i run everytime i come near it

leap away with the laughs and smiles

that will cover up the wounds from my panic

i cover the scars with the jackets

one look will bring me back to my thoughts

take me away from my insanity

for i hide from my mind, i fear it

and run every time i come near it

A storm approaches.

Crashing winds.

The sea, it churns.

Free will means little.

The rain begins.

Animals, trees, drenched.

Weeping leaves collapse,

teardrops for a better day.

Across the horizon,

bright fields, birds sing.

Their song is not for me.

Shivering, I stand.

Clouds follow as I roam.

Even the sun-soaked fields

would fade to gray.

The animals flee.

I heard a story once,

of how light prevails.

Why do we allow

optimists to write myths?

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

the way the blood starts dripping down.

because if I’d have known the pain,

i would never had stayed around. 

I see the parts of you too often,

in someone’s smile or the way they talk,

and my thoughts come back to you,

like hands on a midnight clock.

you see, I think I hear your voice,

behind every corner that I turn, 

so you can imagine the shattering pieces,

when it’s your laugh i beg to unlearn.

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

the way my heart starts beating blue

suffocated by my swollen fingers,

which held on so tight to you. 

I ran to distant corners,

to forget our fantazised dreams,

but now I see them in hollow mirrors,

and hear your whispers as ehoing screams.

it brought me to my knees,

when I passed a stranger along the way,

who smelled of your faint whiskey,

putting our favorite songs on replay.

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

or how its dies alone,

forgotten by past heartaches,

with no one to call it’s own.

So i guess that was a lie, 

because if I got to chose once more,

I’d choose you a hundred times,

to fix the heart you tore.

But here I am now,

in this strange and unknown land,

and I wish on the stars for you,

for one last adventure to go unplanned. 

so I hope you think of me,

and see me in everything you do

I think we’re stuck in a twisted mirror

because everywhere I look, there’s you.

#prose #poetry #poet

Every new verse

must find it path.

It light must shine

through

the tiniest cracks

of my life.

I might be

the one

putting the letters

in a system.

My password

are attached

to the writing

page.

It’s you

that keeps the

bulb on

so I can see

the keyboard.

It’s you that

appears

in my dream

when my

life flows

with the wind.

You are the

prose...

Not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m going back to school to get a Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Why? Great question.

For one thing, it’s been a dream I’ve had for more than 40 years — a dream I could not realistically pursue because of family obligations, like car payments, house payments, kids, and things. Now I’m retired. That means I’ve got time on my hands. Decided to make use of it by investing in myself.

Going back to school at this stage of my life (I’ll be 75 next year) may sound crazy, but the great thing about writing is that there’s no age limit. None. You can start at age 6 or age 60. I started in my late 20s as a reporter for a small twice-weekly newspaper. Loved it. Decided to get a degree, which I did in 1977, thanks to the GI Bill. Got a job right out of college as a sports writer. Then covered local news. Eventually became a copy desk editor. Then a section editor. When I retired, I was news editor for a small chain of up-and-coming publications. But 2008 happened. Economy froze. Real estate market collapsed. Automobile dealerships closed. “The Great Recession.” As a result, the media group I worked for cut back drastically. My job was eliminated. Sad. Sad. Sad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

What did I do?

Started freelance writing/editing, mostly news releases. Wrote a book—“Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales.” Edited two other books for friends. Wrote poems, too. (That’s why I hooked up with TheProse.com ... It’s my sandbox. Where I get to play with words. Have fun. Rhyme stuff. And sometimes not.)

Back to the point:

Why am I going back to school?

To get better at my craft. Like Hemmingway did.

Let me close with this. It’s a quote from one of my favorite writers ― C.S. Lewis:

“You are never too old to set another goal, or to dream a new dream.”

Is that a true statement? I expect to find out. The hard way. One write at a time. I’ll try to keep y'all posted along the way ― assuming the college accepts my application. Why wouldn’t they? I’m a writer, right?

PS: Why did I post photos of Sylvester Stallone & Robert De Niro? Stallone was in “Rocky”; De Niro, “Raging Bull.” Both are boxing movies. Intense. Brutal. Like writing ― when your words drop to the page like blood falling from a battered face. “BAM!”

