Writing these words while the mist begins to clear
long time spent staring at the next empty line
a clear understanding of the game being played
reveals manufactured distractions to create the decline
Sorry for interrupting the poem. However, the necessity to explain, something others have demanded. Being the minimalist, I rather enjoyed the one hundred-forty character limitation. With all that is going on today, getting the news becomes paramount, but, another however. I hate abbreviations like “i c u 2” and the like
Pretending, believing, there IS still plenty of time
convincing myself, “poetry is not a crime”
Many distractions of which Twitter® is one
has proved to be both entertaining and fun
But if you see @apoetsailor, do say something, I hope
tweet me saying “…back to your writing you dope.”
I’ll get the hint, and the nudge I surly need
who knows, things happen, you have planted the seed.
“Your doing what?” A friend yelled at me. “Your letting them read, and have it for free?”
“But I want them to read, and see what I see. Their comments are wonderful, it has to be free.” Now I’m sharing with you, a small problem I have. To cover expenses, a problem so sad. Such a small problem yet, a problem indeed. Blogging cost are accelerating, thus causing a need. Mailing service monthly bill, and Hosting services too, miscellaneous expenses, “Oh what shall I do?”
“Ask for donations, their comments say you’re a scholar. If they like what you’ve written, they’ll give you a dollar.”
You might think this poem is for money for me, but it’s about the expenses, and keeping the site free. So now I must ask (humbly) for a dollar or two, my PayPal™ account will accept donations from you. With heavy heart I have asked, and now carry on. My account name at PayPal™ is: firstname.lastname@example.org Thank you for reading, and spending your time. Thank you for sharing, your comments are fine. I’m sorry I’m asking, for money from you, but think for a moment, “Just what would you do?”
“No, it don’t work that way. You tell me what number you called, and I’ll tell you if it’s my number, or not.”
Wow! I answered the telephone, allowing it to completely interrupt my thoughts. I do have an appetite for communication, though not the above abbreviated, nonsensical, rude miscommunication the caller abruptly ended.
1968 Summer Job – Cattle Ranch in the Santa Barbara Mountains
“So, why don’t you publish your poetry?”, the horse asked across forty plus years of time. “You’ve been covering every scrap of paper, with your weird silly prose and distorted rhyme.”
“I would really like to write a novel”, Sailor said. “Many stories are swirling in my mind. The problem is with, the number of words, as if brevity were a crime.” Sailor then continued, “As a poet”, he said. “I’ve become a minimalist, discarding extemporaneous words with no thought. You see they clutter the rhythm with extra syllables……”
“……and you said you couldn’t be taught.”
“This horse,” Sailor thought, “is smarter than he looks.” So he decided to stay for awhile.
“You Conservatives are easy to spot.”, the horse said. “Turning everything into a trial.”
Sailor thought about this, as his mind slowly turned to a smile. “You Liberals want all of us, except you of course, to give-up the extra mile.” Sailor held back for a moment, thinking how he would say, concerning the pet-peeve that was bothering him today.
“Most of the books”, Sailor said. “That are very popular today. You know the ones on the best sellers roll, will all just probably decay.” Sailor was getting excited, expressing the punishment he had felt. “They tell me my poetry is wonderful, but the novels …..well …..they smelt.”
“Guess I didn’t properly stimulate their senses”, Sailor thought. “……..no spectacular vivid picture, their attention was not caught. I want to grip the notions up-in their mind. They say my poetry is colorful, …but writing is wasting my time.”
“Have you found when you’re writing”, the horse said, craftily switching the theme, “Do you ever find your repeating yourself, …that perhaps your loosing the dream?”
Sailor sat and thought for awhile, not wanting to tell the horse a lie. “I strip out all of the extra words, redundancy would just make it die.” Then he exclaimed, “No! I don’t repeat myself, for a minimalist that would be simply wrong. Like taking the voice of Madonna, …then asking her to sing us a song.”
“OK, so your brief.” The horse mockingly said. “Guess that lets you write it real fast, but the words quickly read, are soon to be dead, proving poetry will never last.” With a smug sort of snort, the horse showed his rapport, causing Sailor to slowly turn ’round. “Tell me about the book you are reading.” The horse asked with ease. “It’s right over there, ………where you dropped it, ……There! ……under the trees.”
Sailor picked up his book, put it back in his pack, then he started to drift far away. He thought of a crime, now committed in time, knowing advertisers never give sway. Commercials dominate the TV shows, broadcaster must keep you from drifting away. “Let’s tell ’em what we’re goin’na to tell ’em, hook ‘um with anticipation, this will make them stay.”
