Yay!

Hot on the trail for a short story...this may take a while. Hope my readers don't mind.

The News Came

The news came,
At our doorstep,
And Mom tells me to get the paper.

So I get it, and slap the inky, page-roughened
Slab of print and pictures
On the table,
Just like usual,
And then I lean over Mom’s shoulder (much to her annoyance)
To see the headlines.

The PM’s talking again,
Political jabber, you know,
New policies,
New warplanes,
New sex scandals that he denies.

And there’s prime news,
And you see crying kid in the middle of no-where,
No mom to bring newspapers to,
And the Terrorist, yelling threats and wild prophecies,
But we turn the page quickly,
And the tornadoes (or whirlwinds) and hurricanes (or typhoons),
And we sit shivering in our chairs, discussing which name spells disaster better.

Oh, and did I forget to say that that murderer’s on the loose again?

Then we all get scared,
Talking, sympathetic nods and sighs,
Silent for the moment –the day hasn’t gotten that busy yet.

Weeks pass, and it’s all over.
New things come, more headlines,
More scandals, more jabber.

And last weeks disaster?

Forgotten.

13th

So, the October baby turned thirteen yesterday. Ben teased me by asking if I wanted to be Westernized of Re-Asianified...depending on which auspice I wanted to incur (eternal life or chronic bad luck?).

I just laughed. God bless Josh and Tyatora!

All right, perhaps I should have crossed Tyatora out of that.

So now, here we are. We have passed the straits of Twelve, and I do not see the harbor that always has been in my sights since birth, and now, spyglass in hand, leaning eagerly over my longboat's bow, I stare out into nought but open sea. Ah, now the haven-harbors of birth are but a whisper, everly held in sweet memory, but forgotten for hte most part, and the high, tempestuous passage to hte Second Harbor is ahead. My mind clouds when I see the storms and wild waves before me, and the doubt of old returns to haunt me, but ever must I place my spyglass to true north, and I must find the Harbor, where the streets are gold, and Amentoris Baleyn Yahweh stands great upon his Holy en-throned Hill.

But I am afraid, in more aspects than one. Afraid that the winds will blow my ship and my mind will fly off-course, or my gaze will falter and I will float aimlessly, forgetting the hope of the Harbors, or that the sturdy prow of mine will bend beneath heavy waves and pirates' cannons.

But let the tests come, and may ever the God of the Earth and Sky and Sea guide my ship, and build in my spirit continuous growth in Him and His will, that I will not bend, will not fail, and I will succeed!

I cannot fail, I cannot step back now. I must fight, I must win, I must not bend to the wind or the sky or the sea or mortal man or demon or the terror of flames and of fiends. Endo-Polmori, Vrathua Kyan!

May He steer my prow to sail and yet stand, not bending, not yielding, not weakening;
yet ever giving, ever-determined, and ever-willing to aid.
May the Lord Almighty in this year and life to make me all he desires me to be.
I pray that my ways may one day please and bring delight to Him, if mortal men may even feign to do so.

Amen

Crows and Their Squawking

I think about crows often,
Those little beastly fiends with
Dirty, patched, black coats and
Long, nasty, claws; all bony, like condemning fingers.

And wings outstretched in flight,
Arched garishly like the
Dark-Tattooed arms of
City thugs.

And their squawking.
No, none of that polite songbird chirrup,
Nor hearty country accents of chickens and ducks,
Nor eagles' calls, ringing through mountains.
But boastful, empty, brawling speech,
Of fight and flight
And rotten meat.

But I think,
Somewhere,
Deep inside them,
Behind that beastly,
Thuggish mop of ugly feathers and mud and city dirt,

They remember, of days so long ago,
When the food was plenty and the people better,
When they had once been a kinder, happy race of
Laughing, jolly birds.

I think they cry for what the have become,
(but never in front of us, mind you)
And don't know how to get back.

And maybe they try,
By cawing louder and eating cruder,
To make the world remember them.

Not that we bothered to turn our heads their way.

And maybe, they try,
To sing, like the pretty little birds that chirp about them,
Trying to hum old songs,

But we only hear their squawking, instead.

This is it!

That's it. That's it it it it. I've delayed, posting this, but my hope, the faintest chance of rekindling it -Gone! Gone with the wind! Slain are the bloggers! Woe and war on Troy! Andoqhra yavlian!

Why is no one blogging anymore?

Don't tell me everyone here is too busy to blog. Okay, a few of us are. But what about the others? The wealth and depth and richness of Blogger and Wordpress has been forsaken...and for what?! The empty, material, culture-less, secular, indulgences of the f-word: Facebook

Yes, and I'm on facebook, playing farmville and restaurant city like the rest...so you can speculate on the hypocrisy on this post, while I hide my head in shame.

(Trying to write more poems...on the trail searching for a short-story idea...hope my readers don't mind)