amonkie

Again, use any form of writing, let those juices flow! Good job to everyone who has participated at all, and if you're new, JOIN US! This will be the challenge through Feb. 13.

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Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

tecoyah

Calming texture of wind blown water
Opens into my mind the long Horizon
Step beyond this closed reality
And see.......See this message in a God tossed bottle
Do I climb these steps of knowledge
Allowing the door to swing into blessed air
Seeking the raptured grace of Starlight
Yes I do......Forever changed for better is my Soul

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

elydian

Dave had started building his house too close to the water; now that the tide was in, this was clear if nothing else. As the water rose, he drank.

__________________
Now watch this drive.

tecoyah

Freakin wonderful.............damn.

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

SpikeQX99

After swimming in seas of doubt, I finally reached the place from where the bottle was cast away so many years ago...

And upon arriving, I found nothing but and open door and the intriguing possiblilites of what lay beyond.

__________________
I'm so in love with a girl... she is my everything

amonkie

Nice Job guys ! And Spike - so much said in so few words - NICE!

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

SpikeQX99

Thanks. I was just breezin through and that's what came out of me..

I really like the picture because you can come up with about a hundred different stories of what is there.. It's all in your perspective

__________________
I'm so in love with a girl... she is my everything

mrsandman

I set out in search of myself, and this time I surely would succeed.

I had decided that it was time that I found myself. I had undertaken a journey to nowhere, and with no one.

I had been alone for countless days and nights aboard that vessel I loved so much, and yes, now hated as well.

It was an opportunity to get away, as far away from civilization as possible.
In fact, in many ways, it was too far. I yearned for human contact. Seeking the very thing that I was attempting to shun.

The undulating ocean would seduce me into a peaceful bliss, then, abruptly slam me into reality when a storm neared. I had chosen this experience, but was eager for it to end. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Being at the mercy of the winds was a predicament that went back centuries. Being an experienced sailor didn’t help me cope with the solitude…it was maddening.

The nights were filled with joyful visions of an unbelievably black sky, ridiculously crowded with too many brightly lit stars. To share that with no one was indeed a shame. That choice was mine, alone, and I regretted it deeply.

I was growing weary of the sound of my own voice, and my own thoughts.
I yearned for the sound of another human being, but that was not to come for quite some time. I didn’t even know where I was, let alone how long it would be before I made any kind of contact.

Then, out of nowhere, a giant wave washed over my beloved vessel, and swept me overboard. As I swam in vain towards my only hope of living,I realized, too late, that this shit don’t happen in the city…what was I thinking?

__________________
Hail to ALL the troops and shadow warriors.

neonscreamer

The thought was so refreshing to me.
Didn't know I'd get so pulled in.
I took a vacation from reality,
And in my head I took a swim.

But something happened while I dove in,
Something I couldn't comprehend.
The water was warm, and I didn't notice
The undertow was pulling me in.

So now I sit on a tiny island,
Trapped inside my own little dream.
I hope somebody finds this message,
But it's obvious they won't, it's only me.

__________________
This space available for rent. Reasonable rates!

Bryndian_Dhai

Cassie sighed as she slid the last of the reports into the manila envelope. She pushed it aside and propped her head on her hands, indulging herself in a rare moment of introspection during these last few idle moments before quitting time. Her mind returned to the picture she’d seen, that oddly disturbing piece hanging in the gallery next door to her office. She’d thought it pretty a week ago, when they first displayed it, propped in the shadows in the display window, black velvet blocking out all light except the spotlight illuminating the picture. The display was designed to draw the eye in, to focus the gaze on the art and Cassie had been attracted to the deep colors and fantastic setting.

That was a week ago. Now she found herself standing mesmerized in front of the window three times a day. She’d had to start getting up early to make it to work on time, and her trips outside the office for lunch were dedicated to the picture. Her trip home was the hardest. It was bad enough the first couple of days, but she’d missed the last train home two days ago, and she’d started dreaming about the picture. Cassie rubbed her eyes and sat back in her chair. The dreams weren’t disturbing her rest, though when she woke up in the mornings all she could think about was the picture. She shook her head and reached for her purse, gathering her things on auto pilot as she tried to suppress the obsessive need to get downstairs and see the picture.

