Today

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    Today

    The hardest thing about writing is capturing your thoughts, before another comes along to crowd it from your imagination. So, today I bought a new journal and took off to find a quiet place, to listen to myself.I loaded myself, my new journal, with its crisp unsoiled pages, my favorite pen and a pack of smokes into my truck. I drove just a short while before deciding to go atop a nearby hill, over looking the town, in which I live.Once there, I began to write...



    Watching rainclouds lumber across the sky and broken rainbows, looking for recognition. Hearing the wisp of automobiles and the grunt of distant dirt bikes. The barking of peoples pets, mixed with the shallow thunder growling over the town. An occasional proud rooster crows out to the day. I sit quietly listening, hoping to hear a child's laughter,(No sweeter sound)but I am not rewarded.


    No cheery chimney smoke, or church bells ringing. And, this town feels empty now.


    I ask myself; Do these people just go to the store to shop and the barber for a haircut? Do they only go to the church to read about God? Is life some sort of robotic function for them? When asked,"What are you doing today?", do they already know or, is life like guessing where the next lightening bolt may strike?


    The clouds are closer now, breaking up into smaller bits of ghostly cotton swaths. Changing without preconceived conceptions of what they should be.


    I remember, while driving up to the top of this hill, I passed another truck, on the rocky desert trail. In that truck, were two young men, or boys on the bridge to manhood, possibly, and they were pulling behind them, an old boat. The boat had no trailer, so they were actually dragging it along with the pickup. There is no source of water for many miles around to float a boat. After all, this is the desert; So, I would suppose this to be a very odd scene but at the time I found it to be exuberating.


    We are creatures of life.If we begin to see each blade of grass, as the same; If we see the forest but not the trees; If the wind is nothing but an annoyance to us; If babies do not amaze us; If you cannot find an interesting pile of rocks, or if we do not ever sit quietly and listen to the sounds around us, are we a part of this life?


    And now, the cheery chimneys begin to smolder and the church bells begin to ring; Summoning the parishioners and the laughing children. And I will drive down off the hillside and tell you, this is what I did today...

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    mamasan commented on Today

    11-05-2009

    Ah you paint a picture and bring to life the eternal quest for the joy and the bliss and you feed it with hope. How? By the picture of the two boys on the bridge of manhood dragging a boat with their pickup. Wow, this told me that those these boys were in a desert they never gave up their quest to sail out of their dilemma. Wow your really good and I enjoyed this story.

    BluesPreacher

    11/19/2009

    Thank you mamasan, These are the things I wish I had the time, the vision and the financial backing, ha ha, to write about every day.

    laydbak1 commented on Today

    07-05-2009

    This was a nice free-style write which opened a story of a day in the life of a bystander... Who just so happened, to take the time to notice the world from a different view... Good write...

    ginga commented on Today

    06-29-2009

    I love this BP. It has a feeling of Walt Whitman's prose to me. It is alluring and wonderful to know that you observed this. The last two stanzas are most extraordinary in my book (and your journal). Ginga

    BluesPreacher

    07/01/2009

    Thank you Ginga, I relive the momment each time I read it. And the comparision to Walt, well thats a great honor.

    DSLitz commented on Today

    05-02-2009

    you have crawled inside my soul and captured every thought of mine in this poem. it is so real, love the imagery...all i can really say is...wow! great poem...

    BluesPreacher

    07/01/2009

    Thank you for your comments on all my poems. They are very generous.

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    BluesPreacher’s Poems (25)

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