Thursday, February 21, 2008

creative writing draft

Revised Jan 31, 08 from notations from classmates.

Going Home
Earthly conflicts are as inevitable as the rush of the ocean’s tides. What shall ever become of this destiny we attempted to see, designed by the universe and all the power it holds over time, life and our precious memories? Should this be the last time we can look upon each other’s faces, and then we shall fall from winter’s trees as spent as winter’s last testimony to life, as weary as winter’s last oak leaves.
Happenstance you appear nightly in some earthly form and unravel what seems to be old mysteries, a past yet unknown, since you were taken from us before you accomplished any of your own dreams. What missive, what message is there that you are trying to tell, I’ve written down every word and cherish those thoughts, yet on this unknown parody my heart seems to dwell.
Tiger-eyes, in my own true dreams your appearance is as unchanged, unmarred by the everlasting sands of time. Here in my own private picture show appears a haunting creature so like a stormy jungle beast stalking alone in a forest deep. Did you not once tell me, not long ago how our life together would always be something special to keep.
Here in the realm of unspoken reality, I cover my eyes and refuse to see, our own child sending you forth in a chair made of iron and cloth. You clutch the life-giving cylinder of times stolen air, your face cannot reflect; only 40 or more years in age. Eyes that at once reach my soul, how they seem weary. World worn your eyes are reaching out, seeking refuge from pain, only now soon you may exist in a time where I cannot stay. My eyes stream with glaciers of rage.
Endlessly she defies the challenges of time, a wary thief. She whispers like a siren and calls to you in your broken sleep. How dare she take like a cowardly thief? Leave him you harpy; he heeds not your haunting beauty. She averts her gaze all at once. Human’s eyes spy a raving beauty on one side on the other a hag, a ravenous life thief.
Her name is whispered discreetly by a nurse as she glides by white hallways. Hushing steps, she takes as though she has stolen a cat’s feet. At one point she laments his name is still written in the book of life; hush now she can scarcely whisper, tis cancer we blame. She the beauty, she the life thief! She hovers at loved ones bedsides, withered lives breathe, she hovers a monster at a child’s bedside, this harbinger this bringer of grief. Her breath is as ice, her thoughts are white steeds, and away on a travelers adventure her coachman whips away life’s brief deeds. All hopes and life’s needs falling, calling relentlessly, yet uncaring these last desperate attempts to release the almighty soul. Hearken you harpy, yet reflections from loved ones, this brief interlude leads, speak everlasting promises to the ears of thy loved ones, avenge this outcry, yet this beseeching upon her icy ears, she never heeds.
Torrential rain, the gutters contain life’s torrents, a release, and then a moment still; the rain of this sorrow falls now on my deeply reticent soul with a chill. Crystal tears, a dewdrop on a rose leaf. My child’s ebony tresses shaking, quaking, her angelic countenance now wracked with grief. A box now contains a man’s testament, his relief. The grey silken liner embroidered with birds on the wing; one silver silken bird has turned about and is wheeling toward a place in the sun, yet this bird shall never take flight alone. Simple words embroidered on silver silk bring a heartfelt sentiment, “going home”. Yet could this life have ever been less in torment, but now seeks such blessed belief.
How I marveled the day the nurses brought her to me. A cherub, a name for this child I could but weakly speak. For the arrival of this babe almost cost me my only life. This once a nurse’s quiet footsteps, this once this passage back in time would on fates borrowed wingtips bring this mans only girl child, an answer to my cherished dreams.
As such resides this stolen memory, so ends a rapturous life play. Bow players take life to your heart in your own precious way.
Here we find yet another place in time and I will grace you with it’s tell tale excerpt. A little brown dog has always stood fast on its lofty carved wooden shelf perch watching me gallantly from my parent’s room. I passed by the awaiting silent stuffed sentinel often as I halted on the threshold of my parent’s room. The room is still a sanctuary guarded by the realistic threat of reprimand. Memories tumbled through my troubled mind. Daily my father was taxied to his dialysis and chemo treatments. He commented to my sister that the little truck served its purpose well. Ah, yes another story. Better yet let’s call these the adventures of the little grey truck.
How I had listened intently when my father reminisced through my grandfather’s memoirs. Grandfather came from a wondrous land of wolves and frozen tundra. He was a silent hero since he had passed before my arrival on terra firma. Soul owner now of things that lived once freely in the past, I rewrite his memories. Photographs written with descriptions in a language that I must learn soon reside in a strong wood box that I inherited when my grandmother went to heaven. Many adventures were mine to cherish when with pencil to paper I labored through notes and ledgers that have seen turned the pages of many calendars many times and still my minds eye envisions many adventures from years of old, in a scenic country so far away. This same country is the land of my Scandinavian ancestors and from these roots my family tree grew to its fallen legacy.
Take care with the photo of my parents on a wondrous sailing boat. Feather-like Plumes of White Sea foam froth streaming, trailing along behind the careless travelers. Inviting, compelling the eyes of the beholder seek, then somehow see, old glory as she waves towards the blue skies of beautiful Hawaii.
Oh, how fond those stolen memories. Father wears a Tom Selleck blue Hawaiian print cotton shirt. The pattern on his shirt waves invitingly on a gypsy breeze. My musician friend promised to place this momentum in his newfound joy a sailing vessel named after a fortunate cetacean. This photo reveals to me on a sailing vessel two people obvious, oblivious and so in love.
Yes, we go back now to the little brown sentinel for it is the one last item we place in the wooden box close to my remaining parent, for this is the one he won for my mother when they first met. This treasure, this sentinel now guards a stolen moment while its traveler traverses a path so designed by destiny. This stuffed little puppy means so much to them, then we girls knew he would give it to our mother when he saw her in heaven. For you see, she arrived last night to take him with her. The careless travelers on the sailboat bound heaven ward for their own blues skies of Hawaii.
yep, it is long, but it is better than the first draft

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