Cassie stepped off the elevator and headed across the lobby, trying not to hurry as she pushed her way through the revolving door. She blinked as she stepped into the late afternoon sun and turned to walk toward the gallery. A few steps brought her to the window and she gasped as she looked upon an empty black display. The picture was gone. She struggled for a moment to conquer the surprising wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her, then she turned and stumbled down the street and away, walking aimlessly her mind reeling. When had she become so dependent on seeing that picture? How could a piece of art in a window have such a profound effect on her. Tears rolled unheeded down her face and her shoulders shook with the chaotic emotions struggling to be released.

She came to herself as she collided forcefully with a passerby. She ignored the man’s muttered expletive as she looked around. Cassie recognized the entrance to the train platform through her still-teary eyes and she stepped into the street to cross over. She never heard the screeching tires or felt the impact of the bus. A crowd gathered around her lifeless body sprawled on the pavement, and she looked down at herself with faint surprise. She turned away from the crowd and spied a ripple in the distance. She stepped toward it, and it loomed immediately before her. She followed the path across the water without thought, smiling with pleasure as she spied the bottle in the water and the familiar vistas of the painting. She scooped the bottle up, cradling it reverently as she mounted the steps to the open door. She didn’t spare a glance back as she crossed the threshold, leaving her life behind.

__________________
“When facism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”
~Sinclair Lewis

tecoyah

Stephen knew the door was open for a reason, but the obvious explanation frightened him to no end. "Not again", he said out loud, to himself. Two years ago , Stevey (as his mother called him) stepped through just such a door, and finally found his way back after close to three months. Nothin' like seeing yerself on a Milk Carton was the thought that kept him from walking up those steps again.
The last adventure taught Stephen much about the world beyond that golden archway, and temptation for more played heavily on his ten year old mind. "I know the way back , now" he told himself. Abacumbus peeked from around the door frame. Immediately Stephens affection for the dragon made his mind up.
Had anyone watched the scene unfold that day at the Beach, they would have been hard pressed to put it in words. The doorway was by itself , relatively unremarkable. Short of the Flaked golden trim, and the spinning stained glass of its porthole window it could have adorned any number of beach houses in Malibu. What created the mindbend, was the location. Stephen walked knee deep into the surf, and took the first of the four steps into the realm of dragons.
Remembering the past, he was somewhat prepared for the change this time. He actually watched his feet change to claws as they met the shimmering steps. It was with a bit more hestitation that he took the second step, felt his spine stretch and noticed the scales spread along his now muscular, and quite intimidating arms. Step three was fluid to the new Body he inhabited, and made his head spin as vision changed to the infrared spectrum. It was the final step in this misleadingly short staircase that suprised this now mostly serpentine creature.
Language was gone, only thought remained of his Human past. In Steveys mind were the words (if you could call them that) of Abacumbus, the elder of this realm.

First trip through
A child you be
What you do and what you see
See this world
As what you will
Make your dreams and those fulfill
But should you cross
This plane again
All your past reflections end
For now you come
To us alone
And freely walk into your home

"Finally" Thought Stevey, I am home.

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

tecoyah

Fantastic job Brindian, You need to write a freakin' book.

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

roachboy

i have been reading a dream journal
the author claims that
within her dreams
images follow one another
like they had been mounted on a wheel
turned by the viewfinder

in an image not unlike this one
she find herself floating just above the surface of water
with the sun tattooed on her forehead

three suns
(she is not a fan of science fiction)
means there must be a sequence

the journal
reads like an attempt to reconstruct a larger wheel
from fragments of smaller ones
the images that precede and follow what is remembered
are filled in from other sources
as if there is
in the end

only

one

dream



there should be motion
it should be possible



the sun on the horizon
the sun on the door
the sun on her forehead


the long triangle that connects them
drawn perpendicular to the image

her position is fixed

if she moves forward
the image dissolves
into fragments
if she moves backward
it disappears

