Blog Manifesto

Blog Manifesto


This blog is dedicated, as the title would suggest, to the qualities of being young. We are young writers. We are playful and sensitive, fluid and changing. We are unashamed with our art. We wonder at the world, puzzle over the meanings of things and twirl in delight at images and ideas that float by, grabbing at them as they pass. We are curious and constantly inquiring and prying concepts open and taking assumptions apart. We are on the ground, close to the earth. We have bare feet and wiggle our toes into nature. We carry our blankies still and wrap up cozy and comfy with each other and tell ghost stories and shiver at creepy things. We laugh and we cry and we take a lot of naps, drained from our outings and exertions.

We write as gifts to each other, tying them up in ribbon and leaving them around for each other to find, hiding and waiting for the person to wake up and read. Surprise! We weave our stories together to create a bond. One writes, then the other. then another again. We have a shared reality that we have crafted, bit by piece by patch, by string. We write simple, honest authentic things, with our unique voices. You can tell each one of us from the other, without knowing who wrote what. Our voices are clear and gentle and original. We whisper and our personalities roar! Like children, our feelings are strong, our passion for what we write shakes us. We are moved and sometimes left breathless, by our own words or the words of each other. We cannonball into each others spaces. We fall backward into each others writing, like into a pile of leaves or a soft bed. We gobble and grin and ask for more. (footnote kudos to JC)

Then we go to bed, wake up to a new day and do it all over again!

Monday, April 16, 2012

Answers 2 What happened to the husband?



You Were Gone

In a flash of cataclysmic light
You were gone
A singular event of catastrophic consequences
Took you from us

A bolt of lightning
seeking the ground
mistook you...
A natural accident

No, that's not right

With the screech of twisting metal
and the wrenching silence
of the answer
you were gone

a moment's indecision
an inch this way or that
and we are alone
a sad occurrence


No, that's not right


A heart attack
felled you
so young and in our prime
and you were gone


And, we, so needy of your grace
so longing for your body whole
are left
and you are gone


No, that's not right


A lingering cancer
rotting from the inside out
took you bit by bit
leaving us less and less


No, that's not right


A disease with no cure
and no cause
no control and no pause
took you from us


a withering look
striking us cold
no remorse, no forgiveness
and you were gone


No, that's not right
You are still here.


Posted by at
Labels:

1 comment:

  1. SharonApril 16, 2012 at 6:49 PM

    After twenty two years he ran into a problem he couldn't solve. He drank. The rest of the family went to Al-anon but he could not discuss his feelings , so he went to Saudi Arabia, a dry country where he did not drink for six years. A professed tee-totaler it was hard for him to admit the problem that had killed his own father. We had twenty good years...

    ReplyDelete

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)