wordrummager

[wordrummager]

Oh to be home! I thought eventually I’d be stained glass. Something lofty and vibrant. Maybe an elegant divan. Velvet. Or I’d be a draftsman’s table, sturdy, useful. I thought I could be a fantastical wardrobe, colorful and quiet with secrets inside. The ultimate would be a roll-top desk with lots of drawers and places for things. But I think I’m an overstuffed chair, a bit shabby and past my prime. Comfortable if you hit at the right angle, inviting and soft but slightly warped. . (Please share what furniture you’d be in this tumblr funhouse. I think I shall make it a prompt… starting with @definegodliness @mylovaboxa @chucklingpecan - keep it going.)

#poetry #twc #lunch thoughts #prompt #photos not mine but from googling

[wordrummager]

Dogstar (“going on a dream”)

Beneath a dark and twinkly sky, she watched and waited as her breath tried keeping pace with the night wind. It was a quiet battle.

“Can we talk about just one star?” she asked the scholar who had set up a telescope and was busy adjusting settings by torchlight, ready to locate and identify constellations. He paused and looked at her as she stood quietly, looking up into night. “Just one star in such a big sky?” he asked, ready to regale her with dozens of names and hopefully as many stories. 

She only nodded. It was so quiet, still. Just a soft wind through the valley. He looked at his telescope and pile of books, then stepped away from them. He moved to stand by her, joining in looking at the expanse above. “What do you want to talk about?” hoping he’d know enough. 

She pointed and described the larger brighter star near Orion and asked if that was Sirius. He smiled. “Yes. Canis Majoris. Dogstar.  Brightest in our sky. Larger than our Sun.  ‘Powerful and fallen,’ according to Whitman.” 

She watched and felt wind and stars shifting around her, felt him close but not close enough, both their arms hanging by their sides, as empty as the night. “Why is it a ‘dog’ star?” 

He was more than ready to fill the space with facts. She seemed close but so far away. “It’s a main focus of the Canis Majorconstellation, the Dog,” he began, comfortable with the Known. “The rising of Sirius marked the beginning of summer for ancient Egyptians, and a hot and dry summer would be known as the ‘dog days of summer.’ Animals – and men - would pant and lose control, fading with the heat, while women would thrive and be aroused and, um, rise… Ahh... The word Sirius may also be taken from the Greek for scorching or Egyptian for the god Osiris, the God of the Moon.” 

He had been on a roll and glad to talk about something he knew, he understood. So much about his days were uncertain and difficult. He sometimes lost track with her but she didn’t seem to mind. He just wanted to melt into her, hold her. He wondered how he could maneuver to do just that as she turned to him and asked, “Why did men fade as women rose? What does that mean?”

He hesitated, trying to recall the mythology connecting the stars to the ancients. He told her how they linked dogs panting in summer to the bright star that would herald the season. He recalled to her old beliefs about changing seasons, like summer to autumn made men lose control because the gods were often battling, using men as pawns. Somewhere in his mini-lecture was a mention of soldiers battling both the gods and women feverish with unnatural passions of summer. But he might have been confusing his myths. He was barely listening to himself as he looked at her, the curve of her face, her hair in the starlight. He knew even in the mostly-dark night how her lips would be slightly pursed as she listened to him.

He remembered one more story about the star. He said, more softly and in less a lecture tone, “It was said Sirius fell in love with a goddess of harvest but he couldn’t have her. He burned hot every summer as harvesttime got close and he remembered his great love… he was the burning star... rising...” and he tapered off, forgetting what else he was going to say as she turned and looked at him. 

They gazed at each other in shadow for several heartbeats. 

She smiled and said, “I always wondered if the Dead were singing about a Dark Star or a Dog Star, but I like the phrasing with the seafaring lost sailor and the ghost wind and broken chains...” She was on the verge of babbling, they both knew. 

It was a sweet and light moment in the dark as they kissed and forgot about mythology. 

.

‘Compass card is spinning

Helm is swinging and fro

Oh, where is the dog star

Oh, where's the moon...

You're a lost sailor

You've been too long at sea’

- Lost Sailor, Grateful Dead

#prose #poetry #Grateful Dead #experiment #writing through #blue

[wordrummager]

collapsing star

#photography #woods #trees

[wordrummager]

brightest star tonight breath keeping pace with wind a vision beneath a dark twinkly sky arms so close but as empty as night he was surprised to lose himself she never knew where she was anyway they watched the unfolding story above imagining soldiers and battling gods powerful and fallen, like Whitman said and they knew they were going on a dream fevered as summer turned to harvest passion overtaking sense as stars spun a wild and quiet arc across the night

#poetry #night #experiment

[wordrummager]

A zeppelin’s path A week of days lasting longer than physics should allow. And where are we? Watching the river or mid-kiss someplace? I want to tell you the winds have been wild here and the sun continues despite my blues. That’s how it works, you’d say. I keep charting a path and my mental pencil snaps again and again, leaving a mess of lines. I don’t know the pattern yet.

