Tag: writing

Dry Flies (Thailand. Summer 2011.)

Jaclyn5 Comments

Dry Flies

Ten eyes blink
in an unfamiliar brightness.
You both almost remember
seeing this sun before.
Some time before the darkness,
before you slept with roots and grubs,
before your premature burials,
before the prime number
of years spent waiting.

The temperature is right.
It’s your four minutes, the soil urges.
Take it. Take it.

Seventeen years this moment has
grown and molted, hid and sighed,
waited and waited to sing.

It’s not time to store for winter.
It’s time to leave empty selves behind,
clinging to bark and dust.
It’s time to shed golden skins.

Vines pause their swaying,
mangoes hold their breath,
leaf corpses don’t even rustle.
The dog day is silent.

It’s loud at first, furious and brave,
drunk with the newness of light.
It’s not a matter of legs or violins.
Bodies resound as ribs rub together.

The song becomes a whisper
as you near each other,
gentler, like a snake in the leaves.
It’s no longer for coaxing,
no longer for the eyes of the trees.

Branches are split.

Later, much later,
buttressed trees will burst with children,
nymphs will rain from their twiggy fingers,
speckled-dust life and the promise of song
will fall to a summery, shimmery floor.

But now, it’s not time to store for winter.

Creative Commons love to http://www.flickr.com/photos/pennstatelive/ for the photo of “Cicadas” etching by Marilyn McPheron.

Prompt: Rasputin

Jaclyn4 Comments

One of my favorite themes is re-imagining history.  The stories of history have so many holes of details waiting to be filled and re-envisaged.  There is so little we know about most of history, about the people and the details.

It is, after all, a story.  We may piece together the best we can using clues, sleuthing like backwards-looking Sherlock Holmes.  But the real life of a story is in the details and often times when it comes to the past, the details are mere conjecture.  That conjecture is necessary to bring history to life.

Also, history holds great characters.  Take Rasputin, for example.  Lover of the Russian Queen. A pious figure in Russian history, and also Russia’s greatest love machine, apparently.  These characters themselves can make incredible stories, ala Abe Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.

Who are some of your favorite characters in history?  How can they be brought to bear on the story telling of today?  What kinds of situations would you like to see them in?

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvDMlk3kSYg&w=420&h=315]

Also, this song is super dance-able.

 

 

 

 

You can see me trying my own hand at this prompt here:  http://lightningdroplets.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/akhenaten-winter-2012/

Crew (Florida. May 2004.)

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The boat lay sprawled on top of the water.  It floated on its back, legs and arms spread limply in all directions.  Each limb had a rower attached to it, up to his knees in swaying water.  I watched as small, listless waves tugged at the shorts of one rower, insisting he wade further from the shore.  They all waited for me to wade closer.  I hadn’t expected to get my feet wet, so my socks filled my upheld hands.

One by one, we slipped into the boat, as the others held it down on its back.  I was last.  We clumsily rocked and hit the oars, sending the hovering boat rocking.  We hesitantly strapped our feet into stationary shoes that did not fit.  We tried to find the right position in which to begin this new skill.  My seat slid back as I attempted to squirm myself into a more natural posture.

The water sloshed around us as we tried to maneuver the large arms and legs extending from the boat.  Four arms and four legs thrashed and splashed in the water, undaintily attempting to move in unison.  The waves sniggered at our irregular rhythm, beating against the boat in a unison we could not achieve.  My arm slapped another arm.

Above, sea gulls circled as if waiting for the thrashing-swimmer boat to drown.  Though it was in no other way obvious, we could see we had moved because the fog now hid the shore.  The sun had made its first appearance rising sleepily from the horizon.  We made all the noise that was on the bay that morning.  I looked to my oar and saw a pelican gliding across the water near us, his beak open in a mocking grin of our ungraceful endeavor.  The sun rose higher.

We tried to just sit still, to find a balance on the boat that could be maintained, but the boat writhed beneath our weight, and attempted to push us of its belly.  We held its arms and legs tighter.  My knuckles began turning white, just from embracing the rod of the oar.

We began again, after our unsatisfying balancing act.  Again the two sets of limbs entwined and were flung about, attempting a dignified dance, but looking misshapen instead.  We sucked in breath and held it intermittedly, trying for a rhythm with each other that seemed unfeasible.  I glared at the back of the rower in front of me.  He was off.

It happened suddenly, and caught us off guard.  The coxswain gasped.  We could not tell whose limbs were whose.

They moved together, slipping into the water and caressing it as it moved against it.

slip…and…slip…and…slip…and…

slip…and…slip…

We moved together, pressing with our thighs and sliding back and forth in unison, pushing against the limbs of the boat.  It glided beneath us.

slip…back…and…slip…back…and…

slip…back…and…

The boat created waves in perfectly timed wrinkles over the skin of the water.  It cooed at us now, the sniggering could no longer be heard.

slip…back…slosh…and…slip…back…slosh…and…slip.

