The legacy of writing

May the days of our writing lives be a true elocution of the mind artistic

while our insular and and sometimes unfurnished creations in time become wedded to discoveries cosmopolitan

concluded only to some degree by our passing

as our lifework remains to be further milled

and appreciated in smartypants cafes, sawdust-on-the-floor dives, illuminated by flashlight under a myriad of covers and in the minds of solace seekers

having stepped gently or tread heavy as truth requires

weeks, months, years, decades defined by syllable and metaphor but mostly naked words.

Windows (more or less)

Blackened

smudged

crystalline

pristine

cracked

jagged

cob-webbed

transparent

stained (in the good way)

glassy glimpses

soul-peeping

expositions of humanity

behavioral truth-tellers

gatekeepers of light and dark

abbreviated life panes

Windex-demanding

and, sadly of course, evil progeny of Bill Gates

— inspired by a poetry writing class windows prompt

 

Wishful land captains

The world is at best fleetingly ship shape

burdened with orders to bow to the stern

we are lectured that any port in a storm will suffice

but perpetual turbulence keeps most of us in dry dock servitude

wishful land captains

afraid, our personal cargo dry but with a longing for more

something greater than shouting ahoy to the flotsam and jetsam of the coastline

so rather than take to water, we don a variety of lifejackets

be they a weapon, bad love, contraband, poverty of the mind, excess in all its capacities, portholes as peep holes, even three coins in the fountain

anything to provide distraction during our inevitable personal capsizings

the miracle is a few choose paddling towards freedom’s siren, even to death, rather than remain fretting, paralyzed and alone

— inspired by a poetry writing class nautical prompt