tended with opened hands

for giving sparks

to the storyline of Lives

Indeed we never die

scorched in Hell

beneath hot springs

. . . We rise . . .

glowing embers

of Remembrances

returning out

to live again

perennial

Six spades below

the strike of

recognition

and still

digging

. . . . .

*in memory of Kikuo Sama, who lived to 800 years

04.04.2023

Myth- Life and Death @Ola_8

on the counter is the mug with the chipped handle and a ring from the cup of ice water that I poured in the orchids, there is really only one orchid, but it felt better than saying that I split it with the monstera, that night I will not sleep, the bedroom door is painted in three parts Bit O Sugar and one part Lamb’s Skin with two packets of glitter to remind myself that I love the sunlight, the idea will clog up behind my eyelids, twinkle against the worry that I might forget these thoughts by morning, and both will coalesce with the sound of the fan and the sound of the wind, and I will bolt up from almost sleep and remember that there is a light I forgot in the violet room, it will be bouncing off the mirror, I will pretend to sleep, and the black sheets will pretend to be satin, there is still packing to do for the weekend, the floors are not swept, this is most likely not a poem, but you’re reading it, and I wait for my coffee with a headache

The beads whisper ssshhhh as they shift,

tumbling over and into each other like waves.

A child laughs in wonder at the brilliance

the beauty formed

from cheap glass beads and a paper tube

Turning, turning, turning

until the patterns become muted

by the loss of novelty.

There's a sad longing in knowing

How impossibly long it would take

To see that same first pattern again

But that wouldn't matter,

as the child cannot recall just what it looked like -

They just turn the Kaleidoscope,

knowing the pattern is never the same.

In Kaleidoscope's chamber of glass,

Colors whirl in a dizzying mass,

Patterns shifting with each twist,

A beauty that's hard to resist.

Nature's elements, like glass and light,

Mingle and blend, a constant sight,

The sea and sky, earth and air,

A picture that's always rare.

Humans too, like glass and light,

Each one unique, a different sight,

Colors, shapes, and sizes galore,

A diversity that we adore.

But differences can cause some strife,

And often lead to conflict and life,

Yet in this kaleidoscope of ours,

We find strength in diversity's powers.

For we are the pieces, and life's the turning,

Together creating, our world's still churning,

A tapestry of colors and light,

A kaleidoscope of love and insight.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Today on the channel, we push some good product, as usual. Pure, uncut, above any street value or money, the words of these writers have come along to us recently, and we wanted to introduce them to our seasoned Prosers. Also, do a shot every time I say Corner Chicken in the first two minutes of the video. You'll be feeling pretty fine...

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As always.........

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Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

We are updating our email list to keep you informed on all of our exciting, new features! Don't forget to drop your username, so we know who you are. I look forward to hearing from you.

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And, as always.........

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The mist shrouded the mountain like a snake that is about to squeeze its prey

At this place, far away from human civilization, I found my nirvana—

fresh air, fresh view, and fresh climb

Trees stretched their fingers towards the azure sky while bees and flies

circled around their trunks, always searching for something,

maybe blossoms that never grew on the branches

I too, am searching for something...

Peace and serenity

Darting around in circles, the swallows performed gymnastics as they rushed upwards, plunged down in neat swoops, and then spiraled into the air

Grey-headed bullfinches sat unperturbedly on flowering bushes and fruit-laden trees

as rain lightly licked their feathers

A bird hopped on its feet and looked at me with curious, black eyes

I stood there, unmoving

A straw-thatched house perched on a grassy slope, its door ajar as if inviting me in From the west, a puff of wind lightly tingled the straw on the roof and dipped its fingers in the sluggish river below

Sheltered by lush plants and friendly animals, I even forgot that this was a tourist site—it was a comfortable home for me

However, my reverie was broken when my mother

and some crazy monkeys stepped in my way

“Smile!” my mother yelled to me as she snapped a picture

of me gaping at the mountain

“Oh mom, you broke the silence!” I complained

“We’re going down the mountain anyway,” she replied

As I descended, I took one last look at the startling Giotto-blue sky

and the swallows that dotted it

But before my we reached the bottom, several monkeys blocked the way

One monkey grabbed my leg and hugged it as if it were a precious piece of banana

Another monkey approached and reached for my floral scarf

I was aware that Mom was probably saving this memory inside her camera

As I detangled out of the monkeys’ reaches, I realized that

I was actually enjoying their presence—

that was until one jumped on my back and tried to rip my hair out

And I also realized that my water bottle in my backpack was gone

As I veered off into the craziness that represents my world,

I stole a moment to just breathe,

took in the magnificent view,

and found peace to take with me

But even with the flowers, trees, and other parts of nature

that I feverishly love so much,

from the safe haven of my backyard to the green spaces of the park,

I felt at peace on this mountain

I rested on the rocky slope overlooking the mountain,

able to gaze out much farther and stand much taller than I typically can

I enjoyed the rough climb upwards because at the apex

I could survey what looked like the whole world

On that mountain, I realized that what captured my heart about the climb is that once I reached my destination, I became part of Nature—

I was in the clouds,

the river flowing below,

the ghostly mist,

the twittering birds,

and the playful monkeys

You’ve seen him before. You’ve seen him before. That man who stands at your door, his boots’ shadows streaked on your floor.