she thinks
her journal of dreams
has been stuffed into the bottle

if she moves forward to retrieve it
the bottle grows enormous
and moves to the right
the stairs fill the horizon
she drifts up
as
the suns disappear



the sun on the horizon
the sun on the door
the sun on her forehead


the long triangle that connects them
drawn perpendicular to the image

her position is fixed

from here she dreams of other dreams
not unlike this one
in which she floats above the water

three suns
if you are not a fan of science fiction
means there must be a sequence
if there is sequence
motion should be possible

in each dream
she thinks
her journal of dreams
has been stuffed into the bottle

if she moves forward to retrieve it
the bottle grows enormous
and moves to the right
the stairs fill the horizon
she drifts up
as
the suns disappear



the sun on the horizon
the sun on the door
the sun on her forehead


the long triangle that connects them
drawn perpendicular to the image

her position is fixed

from here, in every alternate dream
she dreams other dreams
in each
she thinks
her journal of dreams
has been stuffed into the bottle

if she moves forward to retrieve it
the bottle grows enormous
and moves to the right
the stairs fill the horizon
she drifts up
as
the suns disappear

__________________
a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear

it make you sick.

-kamau brathwaite

ngdawg

He said today's lesson is about surrealism.
Taking reality and twisting it to represent a vision.
Or exaggerating form to make a point.
Is this for real, I asked to no one in particular
Exactly, came the reply
I don't understand, again to no one in particular
That's the reality, came the answer
I'm not sure I can really do this
Exactly
Is surrealism real?
The answer puzzled me, it is based on reality but not real
Then how will I know it's surreal?
When it becomes reality, came the reply
My head hurts.....

Bryndian_Dhai

Thanks tecoyah. *grins* I am writing (or attempting to write, anyway) a book. Oddly enough, my Muse is raging away to write these challenges, but I'm pretty much a dry well right now when it comes to my book. *shrugs* It comes and goes, though, so I'm just waiting it out for now, with occasional stabs at it as ideas occur to me.

__________________
“When facism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”
~Sinclair Lewis

la petite moi

and i found myself alone, in a sea of sorrow, only to realise that i lived my life as safely as possible to arrive at the door of death.

Kostya

Sorry about the length...


He placed the envelope carefully at the foot of the stairs, where its pristine white surface leapt off the dark mahogany of the floorboards. She would pass this way in a few hours, on her way to the kitchen to make breakfast. The coolness of the night leaned over his shoulder as he silently reread the single word marring the purity of the clean paper: Carmen. His handwriting, violent peaks and hard edged lines, murdered the simple grace of the name...

'Carmen?'

'Si.'

'Unusual name.'

'I suppose.'

'I like it.' Xavier gazed across the ebony pond of coffee in the cup, still raised to his lips on its aborted journey, at her bashful, lowered eyes. His gaze slid away to the paper receptacle that he pensively rotated in his hand. Carmen flicked a stray piece of paper off the scarred tabletop with her slender finger as she tried to hide her embarrassment.

'Hmm?'

'Huh?'

'Did you say something?'

'No...'

Xavier grinned crookedly at her confusion. 'Sorry, I thought you said something.' She smiled, despite herself and shook her head, her eyes moving to the tabletop again. Around them, the dining area remained static, grey, almost offended by their relative animation.

'So you're studying religion eh?'

'Yes.'

'It's strange isn't it.'

'Religion?'

'Oh sorry, no, er.' Xavier chortled into his espresso as he downed the last potent drops from the bottom, his breath resounding hollowly in the cardboard cylinder. He calmed suddenly, and slowly, deliberately placed the cup down on the table, reaching across the table to place it on the patch over which Carmen's eyes were maintaining a silent vigil. Her eyes snapped up, momentarily, then fled back to the cup. Xavier gestured towards it with a dancing fingers, 'I meant that.'

'How do you mean.'

