To William (Wherever You Are)

I dreamed of you last night.

Why are you the only one

from Then

who visits me in dreams?

You were out of place

in our group of youthful cynics.

Maybe that's why you left.

You went seeking your own kind:

idealists,

believers in passion,

those with faith in love 

everlasting.

I hope you found it.

Why do I suspect

disappointment

still follows you

like a personal rain cloud,

always drizzling?

In my dreams for you

I see a lovely wife

who thinks you hung the moon.

Bright and beautiful children

who hang on your every word.

Is that what you found?

Or did you give up,

surrender to despair

at the end of a rope

or the wrong end of a gun?

I wonder if I'll ever know.

I kissed you last night,

held your hand,

wouldn't let you go.

My husband was un-jealous.

He knew

you and I

were too different
for anything real.

Some people leave without quitting the room;

you walked away completely.

Your too-common name

made you Houdini,

untraceable.

I still await your return.
But only in dreams and fantasies.


This is a Sunday Scribblings post.

Beginnings

In the beginning every door was open.

So many choices!

Such broad vistas!

But each door taken closes others;

that's their dirty little secret.

It's what they don't tell you in their classrooms

and churches

and in those rooms of comfy couches and placid pictures

where people speak in soothing tones,

smiling their sympathetic smiles.

On the streets and in the cube farms,

under the buzzing lights,

they understand but have no pity:

Buck up, camper!

That's just the way it is!

spoiledslackerwhinerwhodoyouthinkyouare?

There is no mercy for those who mourn the truth,

who see the narrowing of the pyramid we climb

and grieve the loss of empty space below.

You want choices?

You must turn back,

but that is

Not. Allowed.

irresponsiblechildishweirdoshe'sastrangeoneisn'she?

Tell them to go to hell.

Time isn't a line, but a field.

If you want the joy of choice,

the whole buffet of tasty options,

you must abandon this trajectory

and return to how it was

in the beginning.

Author's Note: This is not where I am at present, although it's a place I'm familiar with. I wrote this for a couple of my regular readers. You know who you are.  This is also a Sunday Scribblings post.

Contrary

Morning dos and evening don'ts,

each meeting fraught with meaning.

In a world saturated with expectations,

you ask for nothing.

So I give all.

Writing Memes

Writing memes on the web seem to come and go, and lately a lot have gone into hiatus or gone away entirely. If I were to host a weekly meme, what would it be?

• We have the example of word-based memes, such as Three Word Wednesday.
• We have picture-based memes, such as Magpie Tales.
• We have theme-based memes, such as Sunday Scribblings.
• We have format-based memes, such as the now-defunct Sunday 160 and in-hiatus Friday 55.
• And we have The Serialists, which requires posts to be related to each other, preferably in a series. 

What's a meme host supposed to do?

With a retreat and two conferences coming up, I have about a month to figure it out and maybe come up with a snazzy logo, too.  If you, dear writer, have any ideas as to what kind of writing meme you'd like to see here, let me know!

Wild Season

It never entered my head

that you had lost your mind.

Reckless, but surely not mad,

your crazy notions inspired my own insanity.

Our disturbed imaginings multiplied

like wild March Hares.

We upset the cozy tea party.

Friends fled, guests scattered,

and finally it was just us,

alone at a dirty table with our empty cups.

I'm no longer blind to what should've been clear.

With no map to guide me back and no way to follow your trail,

I'm alone in a feral land.

I must tame my own wilderness.


This is a Sunday Scribblings post.