thoughts – Page 10 – three good words

March 28, 2015

windfall light

thus, written:

Zeph, my friend
you would know
of the greatness in open spaces
green and bright

between the words
and whispers
that moment, after dark
the hesitation
the palpitations
rising with the hand to light

hoping for beauty
to come true in impending dreams
that vast tenderness
that antithesis of night

March 22, 2015March 22, 2015

3:01 am

simple thoughts
so late at night it’s morning

sometimes all you have
is a bed to sleep
and some food to eat

the sky is bright
they call it light pollution
birds are actually singing

sometimes all you have
is a lamp to see
and a book to read

the silence is so loud
i can hear every move, breath, beat

sometimes all you have
is that quiet space
filled with hope and memories

and then it’s clear, deep down:
what i have is you
not a dream
but the complement to me

it’s 3 am
and the birds are still singing
.
© 2015 threegoodwords

March 20, 2015

the art of life

freedom
is not words spoken
alone

it is sang out loud
in the silence that is accepted
across a bridge, dividing
knowing what needs demanding
a rule unbroken
a law of life.

but those sunk in silence
deaf to the marvelous sound
will tell you, whisper, shout:
spring does not exist
fall is an advertisement
summer a ludicrous myth
but winter the truth that has come

not snow-sparkling white
children laughing during snowball fights
but wet and grey
full of frostbite
that’s the one
that is the silence that has come

until one, two, three and more
sing of the sun
bright in the skies
flowers below, shining
trees like seas
green and grassy
life bursting in all colours
rejoicing
second to none.

…

she laughs when i say
i am (not: shall be) myself
i have a place within
that is sacred, me

and there is that moment
the question, hope, wonder:
how long until that laughter fades?

until understanding pervades
that each and all
have their holy place
beating under their ribs
smooth on their skin?

freedom is not a request
it never was a favour
it is necessary
the natural state of all things
but no one said it was easy

like canvas waiting
clay cool in one’s hands
the art of life is
living
loving
being
free
.

March 15, 2015March 15, 2015

non, merci

subtle
the pressure works
like a boeing landing
closing in from all sides, invisible

that sense of
you should do something
be nice
give in
ah, the manipulation

but the mellowed drama is craftily sincere
played out in earnest
here i am, helpless
kind of
and i, me, the unworthy soul
am asking you
my queen
translate: you’re gorgeous, beautiful
see how i grovel before such majesty
to suffer my wounds
and heal me

always with that unspoken demand
to follow through
as if this were high romance
and ye the dying knight
carried back, a-wounded

only there are no wounds
no suffering beyond a pressing need
to do
well, yes
me
which is why i break the spell
with realism
and refuse

that’s barely a flesh wound
here’s a first aid kit
use it.

March 12, 2015March 16, 2015

true genius

I wrote this some time ago, during one of those bad moments when the realisation that I just was really truly absolutely ohmygoodness definitely not there yet was very real. Ah, but the great thing about great writers is that, never mind how they make you feel like last week’s left overs, writing-wise, they also help you know that it is possible to do better, be better, try your best. Reading their writing is, next to the great story, also this lovely gift: somewhere, somehow, someone was able to touch that thing that is divine and turn it into perfect word-gold. Terry Pratchett was one of them. Dear Sir (he was knighted), you’ll be sorely, sorely missed. You made so many people laugh and think and feel and laugh again so many times, the world has really lost a true genius today. Rest in Peace. Or as the Librarian would say:
Ook!

…

Gosh, if I could only come up with something like Überwald, Bess Pelargic, The Agatean Empire, 71-hour Achmed or the Octarine Grass Country. Or simply the Anthropomorphic Personification of the Ultimate Certainty, the Grim Reaper a.k.a. Mr. Door. Terry Pratchett is a genius, a real and true genius, though I still think Rincewind is complete and utter twerp. The Night Watch with Commander Vimes and Carrot Ironfoundersson + rag-tag band of misfits and miscreants, the Witches of Lancre + kingdoms and villages, Ms Aching and the Nac Mac Feegles, the University faculty + Librarian, and all the city Guilds + C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Mr Lipwig, Ms Dearheart and whatever new Scheme Moist von is up to, and then, of course, the Patrician with ever resourceful and loyal Drumknott, they’re all breathtakingly, mind-bendingly, side-splittingly fabulous – but Rincewind just puts me off. He really really really annoys me. The only great thing about Rincewind is The Luggage (Sapient Pearwood! Imagine! The madness! The magnificence!). Barely managed The Colour of Magic, and only because I sat through that ghastly mash-up of a movie. Afterwards I had to read it. Rincewind is that character who just makes you want to reach into the book and slap people, meaning him. Though some of the scenes with him in it are utter hilarity.

…

Oh and one more thing: Really, the Luggage. The Luggage. I dare you to come up with something as hilariously insane as the Luggage. Go on. Try it. I shall sink my reading teeth into it, promise.
j.d.