'Well, call me strange, heh most people do, but I always imagined that I'd have profound conversations with mysterious women over coffee in porcelain, not paper. We like to think we'll meet exotic and intensely interesting people in exotic and intensely interesting locales, Venetian canals, Tuscan Villas, the lawns of Oxford and all the rest of it, but instead here we are at the...’ he craned his head to read the sign above the doorway 'At the 'Railway Cafe', drinking sub-par coffee out of paper cups.' His sigh leapt into a gentle laugh, Carmen grinned...

He sighed, without sound, restraining his breath so as not to disturb the delicate artefact he had so carefully laid out. A tiny, sad little smile cracked across his solemn countenance. That tiny little chit of paper, that he was so afraid of sweeping away with his gentle breaths, that insignificant paper bouquet, was the most violent thing his mind has ever brought into the world, a frail notepaper mine, bursting with crystalline death.

He tugged nervously at his upper lip with his square digits as he rose and strode, carefully across the hall into the living room. His bare feet, stowing away at the bottom of his immaculate suit, silently padded on the timber, soaking up the coolness that seeped from its worn, smooth boards. The soft glow of his desk lamp cast garish shadows across the room as he entered, furtively sidling around the leather couch to the formidable, monolithic bookcase opposite the door. Xavier leaned jauntily to one side, to allow the light past his wide shoulders as he scanned the dimly lit spines of the eclectic ramparts of books. He swiftly located his quarry and with a powerful finger pried it loose from its thick companions. The book was thick and bound in dark, austere leather, David Hume, Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding. Xavier deftly slipped his nail under the cover and flipped it back with a flourish, the sickly light leapt across the title page inside, gleaming on the alien ink of the bold pen strokes emblazoned on its crisp cream surface.

Zah Zah,

This weighty tome is the beginning of your career as a philosophical prodigy!
My gift to you, on your twentieth birthday.

Jeremiah.

23/2/1992

Jeremiah’s handwriting sliced itself in broad, angular lines, intersecting at deep, violent angles. Xavier slid his thumb over the ghostly impressions the message had left in the page, his soft skin catching the dry paper, the phantom scent of literature drifted into his nostrils. The faint lines in his cheeks came to shadowy life as his smile burnt behind his glazed irises. He softly snapped the book shut and buried in the battered leather satchel on his desk chair. He removed a more modern looking book from the case, a sleek, shiny paperback embossed with a stylish art-deco cover ‘The Absurdity of Utopia’ and in the corner, unobtrusively, the author’s name was printed in matter of fact font: Xavier J. Bresson. Xavier caressed the book open, and read the dedication on the first page.

For Carmen,
Te amo.

He inhaled sharply and slid the book onto the desk, destroying the intricate arrangement of pens and paper with callous cruelty, she was in everything. He steadied a gently rocking wine glass at the edge of the desk, the maudlin remnants of merlot stirred moodily in the bottom as he set it back in place next to the exquisite Italian espresso cup…

‘Zah-vee-er’ Carmen’s slender hand slid into she caught up with him. ‘Seville in the evening, is, beautiful, no?’ Xavier grinned at her dark eyes as she gazed up at him, clinging to his waist as they strolled through the gentle glow of the street.

‘The coffee’s good.’ He whispered, smiling as he drew her closer to him. She moved instinctually, slowing him to a stop with her embrace, her lips collided with him in the shadows. They searched him, interrogating his soul with their touch, her lithe arms encircled his broad frame and clasped his being to her, her grip bit into his flesh, and her kiss dragged a tear from his heart. He felt the breath of her spirit on his in the warm night as she seeped into him, questioning his depths with her caresses. Her arms sank away, and she looked up at him from a pool of tears, her eyes pierced with terror and despair.