You curl your hand around the doorknob and wait for a knock; but father’s grandfather clock ticks as you count to six and winter wind whistles bristles up your chin when you pull the door on to find the man already gone.

You’ve seen him before: that thought you can’t ignore as you tear your eyes off bedroom ceiling and groan slipping out of bed, slipping on your coat, slipping through the black that slips bobbing past your back catching blinds’ each moonlit crack. You click on the heat with fingers weak and sit under striped window glow—that window you know, that window you curl before thinking thoughts before of the man you can’t ignore.

You know this view and that comforts. You know twilight’s fog that gathers insulation around streetlamps’ drizzled beams that hold your fixation, calm your frustration, burn a flirtation with otherworldly dreams bursting at the seams. You know this window, know that fog, know that insomnia that takes you from dreams you know—you know, when you glance at the ticking you know, you’ll find father’s clock he gave you last September to remember your nest when you sit at your window depressed. You know this view, vent’s musty humming on your lips, furnace wafting their blush you knew.

“But do I know you?” you whisper with a shiver.

Your breath fogs the fog through the glass playing the past in your reflection. You breathe into mind’s reflection of the man you thought you saw before, think you see now in your eyes and your brow till breath’s fog fogs out your reflection.

You stand. You stretch. You yawn, waiting for dawn, pacing through window’s light show, thinking of the man you think you know:

Not because he stood at your door, not because you await a friend’s visit,

But because you felt his being without seeing, without hearing a toe on your forty-year-old patio, the same you very well know.

Indeed, it’s not a friend’s visit for which you wait, but a chill over window’s sill, at the foot of the doorway where stepped the foot of a man—that chill you await, hugging your chest, never knowing how late air’s bite might clamp down your fate on a date you’d never have guessed.

You drag your hands down your face, turn to the door, hunching to brace against winter wind because you can’t anymore—you can’t wait anymore. You can’t wait for the man to return to your door. You must see if you’ve seen him before.

You swing open the door and his name touches your tongue and cold fills your lung and you heard it! You heard it long ago! You think you know. You swear you heard it young—that name so unsung—as dying breeze rattles the door you swung.

Your brows tense. Your sister passed young; his name moves your tongue:

“Death.”

It saturates your breath. Death.

“He’s the stranger who came to the door.”

Tick, tock goes the grandfather clock, whispering from window light, sealing winter’s bite, joining your internal talk:

“Death’s the man coming ’round the block.”

He’s not so much a stranger as the danger you ignore till his croak calls no more for the pain you felt before. You’ve seen him before. You’d seen him before.

You choke back a cry and instead release a sigh as you step out the door and into dark dawn’s mist, balling a frostbit fist. You puff, you scuff asphalt you don’t feel, hard, hard earth beneath your heel, and tell yourself, keep telling yourself,

“This isn’t real.”

But your phone glows in your trembling hands: thirty-three missed calls of the croak again calling for the bawling you’ve curbed in your fist’s balling. You tap the first of the voicemails poured through the night.

“It’s your father—something’s come up—” chokes Mom. “Just call me, all right?”

Your phone slips through your fingers. You stop in the street, stop mid-stride. Your father has—father has—

All your life, your father had tried.

Your legs seize and you fall to your knees, road’s shock shooting tremors through your wheeze. Your tears splatter asphalt earthquakes, your ears between shoulder shakes. Chin to your chest, rocks in your breast, you rediscover all your breaks, as the stranger who came to your door steps his boots before yours.

They swirl air’s vapor around your knees where mists taper.

His boots. Your wide eyes gleam a reflection of the feet you’ve seen; but, this time, through doubt’s veil, beyond this temporal trail, you see more than shadow. Your phone sputters the second voicemail and you stare at the boots of the stranger you know.

He came, he came. You remember his name.

“Please call me,” says your mother into the ground, your phone face-down. “Your father, he’s burning up—”

You press yourself up, cast your eyes up, grimace looking up the silhouette of the reaper that came before and wonder if you’re too done for. The sun vaults horizon, squints your stare, Death’s face blocked by a glare.

The next voicemail plays.

“He’s passed. Around six—they say he went fast.”

“Six?” you mouth.

Six p.m. yesterday: seconds before that stranger came. Your breath bursts out your lips as the man, smiling down, softly grips your shoulder kindling flame. The fog dies; cheek’s tear dries; before a blazing sunrise, stands the man who shares your eyes.

You’ve seen him before, the man you’ve always had. The man who came to your door, that angel is your dad.