#poetry #blue Monday

[wordrummager]

fire within

#photography #flowers #spring #blue Monday

[wordrummager]

Drawn in circles She was so small, sitting on the beach somewhat focused dragging her fingers through the sand not exactly oblivious to others nearby but focused on the pattern and the sound of the waves It was somehow years ago but also just now, a place in the moment where time is irrelevant and there is nothing but the pattern and the thrum of her heart Her body’s edges blurred sinking slightly into the sand but her fingers didn’t stop making circles as the waves and her heart kept up the flow of the pattern keeping the tide and time at bay

#poetry

[wordrummager]

Mourning (a maelstrom) At every turn a memory (today was a trial) maybe a laugh or a hug or something else ineffable, inevitable as simple as endless waves or a jazz song on the diner radio will all tomorrows be so long? the turn of phrase a surprising pain held close to the heart peeking at other worlds the sky waiting but we can’t look yet

#poetry #blue

[wordrummager]

To the Abyss Dropping a leaf a coin a wish. Answer echoes.

#poetry

[wordrummager]

Bird and Burl The tree had stopped blooming, its perfume long faded spring rain was just… grey. The water bird stood nearby at the edge of the pond and asked if the tree was sad. “If I had sackcloth, I would wear it,” and shivering slightly, it shrugged. The bird hopped to the tree brushing its wings along a magnificent burl. After awhile, the tree spoke long, sonorous tones fitting for old bark. “I miss the morning chatter of birds in my branches,” it sighed. “The way the afternoon sun smiled on my flowers, the feel of late-day breezes around my trunk.” The bird looked at the branches, mostly bare but not quite and asked if it could help somehow. “You already have,” said the tree as it bent slightly toward the bird, feeling wings wrapping around its trunk.

#poetry #woods #blue

[wordrummager]

Simple Song The warblers shared a song And they carried it with them Everywhere they went, Together or apart. It had no season or rhyme But it was timeless And meant to be heard Forever across rocks and hills. Their song was simple And devastatingly beautiful, Same as a storm but softer Touching anyone who would hear.

#poetry

[wordrummager]

Pas de deux He was a mortician. She was a seamstress. They wove stories of coming and going. All the unanswered, the unclaimed, the unknown became secondary. There was a lot of rain across a parched earth and they only saw relief of the end of a dance. But one dance leads on to another and another. The joy is in the twists, the dips always righted.

#poetry

[wordrummager]

somewhat blue

#photography #woods

[wordrummager]

What I wanted Boots. A pile of books. Time to imagine places I’ve never been. Choosing to let go ugly things like doubt and being forgotten. Setting out crockery just so. Neverending supply of blankets. Snapping pictures of a meadow. Birds flying across seasons. Feeling my bones settle without much pain or worry about the next movement. Tea any time of day. A softly flowing ritual. Watching rain over greening hills. Remembering grand art, dark skies, swans on the lake, doodling bendy fractals. Barely noticing a constant hum of music but feeling my body sway anyway. The one I love waiting for me. The deep breath when day is done.

#poetry #fractals #art #no. 46 #manipulated photography

[wordrummager]

books telling the story without even opening up

#photography #work life #library adjacent #books #poetry #prose #tnf

[wordrummager]

Throwback Mid to late 1970’s. An impression of orange. Tang. Carpet. Hotel signage. Gangly limbs. Huge skies. Flowers breaking through sidewalks. A will to follow no further than a meadow, especially at dusk. Deep blues. Lightning bugs. Air fresh with nightfall. It is current, that feeling of remove. Yesterday does not matter. Tomorrow is anyone’s guess. The used bookstore will always be there, cozy, smelling of fermented ideas. Whatever pants are in the drawer are ok. Chains are imaginary here. Free to fly. The sun is not so far away. But I am.

#poetry

[wordrummager]

Back to the Beginning It’s not too difficult to move the trick is to accept we’re all dancers but with different rhythms it doesn’t matter what song the weightiest part of the body can be the tongue holding onto words too dangerous to let go loving is natural and terrifying, yes so when does visualizing obsessively become manifesting or do we walk into the pattern like an apple becoming a firework or a mailbox becoming a shelter and even trees becoming dancers

#poetry