He Said – She Said

Normality is a paved road:
It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.
― Vincent van Gogh

 

Friday 55

I miss you most on Fridays
when the weekend promises
us redemption, or escape –
whichever we are
more in need of
 
I miss you most on Fridays
when I sit down to write
in the early-morning dark of fall
with coffee, doughnuts
and not much to say
 
I miss you most on Fridays,
like today

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Falling

Jackson Pollock, Black Flowing, No. 8

Where
does it come from,
that feeling:
standing on the edge
of a tall building
holding the railing
looking down
what is it inside us
that wants to jump?
From the center of the chest,
this impulse,
to jump,
then
fall
 
off the edge of the known
like a cliff diver
through clouds – air – water
 
It frightens us
this feeling
making us step back
but what if we stay
at the edge,
and feel
 
the uncoiling,
letting go
falling
through a sky of knives
 
Falling through time and
plans and promises
and life.
Letting go,
falling from blue into grey
 
And what if we don’t fall?
What if we fly?

This was written in response to a promp by Karin at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  The Pollock image is from Tess at Magpie Tales writing group.

Changing

By Mary Bach

“In every change, in every falling leaf there is some pain, some beauty.

And that’s the way new leaves grow.”  ― Amit Ray

October Gold

I love, love, love autumn in the Midwest. Here are a few pictures and quotes in keeping with the season.

I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”
― L.M. Montgomery 

“Nothing dies as beautifully as autumn.”
― Ashlee Willis

What does autumn go on paying for
with so much yellow money?”
― Pablo Neruda

Photos By Mary Bach

He Said – She Said

“Good judgment comes from experience,

and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.”  

-Will Rogers

Dream

Dream by Jacek Yerka

The river
is always rising,
carrying me somewhere
I cannot yet see.

I float on
looking for the farther shore
but somehow I slip past everything
I know,
out to an ocean
as dark and smooth as oil.

Unfamiliar stars turn above
and beneath me.
The out-of-phase moon
throws her light before me
illuminating
the edge of the Earth.
I try to paddle back
against the tide
losing a little
with each stroke.

All my nightmares
now sail
noiselessly
along with me

The clocks have all lost their numbers;
why do we always think we have time?

Written for Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Lavendar Ropes

Lavendar Ropes by Mary Bach