“I don’t watch TV”, the horse said. “To little content, it’s not worth my valuable time.” He said this because, Sailor procrastinates, wasting most of his day, while managing to work in pantomime.
Then came the slamming of a door, the dream, ……….far to quickly ended. The horse reached out, ‘cross space and time, solutions have been tended.
The story need not be long for the Poet to sing you his song, for he knows he can tell you stories this way. With rhythm and rhyme and sweet prose, he’ll keep you up on your toes, while all the time hopping you’ll forever stay.
The day passed with our survival all. Each and every one recovered from the squall. Michael was asking, if any of us knew. He said he would tell us, so not be blue.
“I wonder how many of you, know the real story, about when we celebrate Christmas, and all of its glory?” Michael stopped for a moment, giving us all time to think, then he looked to the Universe, and gave it a wink.
“Christmas is celebrated, in December because, Pope Julius the First, needed a special faux pas. The Pagans were dominating the winter’s festive creations. The Christian were left out of the celebrations. From year zero to well after 300 AD, Christ birth was celebrated in April, you see. Pope Julius, wanting to crush the Pagans declared, the Pagan’s high holiday must then be snared.”
At this point I wondered if this was all true, promising later today I had a task to do. To discover the truth, and ferret out the lies, connecting all the stories, and finding the ties.
Michael continued on, thus fulfilling his need, “Pope Julius declared the Church had decreed: Our Lord Jesus Christ was born on the longest night of the year. The Pagans stole your holiday, to suppress all your cheer, thus inciting the Christians of the Fourth Century, into creating celebrations, greater than their enemy’s.”
“They were to take the celebrations, move them from April to December, overwhelming the Pagan party, with a specular “Story” to remember.”
Michael stopped talking, this made us all think. “You know,” he said, “actions like this, really stink.”
He continued his story, describing this nasty deed, but telling the truth, is his only need. “Christmas then dominated the winter holidays, while the Pagan’s solstice party slipped into an obscure malaise. No one still living, knows the real truth. (When was Christ born?) No one knows, not even the great sleuth.”
I asked Michael why he was telling us this, he said, “To keep you informed, and way above the mist.” After a moment he added, “I know it’s the celebration, not the day of the year, but distortions like this, make me shed a big tear.”
That’s the end of my story, when I learned of the truth. Another piece of trivial information showing they are uncouth. When you give them the power to make decisions for you, you loose your ability to see what is true.
I am very sure someone will tell me who wrote that, perhaps in a comment or an email. They would get the credit, if only they would supply a real name. Then they would need to provide a Real email address. I cannot believe how many people lie (in public). Over-and-over they break the Eighth Commandment with impunity. .VIII. You shall not bear false witness (LIE). A good place to start is with the truth.
Leaving elaborate and complimentary comments to disguise the real intent. To advertise for free on some unsuspecting bloggers site. Most bloggers don’t moderate their comments. This allows these advertisers to plant, for-profit URL’s all over the World Wide Web. It’s the shot-gun method. Plant as many URL’s, on as many sites as you can, hoping for that one-in-a-thousand hit. I, on-the-other hand, monitor all comments, remove (delete) all for-profit URL’s (unless the commentator is the owner of the site) and delete all phony (the ones that are oblivious) names & bogus email addresses.
The really funny part is that I have the commenter’s IP address, and can (with a few clicks of the mouse), obtain the GPS location (address) the comment originated from. There are hundreds of thousands, no, millions of thousands of WEB sites on the World Wide Web (I have two that I own, and six others that are on free blog sites with my own unique URL.
Now, I wonder how many comments were real, and which ones were just a ruse to plant their URL. A few asked questions, and when I took the time to email an answer — moments after sending I would receive a bounce telling me the email address did not exist, (A LIE). This makes the commenter a liar, attempting to hide from the truth, and thinking they are running some sort of home business.
Another beautiful sunny morning on the North Shore of Lake Superior. It’s the summer of ’91 and MK gave me “The Mist of Avalon”. I read the book from cover-to-cover (almost without stopping). That night, the full Moon rose over Lake Superior, above a cloudless sky. Having seen this view many times from my little hill atop the world, I was surprised that it was as if I were seeing it for the first time. The truth revealed impressed itself upon me, changing me once and forever – the complete respect I have for all the ladies of my life. I still love you all.