Unexpected Company

Luminous eyes looked down on him.

He had felt them on his back,

Accompanied by the sound of

An erratic scratching back and forth.

 

He stepped away from the fire,

So he could see better in the dark.

“Whatever it was, it was big.

It looked like a wolf.”

 

“Maybe hungry. Not wise to

Feed wild animals, though.

Perhaps it’s time to call it a night,

Go to bed and hope it goes away.”

 

With shaking hands, he picked up

The fire bucket and dashed out the flames.

Quickly he made his way

Into the tent.  “Bad omen.”

 

“Tomorrow morning,

I’m outta here.

No pleasure here knowing

Some big wolf is watching.”

 

“I’ll be sleeping lightly tonight.”

 

 

(3WW CCXLIII

Luminous, erratic, omen)

 

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Seasons

Life is full of change.

Some people are really good

At hiding changes in their life,

 

At least for a while,

Until life wears them down.

Some people you can tell

 

Right away that something

Has changed in their life,

But you still have to wait

 

To see how everything pans out.

Most of us don’t handle change

Very well.  Even good change.

 

As they say all around,

“We are creatures of habit.”

But life has a way,

 

Even for those who are lucky,

Of bending your will.

Call it God, call it fate,

 

Or just luck.  Sooner

Or later, there is going

To be a change.

 

When things are going well,

We fear it.

When life is hitting us hard,

 

We hope and pray for it.

And either way,

Most of us,

 

Do a funny thing—

We try to control it!

But those of us

 

Who have tried with

Everything we’ve got

And lost—

 

We know that life

Is like the weather.

There are seasons.

 

And within those

Seasons of life,

Anything can happen.

 

One thing is for sure,

And that’s nothing.

You just take

 

What life gives you,

And don’t worry

About the rest.

 

 

(Writer’s Island

Week #19 prompt: Season)

 

Ambition

I used to be a very ambitious person.

I used to dream of world peace.

I used to think I would have a great job,

Like a world leader, and then, maybe

 

A college professor in Humanities.

I used to be the kind of person

That might have believed in the saying,

“So little done.  So much to do.”

 

Well, I never was good in groups,

So I wouldn’t do well in the United Nations.

I can’t read very fast, so

Graduate school was not for me.

 

Even after my mental illness hit me,

My ego fought long and hard for something

BIG, something to wrap my dreams around.

Finally I settled.

 

I got a real job, working to pay the bills.

That’s when everyday life hit me square in the face.

That’s when I learned that there are two kinds of people:

Those who make decisions, and those who carry them out.

 

And I found myself to be the latter.

No glory in being a producer,

No recognition in making a buck.

At least for most of us.

 

I guess that’s part of growing up.

You realize you’re not as strong

As you thought you were.

You realize that there is always

 

Someone else who knows more than you.

And, the hardest, you come to see

That there is never enough money.

And dreamers don’t get paid for dreaming.

 

 

(Carry on Tuesday #107, prompt:

The last words spoken by Cecil Rhodes

before his death in 1902)

Changes

I used to be concerned with

How much I did,

Or how much I didn’t do,

 

Evaluating whether or not

I was up to snuff

With my own priorities,

 

And of course,

Whether or not

I kept my wife happy.

 

Lately, things have

Taken a different turn.

Since my body

 

Has seen fit

To rebel against me,

And my doctor

 

Doesn’t seem able

To reign things in,

My priorities have

 

Changed quite a bit.

In fact, the term

“priorities” doesn’t

 

Seem to fit anymore,

Not for how most

People think about it.

 

My biggest priority

Is my medicine.

That’s not a new one,

 

At least on the surface,

Since I’ve had bipolar

For over 15 years,

 

And been taking meds

For just as long.

But now it makes

 

An immediate,

Drastic difference.

And the long-term risk

 

Without it,

Is terrifying.

It’s like food

 

And water.

And the third need,

Common to all of us,

 

But more drastic for me,

Is sleep.  More specifically,

I have to keep my sleep

 

In order.  I have to take

A strong round of meds

Throughout the day,

 

And then really

Pulverize my mind

With meds

 

At the end of the day,

Just so I can sleep.