‘Xavier, I…’ the words crushed her, and she gripped him like a drowning girl. Her body trembled with beautiful terror, and the pale gleam of streetlights in her tears unveiled the splendour of her humanity. Human to human, they clung to each other in the frozen void in naked frailty, for one perfect night in Seville…

Dead tears flowed over Xavier’s rigid features as he knelt beside the desk and drew from the small basket a pile of mangled paper. The rejected beginnings of his letter trembled in his hands, mutilated, embryonic corpses, his monstrous offspring. His shaking hands stuffed them deep into the basket again, and he turned away from the paper blossoms of betrayal to open the top drawer of the desk. He reached inside and removed an unsealed yellow envelope, and shuffled through the thick deck of Polaroids inside. Shards of time flickered in his hands, her eyes had bled into the past, and they peeked out at him, pierced through with that beautiful, sad, fear…

‘You are me.’ Her eyes burnt in the night.

Near the bottom of the pack, Xavier deftly extracted three images, the first two had short notations in his young hand. From the first, a young man stared austerely into the lens, thick blond curls crowding his blue eyes, his resolute, thin lips curled imperceptibly at the corners.

Lucas, 18/4/91

The second photograph was of a blurred, face, eerily peering out from nondescript features with glowing red irises.

Jeremiah? Poortrait of the artist as a young man… 1990.

The third was of himself, his young face laughed into its future with mocking eyes and a mischievous smirk. The notation was in the same wild calligraphy of Jeremiah’s birthday salutation.

Xavier, happy. 91

He tossed the pile onto the desktop, it collided with his book and burst into a constellation of him and her. Her turned away from her loving gaze in terror, scooping up the tickets and shoving them into the bag with the Polaroids. He darted out of the room, suffering and loathing spilling down his face.

She followed him like perfume, haunting his craven, limping figure as it moved through the night. She had seeped deep into him, flooding the hollows of his existence, throttling his betrayer’s heart with pure love, and as he felt her tearing his ragged soul as he moved away in the darkness. He seated himself on the step in front of the door, pulling on his socks, sobs scorched his lungs and tears sliced his cheeks as he doubled over in panic to grab his shoes. He forced his feet into them as he wept; the world shimmered in sadness and rolled away in grotesque distortions.

Xavier rose resolutely, wiping his face, exhaling grief and shame, pulled the handle of the door, and stepped through into the frozen street beyond. He paused for a second with death in his eyes, and pulled the door closed, eclipsing a life.

His phantom shell disappeared into the darkness.

amonkie

Kostya - this has just blown me away. WOW. I didn't even notice the length, it just sucked me right in. I gotta get crackin on mine now after all these great contributions.

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

Strange Famous

There is a place
I used to go
Where the wind doesnt speak
The way it does here
There is a door
I am always aware of
Just to the left of my field
Of vision
One day I'll go for a walk
One of these days
I'll cleanse myself
In blankness
I'll find the left side
Of my imagination
If it happens all at once
I might not feel a thing
Sweep me away, sweep me away
Let me go to biting red things
And imploding lights
Inside my face
I'll write my last words
And leave them in a bottle
Of a poor red wine
For nobody to read
Smashed up against rocks
and drenched in salt and shit
Instead.

__________________
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."

The Gospel of Thomas

high_way

The door

The door opens
The emotions flow through like a flood
No not again
Im so tired from the last struggle
Emotions come flooding back like an ever-increasing tide
Why is this happening again
I though I was over it all then I see you and it all comes back
The door opens wider
I go back to the places I thought I was rid of
The weight is getting harder to fight against
I don’t know if I can go through this again
The hurt is as painful as a dagger to the heart
The door opens

MARVIN DRAKE 2005

__________________
A stranger is just a friend you havent met yet.

Impostor of the imposturous

Amnesia620

Tarnished waters softly lap and sway,
liquid silver drifting under candy skies,
where tomorrow meets yesterday,
everything remains ignorant but wise.

Somewhere here leading nowhere there,
truthful deceit waits beyond those steps,
common secrets bottled in modest flair,
floating in stillness upon its watery depths.

