And cutting out the human aspect
With a scythe...
It's the reason I left Grand Rapids...
I needed a new lease on life,
And I was tired of witnessing
All of the authentic local businesses,
And real people get cut down
For an exchange in capital...
It's not practical...
Gentrification...
It's killed the artist life in so many configurations...
It's not regulated, because it's not considered a thing,
And it's hard to see with all of life's distractions...
But it's there...waiting to strike...
Like a saw scaled viper in the night!...
I saw it happening on Wealthy Street...
The resident African American and Mexican, white poor artists all
Were cleaved
For a new upper class aesthetic
That the real estate agents were going for...
What a fucking bore it all is when
Money is the deciding factor over life...
Gentrification...
It's a sick, sad situation...
Playing the game of real estate,
And cutting out the human aspect
With a scythe...
I saw it happen on Division street
Where the upscale pseudo New York lofts
Moved in that only the rich college kids
Could afford...
But they had a sliding fee scale!...
Let's give the motherfuckers an applause!
They favored the trickle down theory economics
And the human side was forever lost...
That shit could only be understood by the
Highly privileged and the conspirator from the inside
Who choose the right proportion of ethnicity
From a racially biased list...
The lifeblood and the grit was squeezed and many
Neighbors were given the heave ho!...
Not a pleasant way to manage life...
A Falsetto of a human gesture
Disguised as progress and renewal...
And slipped up the patients' arm
Like an I.V. for a dying breed
That will soon be sent to pasture...
The new blossoming artist is introduced
To life through this imploding factor...
It is disgusting, and I pray that something changes...
Where the arts are once again championed,
And we're all not stuck living in our nostalgic cushions...
While the real estate men take a gluttonous bite
Out of the world and won't look back...
I see New York's Big Apple in the trash...
The remaining real human beings will be toppled...
As the rampant Privateers ride on!...
3/22/23
Bunny Villaire
Edit#5