The sun rose higher and warmed us, but the fog remained, confining our sight to our little patch of water.

We moved faster, all our motions in unison.  Large breaths escaped our lungs, chanting together.

slip back slosh blow slip back slosh blow slip back slosh

The shore came back into sight, and together our motions slows.  Our oars dipped into the water, cooling and slowing the boat.

We dragged the hull of the vessel back on shore, lifting together.  We held the boat as it was washed, not minding the water which found its way to our clothes.  Our steps moved in synchrony as we walked home.

It’s Easier to Date Moon Rocks (Florida. May 2004.)

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It’s a strange sort of orbit

the moon takes around the earth,

mesmerized by the amount of light the planet can reflect,

the way it shifts and writhes and is still

learning to be comfortable in its skin,

while the moon is only black rock,

the same trapped-oxygen rock

for three and a half billion years.

 

 

The moon must be ashamed,

because it always maneuvers

itself in such a way

that one side can’t be seen from earth

and when the sun doesn’t hit

the moon just right,

it rotates, its violet rays

can’t be seen at all.

 

 

The Earth has atmospheric clothes

that do their best to keep

its elements stable and it feels

few drops of newness on its crust,

while the moon gets to bathe

in meteor showers, a constant

sprinkling of new elements and it is molded

by each particle of dust that passes.

 

 

It’s easier to date moon rocks.

Striving to be Struck (Prague. Fall 2005.)

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I want to grab ahold of lightning, let it char my hands as it sends phosphorescent energy screamingstreaming from my mouth. I want to vomit the blue bolts, leaving spatters of electrical inspiration on sidewalks and toilet seats. I want to be forced to help ’em power you and me, to light lives with impulsive volts. I want to let it grab ahold of me, twisting spidery tentacles across breasts and back, lifting me with its weight. I want to hold your hand all the while, transporting flashes through you, giving life more real than Shelley’s nightmares.

Cambodia (Cambodia. Spring 2006.)

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The clay of the path,the murky water of the rice fields and the skin of the people run a fertile red — not with the horrors of the past, but with the moonflux of the earth.  This land is pregnant. The thick water between rice stalks reflects the open possibility of the sky above.

Pieces of my foot (California. Summer 2004.)

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Pieces of my foot

have been falling off for days

small pieces

–hardening themselves

curling to mimic plastic

they boycott the work I force upon them

taking their chances

that seceding from my body will

allow them a better life

they each leave a younger sister

in their place

–tender sprigs of too new life

who yelp each time they are stepped upon

My foot, you see,

is out of place in shoes.

He is used to feeling

free grass between toes

hugged by cold ground

and these boots, well,

they send the skin on my foot

hiking.

When (The Netherlands. Winter 2002.)

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When

Even the stars did not know where to stand,

flame filled the void with his partner the frost.

Waiting and teasing, they joined on the brink.

Moving to passionate swirls and then me.

I was alone with a blackness that fell,

speckled by wandering stars.  Nothing green

grew.  Not one shore, sea, nor cooling grey wave

sang the full song of a dying rich life.

I was alone in the dark, not a sound

reached my new ears and the noise of that drove

me to creation.  The sun and the moon,

made from my eyes, from my toes are the trees,

stones from my teeth and my eyelashes, snakes.

Now,

I am not lonely, but I was the first.

Saturn’s Return (Thailand. Summer 2010.)

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Atlas

 

 

Twenty-nine years, six months and four days,

and everything is back where it was.

 

Saturn turns her head just the same

and her rings dangle from fingers

threatening to fall without gravity

onto a new slate of a floor, the same blank slate

they rested on

before you wrote on it.

 

Many moons halt mid-orbit, holding their icy breath and stare.

What choices will you make on this rotation?

 

You’ve completed the circle of time.

The gases around you are all new.

You have asteroids, comets, and stars

any one you choose can be your own.

 

 

Creative commons love to http://www.flickr.com/photos/kokogiak/ for the photo!

Tamarind Trees (Thailand. Spring 2009.)

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The tamarind trees lie in pieces outside my windows, broken by a sense of caution. Their fruit snake away from the branches ashamed and the leaves shrivel brown in the sun’s stare. The blue-crested lizards search for their limbs, but they are now bodies alone. From the checkered balcony even the ants shake their heads, knowing the sun has gone mad. The tendrils of passion vine convulse in the wind, praying for a mango sky. Yellowsweet and orangewet. Only then can the leaves stretch their fingers. Only then can the ants lift their loads. Only then can the tamarinds rest their heads.