Fight the Night

Why do women bellow

Why do women fight

Is it men who are our enemy?

Must we battle them with might?

A world at war within itself

Rips itself apart

Are we really enemies?

Or is it something else, quite dark.

The darkness takes us over

Woman caves, Man succumbs

Shadows race to shroud us –

Reach out for the light!

fellow women, be sisters,

fellow men, our brothers.

Let’s Fight against the Night.

WILDERSOUL TINY LOGO gray-white 300dpi

Cold Stone Statue

The door closed. His face, sallow, crumpled, reflected the painful years of resignation shrouding the limp, haphazard room. The large pedestal towered over his dingy, sparse furniture, and his pale eyes were drawn once more to the cold stone figure staring imperiously from its regal position.

“Don’t stare at me,” he whispered vehemently, hissing under his breath, like a disturbed snake.

The perfectly carved eyes of the granite statue continued to stare, vacantly, dispassionately. He imagined a curl of the upper lip into a twist of disdain. He hated her. He wished he had never set eyes on her. The fire of his passion was now white hot, cutting like a gas axe through his former forgotten caresses.

“You sit there and do nothing!” he hissed, and his wasting body deflated further into his chair with the effort of forming intense emotion into words. She gazed over his head by a centimetre. Her rigidly flowing coverlet pulled protectively over the curve… He pulled his eyes away, shutting them tightly as his passion converted suddenly to the day he first caught a glimpse of her, stalwartly facing into a gusty summer breeze, her rough-cut hair tightly braided to keep it from whipping in her face.

“Curse you,” he muttered, his gaze now falling, unfocused, to his own emaciated legs, draped limply with crocheted granny squares of mismatched gay colours. His hands closed and opened, and he felt for a moment, the perfect curve of a carving tool curled into his palm, felt the vibrations of the hefty wooden mallet pounding… His reverie was interrupted as the door banged abruptly open against the wall, shaking the peeling faux-gold ornate picture frames on the opposite side of the room.

“This it?” grunted the heavy-set, bristly bearded man, his piercing eyes bored first into the vacant expression of the wrinkled man huddled in the old-fashioned wheelchair tucked into the far corner of the room, then held the lifeless statue in an acute gaze, measuring her sculpted form precisely, as he pushed the solidly fixed wooden crate toward her on perfectly oiled hydraulic wheels.

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I wrote this piece especially for OM, as part of a series prepared for guest blogging at HarsH ReaLiTy in early 2014. Although the guest blogging is not going ahead, at this stage, it provided much needed motivation for me to start writing creatively. This is probably the first serious bit of fiction I have written for over twenty years. It unfolded as I typed, as if it had a mind of its own. I could clearly see the room, the characters, and feel their emotions.

Inspiring Education?

Violence, Sex, Drugs, Obscenities, all those things that fill movie theatres and overflow box office coffers, are they harming our children in real life, in schools?

Strangely, it was not the major consideration when I chose to homeschool my children. I believe children learn best when secure in a loving home environment, with a strong family bond. Schools, in response to much research, try to replicate this bond, calling it a sense of belonging, and include it in their curriculum. The best teachers create this family bond with their students. As a child, did you ever accidentally call your teacher “Mum?” I did once, and blushed.

School teachers like E. R. Braithwaite, Ron Clark and Erin Gruwell inspire me. Anne Sullivan who taught within Helen Keller’s home also inspired me. They didn’t give up on kids who battle daily with circumstances beyond their control. They came up with innovative, creative ways to transcend those circumstances.

Each to their own. I have great respect for the school teacher’s ability to maintain control over a crowd of thirty-odd children. It was hard for me to do that for half an hour with a classroom full of five year olds. I am not a school teacher who sets up a classroom at home. I am a parent, who sets up a home environment to cater for the voracious appetite for learning that children are born with.

What inspires you about your children’s education?

The Cosmic Rolodex

We grow old and die, so slowly, and yet in the blink of an eye. Generations flip past on a cosmic rolodex of family names, blurring into each other, losing meaning, ripping out of the deck or quietly going insane. Now and then the spinning stops and a name stands out in full detail, there is a number to call.

We live like angels, we live like trolls. We spread life or disease, we are crawling on our knees, for prayer or despair, for water or for air. Does it matter, does anyone care?

The rolodex spins faster, it is about to blow apart. Life is birthed, shrivels, greys, passes away, replaced by the next card in the pack. Flipflipflipflip! One pair of eyes watches it, fast. Every name memorized in an instant. Details stored in perfect clarity. These eyes know you. These eyes know me.

Time stops.

Ripped pages steeped in blood are piled up on the floor, where they leaped in evil glee after torturing humanity. One pair of hands sweeps them up and tosses them into the fire. The same hands lovingly straighten the mass of crumpled names that remain on the sullied desktop, smoothing out each crease, tending to each tear.

His desk is wiped clean, his work re-arranged, and quietly does he write each name into brand new card file. Pristine, intact. A thousand years pass. It is a blink of his eye, his pen moves so fast.

You wake up. You and I.

~WilderSoul

Wild Game: Open Season on Opinions

Duck! Shoot that was close! There was a game I played when I was 19 as part of a TV/Film Acting group. We all wrote our strongest belief or opinion on a piece of paper. A line-up of chairs faced a single chair under the spotlight. I gave my piece of paper to the group and walked to the single chair not knowing what to expect. I felt like a sitting duck! My job was to shoot down my own strongest belief. The rest of the group argued loudly in support of my genuine belief! It was Open Season to shoot down my negative view.

