Ahh, you were thinking I'd actually dropped a day and wouldn't get back to it! I know you were! Well, I didn't. Even the Fat Kid has a social calendar some days, and this weekend ended up being a pair of social engagements that invaded my writing time. C'est la vie! On the other hand, it also means that I don't lock myself away in the scriptorium and become a recluse, so I suppose this is a good thing.
First, I'd like to share with you all a poem I was sent from a person I consider a very gifted artist. In this particular piece, I personally find a strange (in the good way) rhythm, and when I was told WHAT inspired the piece, well, it all made sense. No, I'm NOT going to tell you - it's not all that difficult to figure out on your own, and if you're paying attention, I'm sure you'll get some of the same feeling the artist intended. Enjoy!
SPRING PATCHWORK
4-runnering one grey spring day:
Wintery hillsides bursting undergrowth,
Yellowing shades to evergreen,
Interrupting blinking towers,
Fall's browned teasel staking roadsides,
Wild dogwoods sprinting among shad bush and bridal veil,
Rolling hills striped with coal,
Rocking streams streaked with purple filigree.
Stone walls fencing soft pines,
Sentinel sycamores stalwart amid sweeping russian olives,
Rusting fields newly tilled,
Grey shack shadowing lonely creek,
Sleeping wild mustard fields;
A dogleg trip to Virginia or Connecticut?
To anywhere, live,
The Master's Quilt, perfectly pieced!
And now for something of mine!!
The Craftsman
My hands tell a story;
beaten, battered, scarred but strong,
rough from the work I do.
I am ashamed of them, at times,
how could such things hope to hold beauty?
they do not belong to touch finery,
my world, a mueum in which I may only see with my eyes.
But my eyes do not see,
what my fingers behold.
the eye is keen and critical,
it knows the errors, the imperfections,
where to look to see what the hands have hidden.
My hands tell the story of creating.
Oh geeze, on this, the last day of the Challenge, you get a two-fer!! Wait, I suppose technically, it's a three-fer! Huh, who knew? This last one is for all those who ever felt alone in any environment, or just like you don't fit in.
Apart
The world spins around me,
I cannot keep pace.
Ever traveling from place to place,
incongrous with the rhythm.
Conversations abound,
I am a part of them, and not,
I want to add to them, but dare not say anything.
I am the clown, mute and amusing.
But I do not belong here.
I am called to somewhere else,
my mind races with other thoughts.
I cannot explain it to you,
but only know that I am becoming something more,
something greater than I was.
In this, I am alone.
Solitary.
One.
from everything else,
Apart.
And there you have it. That's it - the end of the 3rd Annual Poetry Challenge. Reflections on this year's Challenge will be brief, but I cannot part without a few words:
First, Thank You - especially to the select few whom I KNOW have been regular - if not daily- readers. Thanks for your comments, your compliments, your critiques, and your criticisms (yes, the last two are different when speaking in literary terms.) I hope that you have been inspired in some small way to write your own - or to continue to write your own words.
Secondly, it strikes me that there are a few themes running through this year - however unintentionally they are. If you've gotten nothing else, please, take the following: Don't give up, even if you suck at something. Even if it's so tough, you think it will get the better of you, don't ever give up. The rewards of persistence are worth it.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
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