The theme from “Rocky”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r81AviZECUE

I’ve always been told that I need to listen to my gut. As if my gut is some kind of wise master with vast amounts of secret knowledge that even I am not privy to.

I am very, very suspicious of my gut. Because isn’t my gut just the subconscious spouting haphazardly constructed algorithms from an accumulation of past experiences? What if my experiences are wrong? Memories can be surprisingly unreliable. Just think of all the wrongfully identified criminals. Or that experiment where 25% of people remembered a childhood memory of being lost in a mall they’ve never been to. Yeah, not exactly a stellar resume, gut.

So instead, I like to waste an inordinate amount of time deconstructing every situation and analyzing every option until I am so mind-numbingly exhausted that I just pick the option that my gut was telling me to choose in the first place.

I will say, for the most part, Ms. Gut does end up making pretty decent decisions. So maybe I should give her some credit. I still don’t trust her 100% though.

Side note: How I titled this post reminds me of that Ariana Grande song “Positions” and I cannot unthink it. Also, “gut” no longer feels like a real word.

Mirrors are terrifying things. One, for what they reflect about yourself that is true; and two, for what they do not reflect that you wish was true.

Mirrors are unrelenting in their honesty; they do not lie or cushion reality. Yet, they are also kind in that they don’t exaggerate. What you see is what you get—no more, no less. Then why do many a viewer accuse their looking glass of being a harsh, unforgiving critic? I believe it’s in the double-fold nature of the thing. A mirror is an object, made of reflective metal or glass; it’s not sentient—it has no thoughts or feelings. One cannot rationally blame their mirror for what they see in it. At the same time, your mirror is an instrument that reveals a part of yourself you often desire to forget. No wonder we hate them, even up to hiding or smashing them in horror or rage.

I’ve had my own quibbles with my mirror, employing a myriad of avoidance or selective viewing tactics. But I’ve realized that in detesting my mirror, I detest my reflection; and in detesting my reflection, I detest myself. Projecting my fears or disgust on an inanimate third party does not remove my issues with myself, it only delays them and the inevitability of confrontation. While I work at ignoring my own reality, I’m ignoring the deeper harm inflicted upon my soul.

I think we all know you can’t deal with a problem by avoiding it. However, self-reflection issues seem to be more vague, and therefore deeper, obscurer, more difficult to exorcise.

It starts with a willingness to be utterly honest with ourselves. Ask the hard questions, which are invariably the right questions. Embrace our truth, no matter what it looks like; in the end, our reflection is what we make of it.

And stop blaming our poor innocent mirrors.

Stark naked, she runs in noiseless screams

fading trails of destiny wisp across sky

the moon sets in silence behind her fears

her blood bleeds colorless grains of time

full moon floods lights on desperate soul

rotating columns of light twist and spin

we’re all the same, we’re all alone

somber and deep cries of ebony skies

walking barefoot on husks of crushed stars

golden wine of moon poured on her sorrows

moon’s fiery brow of incestuous affinity

urges her to yield to endless tomorrow of sleep

moon devours her soul and then spits it out

we’re all the same, we’re all alone

In a criminal climate

when the will goes to bed,

but the factory chugs on...

...dispensing the bread...

I am in the backroom now,

here nursing my wounds,

also filing my talons

on the knives and the spoons...

I don't want this mad violence!...

All I want is my home,

and the peace that we've nurtured

will remain where it's sown.

I won't let them take over;

breaking plates over scalps...

Pray for light over darkness...

Call your love down to help.

Will you answer us Jesus?...

We need all of your powers...

Wave our spot-light to heaven

aching for you to see

that we're out on a limb for you,

with both hearts on our sleeves.

©

2/21/21

Bunny Villaire

Hi all! A poem of mine involving a reimagining of the myth of Narcissus and Echo has been published in a dream, selective (there was a less than 2.9% acceptance rate this issue!) magazine of mine called Perhappened Mag! I would appreciate it endlessly if you read it here, seeing as it’s a poem I’m proud of!:

https://www.perhappened.com/echotakesaloversunnyvuong.html

Along with that, the rest of this Issue 08: LOVERS is amazing as well! We were told that out of the over 1,000 submissions Perhappened received, 29 pieces were chosen for publication. Please enjoy this journal’s hard work along with some amazing writers’ pieces! https://www.perhappened.com/issue8lovers.html