Have a go by writing your strongest opinion into a comment. Then press the Reply button on your own comment, and argue the opposite!

Then go hunting for your fellow bloggers’ comments, click the Reply button on their original belief, and argue in support of it. Your reply will line up with the rest under the original comment.

Everyone can join this wild game – many different views can be fired off on this post.

For those who may not have commented before, this could be a perfect opportunity to have some fun standing your ground on an opinion, or playing devil’s advocate.

The belief on my piece of paper was, “I believe in God.”

I love you! Best online shop setup for blogging income.

I love PayPal!

I love Sellbox! (and Dropbox!)

I love WordPress.com!

How exciting. After exploring so many options, these four things have combined together to create a successful way of making a small roadside stall at the end of my virtual driveway.

Thank you to everyone who has come by my humble colouring book and bought it off my virtual shelf. I appreciate you all so very much. Why am I so shy about saying I love you too! I really hope that the colouring pics bring some calm, joy, fun, healing or at least a bit of colour into your lives! That is my peculiar brand of love for you. A little thing. Just a little drop in the virtual bucket.

So far, I have made about $54 NZD and it feels great. I welcome any feedback about what works or doesn’t work with your colouring book download. That’s because I want to make the next one better, and create more after that. Your feedback will help me to improve. Or if it is perfect as it is, then it will help me to keep it the same for others to enjoy for the same reasons you enjoy it!

If you haven’t bought one yet, and are wondering what all the fuss is about, or want to review it and give me a bit of feedback, please try this link: http://sbx.sk/AkD1

Mostly, for all my blogger buddies who also want to make an income of some sort online, please know that I have found something that works for me, and perhaps it will work for you too! Darn good therapy.

Links:

PayPal takes care of all currency conversion, and provides secure payment service, including credit card payment which keeps your credit card details private. They provide financial reporting for tax purposes. http://paypal.com

Sellbox provides a brilliant interface between buyer and product, with space for preview pictures, and the option for donations, and promotion codes with discounts.It’s easy to take the Sellbox link for a product and insert it anywhere on your blog. http://sellboxhq.com

DropBox is cloud storage of your digital files, so they are quickly accessible from anywhere in the world. http://dropbox.com

Or Google Drive, which is also cloud storage. http://drive.google.com

And of course dear WordPress, home of the best blogs ever. http://wordpress.com

Much thanks and loves also these two writers who have greatly helped me along the way.

Opinionated Man at the HarsH ReaLiTy blog taught me  how to build a blog audience. His Blogging Manual e-book is available on Amazon.

John Tighe wrote an excellent book How To Crush It With Kindle, which has taught me and is still teaching me much about how to sell a Kindle e-book. I translate those principles into selling my digital files of any sort on my own blog page.

Doctor doctor

Doctor doctor

there’s a queer swelling in my feet

with dents in my shin-flesh

and an ache in my chest.

Doctor doctor

it’s not all that bad

the ache is when I run

and not when I walk

(except fast uphill)

Doctor doctor

I am feeling rather ill

I’d much prefer bed-rest

than to swallow any pill.

Doctor doctor

I’m falling, I fell

My body stopped moving

although I could still speak rather well.

Yes they called the ambulance

and those good strong men said,

“B.P. 100 over 60, not dead.”

Doctor doctor

Will you let me know soon?

Will food and sleep help me

to conquer this swoon?

Must I stop working at too many things?

Will I stop crawling to drink at the sink?

Will it take long?

I’d like fixin’ soon.

But tell me, doctor, do I ask for the moon?

Safe

Boom,

Wheeeee… fzzzzz

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I hold you tenderly

behind solid door

blocking out the darkness

which frightens you

in lightning bursts of starry fire

 

Gently I cup your small face

against my warm chest

and hum quietly

until your muscles relax

 

We hide in the warm darkness

of a secret room,

peering into the night

together

 

Safe

 

The fear is gone

When the past has been dug up

and the rubbish bundled up and thrown out

The earth smells fresh and sweet

I see you on the street

and my eyes are kind

I say hello

and smile.

 

You say hi, too.

 

The fear is gone.

 

I remember the good times.

When the past was buried deep

And I took you at face-value

Like a delicious pumpkin

growing in the best manure.

 

I wish you sunshine

to warm your tendrils,

and rain to water your rootlets

May light and love surround you

and the darkness melt away.

 

Perhaps one day,

we may have more to say.

The fear has gone away.

What is Poetry?

It’s when an arm and a leg come off,
and squirt all over the page.

It’s when your heart could not be contained
within your chest, so it leapt out on to the paper,
and danced a jig.

It’s when the sorrow overtook you
and turned the tears into a watercolour
of words, inked into permanence.

It’s when an elephant stomped its tracks
through your brain, and the noise
echoed through your fingertips
in mini-stomps over a keyboard.

It’s the after-image
of a thought that got away
from a tight leash
unmuzzled.

It’s the wild frothy waves
ever reaching for the shore
of understanding
Sometimes close,
Sometimes far away.

It’s the shake-everything-up
storm outside, that barrages
the emotions and hurls tears
pummelling at the windows
as we cower inside
waiting for the rage
to subside.

It’s the old man whispering
words of wisdom with
last breath.
Dying softly
at the end of each phrase.

It’s the young girl dreaming
(sorrows tucked into a sleeve)
sunshine trickling from tears
unshed.

It’s the boy dancing in the trees
with stars overhead
singing for the pure joy in his heart.
And the same man, bowed in pain
as he glances up at a streetlight
as he limps through thick fog.

Poetry is a voice
in the dark.
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This was fun. What is poetry to you?