__________________
For example, I find that a lot of college girls are barbie doll carbon copies with few differences...Sadly, they're dumb, ditzy, immature, snotty, fake, or they are the gravitational center to orbiting drama. - Amnesia620

mojodragon

Hello? Is there anyone out there? <tap> <tap>

Um, I know this is going to sound really weird, but I'm stuck in here. Somebody's going to have to help me out here. Seriously, this isn't just a submission to this week's writing contest, I'm stuck in here. I was sitting in front of my computer, trying to think of what to write about, and staring at that door. I phased out a little bit, and realized that the picture was moving. The water was lapping at the base of the stairs, and the door was swaying in the slight breeze. I reached out, and took hold of the door, and all of a sudden, I'm inside this forum! Amonkie, this thread was your idea, you're going to have to think of some way to get me out of here. I can't stay in here forever! In the meantime, I'm going to use this bottle to send out a message. Someone's bound to get it sooner or later. Hello?

amonkie

It was only supposed to be a dream. There's no way those vibrant clouds could ever be seen in real life. The water that looked as if God's palette of color had gotten muddled from the tears of weeping angels felt squishy solid underfoot, so that it was natural to follow the rising steps. In the eerie silent wind, the only voices were those instead my head. Apparently, I had a choice to make, and I could only choose once. The half submerged aged bottle containing rolled parchment. Supposedly on that parchment were all the answers to questions I'd never been able to find answers to. Only problem was, once you reached the steps the first time, if you left, the water owned you. So while I would have all the answers, I'd be essentially frozen forever with that knowledge. My other choice was to take hold of that door, the dark cherry wood and that gold embossed handle. A peek through the door just showed more endless water, but supposedly once you actually stepped through that door, you were free. Free from what, the voice didn't say. I'm not quite sure what I believe. I mean, my eyes work fine, I don't see any magical could dancing on the other side of the door to convince me of this speculated power. And it's always nice to have the answers. But what good are answers if you can't do anything about what you know? And something tells me that like the squishy water, this place isn't all that meets the eye. And something's caught my eye, just on the other side of the door. I can't pick out what it is without stepping entirely through the door. A hand on the knob, and an outstretched hand reaching towards the bottle. I should have known there'd be no way to reach both at the same time. *Sigh* If I don't choose, I can just open my eyes, and the dream's all over. But my eyes are open. Odd. Don't even know exactly how I got here anyhow. But that little light is shining brighter now.... I wonder what I'm supposed to be "free" from. Only one way to find out - so in I go. and I fall.....


It was a dream. That endless cacophony of unspecified songs couldn't exist in real life. But that small puddle on the floor, just by the edge of the bed. The light catching that water makes it seem pink and green and blue, all together. No, it can't be.

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

Amnesia620

AWESOME WORK!! I love this!

__________________
For example, I find that a lot of college girls are barbie doll carbon copies with few differences...Sadly, they're dumb, ditzy, immature, snotty, fake, or they are the gravitational center to orbiting drama. - Amnesia620

telekinetic

Welcome to my door.

There are many doors in this world.

Doors into knowledge. Doors to freedom.

Doors to temptation. Doors to forgiveness.

Doors to home.

But this one is mine.

It is neither the biggest, or the strongest, or the most beautiful.

It will never be kicked down by the cop who plays by his own rules, goes against policy, and saves the world in act three.

It will never be the topic of an international cross-cultural multidenominational peace summit.

If through some inexplicable miracle of science it suddenly ceased to exist, the world would probably not notice or care.

But I would.

Because it is mine.

Welcome to my door.

Speak, Friend, and enter.

__________________
twisted no more

amonkie

Great ideas everyone! If you're still thinking, jot some stuff down! I'll be throwing up the challenge for next week tomorrow night.

__________________
Calling from deep in the heart, from where the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear, from where the mountain trails end and only love can go... ~~~ Three Rivers Hare Krishna

xepherys

I generally hate to write rhymes, but sometimes they just appear...





