Wishing you were

I've taken an impromptu break from this blog.  Not because I got bored, but it was become routine.  And not the good kind.  It started to feel rote and overdone, especially with the poetry.  This isn't a start-up post, since I'll be doing that in another week or so.  But a friend posted a picture that was really inspiring.

Wishing You Were
I reached for you, but you weren't there
There was no hand to take in mine
No soft brush of warm skin

I reached for you, but you were gone
And I cannot look into your eyes
Or see your smile, hear your breathing
Hear you laugh at my jokes

I reached for you, but now I'm alone
And now the nights are long and cold
So I lie here
Wishing you were

Wishing you were...
Here again?
Mine again?
Even for just one night.

I reached for you, but you weren't there

Relaxing Monday

Rest me safe in your arms...
Keep me soft in your heart...
Place me still in your thoughts...
As jazz washes over us
In a haze of sultry sound
And we find ourselves lost
Lost, lost
Drifting
Hold me reverent in your voice...
Capture me secure in your love...
As we reflect on our desires
Ablaze within our souls
Searching to find ourselves again
Again, again
Drifting
Secure me tight in your soul...
As realization sears us
Leaving us silent
No longer cast away
Away, away
Drifting
Do this for me
And I promise you
A lifetime of joy
A life's worth of love
So rest me close to you...

NO WAY!

Ha ha!  I'm actually posting on time!  What is up with that?  I guess I'd better get this post out before I busy myself with something else. (Started at about 10:30)

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Rhea paused to gather her thoughts, Aoede sat down.  Her face was serious as she looked across the table at Rhea.  "Alright, Aoede.  So you claim to be a muse, a Greek demigod.  Now, the Greeks were notorious for their pantheon being very human in their actions, just more powerful.  I don't doubt you have flaws.  But why haven't you aged?"

Aoede blinked.  "I do not age, Rhea.  Yes, the Greek deities were very human in their actions and though processes.  However, aside from deities who were already aged, there was never a story of us aging.  Therefore, how is it possible I can age?  And if I did, I would die only to be  reborn again."

"Right.  Say for a moment that I believed that.  It would mean you've lived for several thousand years.  How do you spend your time?"

"Various ways.  I study the various civilizations that pop up, along with my two sisters.  I also serve in my role as a Muse, inspiring those who seek and are willing to accept my aid."

"Doesn't that get boring?" said Rhea, her voice flat.

"Honestly?  No.  You would be surprised at the common themes that run through cultures.  Societies often hold the same taboos and general rules.  As for inspiration, it's the main purpose for my existence.  I inspire and, with the help of my sister Mneme, I record music and poetry and books for posterity.  They are intertwined.  Music and writing is shaped by the society in which it is created.  In some cases, such things can in turn shape the society.  I have not tired of either in all the years I have existed."  Aoede lifted the corner of her mouth in a partial smile.

"Mmhmm.  I guess I can see that.  So tell me again why you chose Jane."

"Why I chose her?  There is no choosing here, Rhea.  At least not in the active sense you seem to mean.  She is a creative soul, a musician.  I was there helping her when she wrote her first song as a little girl.  I helped present her with things to pique her interest through school.  I watched when she stopped writing.  Believe it or not, there was nothing I could do about that.  As I've said, I can only help those who are willing to accept it.  At that point, she wasn't.  Even had I revealed myself to her then, if she didn't want to write, I couldn't force her."  Aoede sighed.  "Rhea, this isn't just about me.  We both know that.  So why don't you tell me what you really want."

Tuesday: the new Monday

I am ashamed to admit that my schedule is beginning to slide.  I will work harder to rectify this, but bear with me.


Work
The force that drives the engine of the world


Another one-line poem.  But don't be angry.  The shortest poem is something like 3 words.  Anyway, last week I provided a link to Scribophobia.  This week I give you an example of just what that project is about.


This is the prompt from week 1:


"Write a first-person story in which you use the first-person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times - but keep the I somehow important to the narrative you're constructing.  The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing.  You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant.  Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related.  It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first-person narration.  Show us quickly who is observing the scene.  600 words"


And this is my submission from week 1:


A chill wind blasted into the house as Frank opened the door, letting himself in.  My glasses fogged up in the cold air.  Frank stamped his feet to get the snow off his boots.  Turning around, he smiled widely and dropped his bag.  "You are the love of my life," he said warmly and any remaining chill instantly vanished.

As he sat down at the kitchen table, eyeing his dinner hungrily, a loud pounding came from the back door.  It led to the back yard, a wild place full of overgrown weeds.  Frank hadn't gotten around to taming it yet.  Well, normally is was covered in weeds, but since it was winter it was a swath of white.  The pounding came again, louder and more insistent.  "Go hide!" Frank ordered.  "Go hide right now!  Don't come out, not matter what you hear!"

Confused, I scrambled out of the kitchen, slipping and sliding in an effort to get away.  What the hell was happening?  What did Frank know?  Why the edict?  So many questions left unanswered.  So many questions that would remain unanswered until whatever it was settled down.  A door came up on the right and it provided as good an escape as any.

The darkness was startling, but not nearly as much as the voices coming from the kitchen. Loud voices, one of them Frank's, could easily be heard.  "You were supposed to get it already!" came a stranger's shrill shout.

"Just a few more months, Jackson.  This is as close as we can get right now."

"As close as you can get?!  Gregor would have just killed her and been done with it!"

"Gregor is a bully and a damned psychopath.  You can't rely on him for anything.  Especiallynot to get caught.  At least this way, nobody is going to notice except those involved.  And even then, who is going to tell or believe anything?  It's far too silly a story to be taken seriously.  Jackson, just calm down and give me a few more months."

Feet came toward the dark cubby.  Suddenly, knowing Frank and the Jackson person were coming closer, it felt like the temperature dropped 50 degrees.  Still, it was impossible to resist the urge to crack open the door and try to see what was happening.  Jackson was an old man, scarred and hard looking.  His gray eyes, set deep in his face, were unnerving.  His hands, big and pockmarked, flexed and he looked about ready to kill Frank.

"C'mon Jackson.  Another month is all you need to wait.  Then you'll have everything you want.  All the wealth, all the money, all the power.  And the respect of making the biggest heist of the century.  Nay, the millennium!  And you won't have to worry about poor ol' Frank anymore."

"Well... Did that door just open?  I could have sworn it was closed a moment ago."  He stepped toward the door, but Frank put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"What's more important?  A door?  Or your heist?"

"What's more important, Frank?  Reputation!  That's what's important.  Things must be done in a timely manner.  If you can't follow the itinerary, then you're obsolete.  Sorry, Frank, it was good while it lasted, but you don't have any more time."

Quicker than the eye could follow, Jackson pulled out a wicked looking knife and rammed it into Frank's gut.  Eyes wide open, Frank collapsed, his hands closing reflexively around the knife handle.  Jackson jammed his hands in his pockets, whistled as he sauntered from the house.  Frank looked at the door, apology in his eyes as they clouded over in death.