Leaves in the Street

Fallen leaves
Pressed by sun and wind
Into dancing confetti
Marching

In a solitary parade


Composed: On my bed.

Written: In a notebook with green art pen.

Soundtrack: Crickets, footsteps, and wind in the tree outside my window.

Freewrite

       For anyone who may end up reading my blog at some unknown time in the future, I thought I should define exactly what a freewrite is. Mostly, it's just what it sounds like. Choosing a topic, such as a color, a memory, or an emotion, you try to let the words flow. I usually spend ten to fifteen minutes on a freewrite, and it is best to write quickly, letting the creative, right side of your brain take control. With this part of your brain in charge, the logical left side of the brain, which tends to waste time worrying about things like proper spelling and punctuation, is able to disengage. The following is a recent, somewhat doctored freewrite, centered around despair. It's a little bit darker than expected, but I appretiate the overall effect.

       A form, dwelling in the burnt silence of splintered dreams, once constructed so carefully from the fragile glass of hope. Torn now. Destroyed. Crushed beneath uncaring feet. Turned to razor shards that slice into the mind. Cutting. Erasing the idealism that came before. Lancing, bitter, pain. Crystal knives slick with red despair cast across the floor, each an agonizing mirror to the soul, now as broken as the glass. A claw-like hand, grasping futilely in the silent remains. A palm full of glittering dust. Hands clench, knuckles whiten, scarlet flows from shining wounds. But now the pain is gone, and the glass returns to bloody sand.

Composed:On the floor of my bedroom.

Written:In black pen in my journal.

Soundtrack:Birdsong, wind in the tree outside my window, and my fan.

Struggle

A broken pencil
Griped too tightly
In a fragile hand
Why so hard
In these stolen moments
With my notebook
To make the words
Flow out of my head
And through my hands?







Composed: Leaning against my mattress on my bedroom floor.
Written: With blue pen in my journal.
Soundtrack: The air conditioner.

Above

Carpet on skin

Limbs spread

Face to the ceiling

A star burst of light

Spinning

My ceiling fan

And above it...

The attic

Sloped wall

Yellow

And above it...

Enclosed

Dark space

Roof

And above it...

Sky

Composed: On my bedroom floor.

Written: In blue pen on the back of my hand.

Soundtrack: Window fan, and cicadas.