The door, it beckons
Calls forth from time and space
But where it leads I do not know
For it is quite a foreign place

Step through the door
But my senses elude me
This heaven, this hell, this place
I cannot tell what it could be

The thoughts and feelings
morose and bare
Memory strikes in the back of my mind
I can't help but stare

I look down upon myself
My body limp and tattered
A painful grimace remains on my face
But here, it no longer matters

msh58

what to do when the presidency ends
and the legacy doesn't look good right now
because to politicians like himself
that is what matters

could wander on
living off the past
ex-president
fundraisers
reporters occasionally calling
whats your take on this crisis

legacy is a long term word
presidency is short

taking the acid hits
helped him to see his next career
spent his political career
wooing religious people
can still do that
just in a different way

big hole left when dr. seuss died
no one has come along
hallucinatory illustrations
and a message for children
an absolute legend
in the field of childrens stories

he sees the way
could just take the right drugs
at home
away from the limelight
he's lived in

a religious leaning in his stories
with those illustrations
that make people wonder
how it was even possible
to create something like that

its what he will do
become revered in this next career
that politics just didn't bring

drug casualty childrens book writer

Those will last forever
longer than his time in the presidency

Last day in the white house
last party
and opening that back door to leave
and there were the stairs
with the door at the top
ocean everywhere

took a deep swallow
and walked up them
opened the door
to join dr. seuss
here at the beginning of his new path

ClostGoth

Golden sun sinks lower in the sky and the breeze sends a shiver over my heated skin. Seagulls cry and dive for tidbits left by picnicking tourists. I’ve always hated the tourists. They destroy the peace we’re supposed to be able to find here. And yet I continue to come, even years after his passing. We used to come here together, he and I. Our souls craving evidence of tidal activity even when tourists kept us from finding the peace we so craved. Ten years he’s been gone. He was taken from me so suddenly. And yet I come here yearly still, my soul sending a proverbial message in a bottle to that far away place where I firmly believe his soul waits for me still. I never thought I would survive his passing, yet here I am. How can it be any other way than our rejoining? Perhaps we’ll journey to a new life, where we can enjoy lazy afternoons on the beach in our prime; watching our children grow into adults and laughing at the antics of our grandchildren in the waves. I stand weightlessly and wade out into the water. I grasp the handrail and mount the first step, and the door opens. I turn to look back at the beach. There I lay in the sand, my head pillowed on my arms and a serene smile on my upturned face. My hair blows across my eyes, thick still though all color has been bleached away. I am saddened, thinking about the grandchildren whose children will never know me. I turn and glance at the door, hesitant. But there he is, on the other side, a huge welcoming smile on his face. I cross the threshold with renewed vigor, anxious to see what our future together holds.

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I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.
--Douglas Adams

tecoyah

Very nice....great visuals in this piece. Seems we have a new talent in Lit.

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

ClostGoth

Thanks, tecoyah! I am my own harshest critic and it always helps to be appreciated.

__________________
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.
--Douglas Adams

Yukimura

Message in a bottle.
Drifts in rainbow sea.
Colors shift softly.
Nowhere soon to be.

Water rolls off stairs.
The message can't climb.
Makes contact with stone.
A musical chime.

An open door of hope.
The cry won't escape.
But it's so lovely.
This poetic scape.

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Maybe the answer is in the very light reflected off our blades. Maybe that's what it means to be this creature known as samurai.

Wolfwood

A door to nowhere,
yet an entrance to eternity.
Why do they bother having hand rails?

Azure skies, night, approaches
as the sun retreats behind the horizon.
Why must their cat-and-mouse game persist?

Waves cease to swell,
content to become mere ripples.
Have they given up on grasping at the beach?

Colors reflect up at the sky
and meld together into happy hues.
Are they colorblind to one another?

In this place,
races are not won by the swift
nor battles by the brave.
Time and Chance play prince to all.
Why then do we bother opening the door?


(Any thoughts? I personally like this one alot.)

__________________

We're nothing like God. Not only do we have limited powers, but sometimes we're driven to become the devil himself.

Yukimura

Pretty good, but you should know the answers to these questions Nicolas.

__________________
Maybe the answer is in the very light reflected off our blades. Maybe that's what it means to be this creature known as samurai.