And I have to start

 

A methodic relaxation,

Early, despite being

A night person.

 

Otherwise,

I will not be getting up

For work in the a.m.

 

Obviously,

Things have changed

A little bit.

 

(Poetic Asides

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 133

“Priorities”)

Awaiting the Night

I wonder, as I sit here,
Humoring this fool,
Who keeps himself entertained,
With his scientific pursuits,

Should I be participating?
That musician is just as
Guilty as I am,
Strumming away as if

Nothing wrong is happening.
It’s obvious!
This fair maid is being kept
Hostage for his amusement!

We are being paid,
But she has no choice
In the matter.
And look at her!

She’s terrified!
He serves her with meat
As if a guest,
While she counts the

Seconds until he gets
Tired of his stupidity,
Sends us home,
And escorts her to

His chambers,
Where, just as she fears,
He will ravish her
With all his brutish strength.

We should stop it!
We should call the
City guards to lock him up,
And keep this sweet,

Innocent virgin
From such a sinister,
Grisly attack.
There are some things

That just should not
Be done in this world,
And having money,
Should not make it right!

 

(Magpie Tales: Mag 67 (visual)

Nicolas-Tournier—Banquet-Scene-with-a-Lute-Player)

Nobody Wants to Be an Angel

Dungeons keep
The unwanted.
Towers keep
The necessary
But still unwanted.

In the village
Lives the free man,
Who pays taxes
To the king,

So the villager
Is wanted
For his work,
And for his money.

But what of the great
Flock of angels
Waiting in the heavens?
Busy as ever,

But unknown,
Unappreciated,
Unwanted.

Being an angel
Is a thankless job.
Everyone pays homage
But nobody bears duty.

Being an angel
Is hard work.
You have to save
Stupid people.

You have to keep
Watch over evil men
Who plague the innocent
With their corruption.

And all kinds of things.
But what reward do
Angels get?
They get to be in

God’s presence.
Given, it is a privilege.
But how far does it go?
Eventually,

Even that gets old.
In the end,
Nobody wants to be
An angel.

(Sunday Scribblings
#269 – flock)

Straight Out of the Sea

Straight Out of the Sea

(Straight out of the sea,
Surfing on fresh, white foam,
An impossible cello,
Glowing reddish brown, with
A butterfly-shaped bow,
Begins to play a concerto
In the presence of a female
Who has sprouted butterfly
Wings from her back,
And antennae from her head.)

As the cello begins his song,
The young woman yearns
For a faraway land,
A land where cellos playing
By themselves,
And young women with wings
And antennae are simplicity.

In this lost land,
She was once a princess,
And held before her
A king’s palace and a
Father’s love.

But this princess gave up
All that she held dear,
For the love of one man,
A hard, ambitious sailor,
Who dreamed that one day,
He would be captain
Of the royal fleet!

So she boarded his ship
One night, under cover
Of darkness and stealth,
Outwitting her father’s guards,
And the security around
Her lover’s craft.

The journey was difficult,
Especially for a princess.
She held tight, though.
She hid among the cargo,

Hoping that upon reaching
The final destination,
They would be free
For just a while,
Out of the sight
Of her father’s eyes.

But there was an
Accident before they
Reached their destination.
One of the crew
Was searching for something,
Who knows what,
And found her crouching,
Deep between the boxes.
Immediately fear erupted
In that man’s heart,

Even though he was innocent.
Soon the crew knew of her,
And the game was up.
Rather than risk the death

Of her lover, she swiftly
Allowed the crew to lead
Her to the nearest island
Where they could dump

Her with her reddish brown cello
That played itself with a butterfly
Topped bow. She was never
Recognized or even questioned.

Most ordinary men and women
Of the kingdom had no knowledge
Of the royal family, so there was
No way sailors would know her.

So she stood on the shore
And listened to her cello play,
As the fresh sea foam drifted
In and out on the beach.

(Writer’s Island
Week #22 prompt: (visual))