How I See It

Writers see the world differently. Every voice we hear, every face we see, every hand we touch, could become story fabric - Buffy Andrews

Ah Buffy, I do not know you, but oh how writely (<- not a mistake), you’ve nailed this. This reminded me of a conversation I once had with a friend on how a Facebook post I once wrote came to be in the manner it did. It came down as such.

When I see/hear any thing, it’s all a matter of part of me registers it first. Casual me sees things at one level, writer me see things at a different level and poet me let things resonate on another. Then there are the times when it all converges effortlessly as one.

Looking at the last of autumn leaves on my street is rendered as follows–

The casual me says:

The trees on the block were so pretty last week, now all the leaves are almost gone, it makes me sad. 

The writer me tomes:

A week ago, this tree-lined block was in full bloom of autumn colors. Now only few leaves are left on graying branches to testify to that erstwhile splendor. It’s near maudlin in my heart to compare.

The poet me pens:

Leaving memories 
Reflected in these gray tears
Golds and rubies fall

(PS: Yeah, I know not the best haiku, but hey, not all my two-second poems are going to be gems – shoot me)

And when they all came together in the Facebook status post in question:

There’s a tree-lined block I walk through almost daily. A week ago this block was awash in the vibrant hues of fall. Today gnarled gray fingers claw at pink cloud-dotted cerulean skies, desperate to hold on to their remaining gold and ruby jewels in the ever shortening daylight of mid-autumn. I watch one such topaz jewel lazily drift to its final resting place upon the concrete. It felt as if watching a tear fall.

The same eyes saw the same street, the same leaf, at the same moment, yet each part views it, and thus tells it, differently. Still, not matter how it’s seen/heard/felt…

Warning: I'm a writer. Anything you do or say may be used in a story.

<>==========<>==========<>

Let’s see how others are slicing up their Monday:

#SOL2017

#SOL2017

10th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge! – DAY 13

 

I Think of Spring

A subtle intangible thing
These fallen leaves how they array
In autumn leaves I think of spring

Yellowed hues to the grounds cling
Bringing to thought vernal displays
A subtle intangible thing

I find my heart has taken wing
On how new blooms of crocus sway
In autumn leaves I think of spring

My eyes spy fall’s warm coloring
My soul denies thoughts of decay
A subtle intangible thing

A whim of my own soul’s choosing
This feeling does not go away
In autumn leaves I think of spring

I feel first hints of winter’s sting
Yet smile as I go on my way
A subtle intangible thing
In autumn leaves I think of spring

<>==========<>==========<>

For the first dVerse Poetics of 2017, Mish offers us an array of art and asks us to use one as inspiration of  New Beginnings. My chosen image brought to mind the bright yellow of daffodils in spring. Spring is new beginnings in its own way, so that’s where my muse went in the form of a villanelle.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics ~ New Beginnings 

Too Early

With vernal equinox comes joy
I smile at the new buds it brings
Beauty to see walking the park
Belies the chill in sharp employ
I’m not ready to feel such sting
Much too early for autumn’s bark

<>==========<>==========<>

Walking in Central Park felt more like October than April.

napo2016button1
National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 9

Today I bring an Italian Sestet

The original version of the Italian Sestet had no set meter, but after Spenser introduced it into England, eventually the poets there began to use iambic tetrameter or pentameter.
The rhyme pattern example is as follows (Using iambic tetrameter)

Daily Prompt: Good-bye

.
Early autumn.

Click.  Click.

He stands in front of the floor to ceiling picture window in the living room that faces the water.  Being near the apex of the hill gives him a nearly unobstructed view of the river, the bridge and the rest of the city spread out before it.  The glittering effect of the sun on the water is as picture perfect as the fluffy cotton candy clouds breaking the monotony of the azure sky above.

He does not see this.

Click.  Click.

The leaves are mostly green, but you can see the first of fall’s leaves on the lawns and sidewalks. A perfectly shaped, beautifully russet leaf lazily drifts from a tree in front of the brownstone to the street.  Even this early in the season you somehow know autumn is going to show off in a blaze of glorious color at its peak.

It does not so much as invite a shrug from him.

Click.  Click.

Children play on the sidewalk or in front yards enjoying the last vestiges of the day. Their occasional high peals of laughter break the relative silence of the late afternoon. It is a good hour before the streetlights come on and another half hour at least before the sun noticeably sets.

He does not notice.

Click.  Click.

The gentle swish-swish, swish-swish of leaves brushing against a window is somehow rhythmic.  It is the same gentle breeze causing the light curtains to sway in front of open windows as evening approaches.  Somewhere down the block just out of the line of vision the happy tunes of an ice cream truck are heard.

But not by him.

Click.  Click.

He has stood by the picture window long after the brilliant red, gold and indigo of sunset have paved the way for the now diamond studded navy night.  The grandfather clock in the front hall again chimes the passing hour.  The stereo is just barely audible above the regular sounds of the house.

The only thing he has heard and continues to hear in his mind is click.

Click.  Click. 

Click.  Click.

Click.  Click.

In reality, each click is no louder than of that of an old-fashioned typewriter key strike.  For him each is as loud as a cannon blast.

The sound of stiletto heels clicking against a marble floor of the foyer as they walk out of the door and his life.

Good-bye.

<>==========<>==========<>

Daily Prompt | What A Twist!

Long Fallen

Painting of street worker

It’s Autumn, where the verdant leaves turns gold,
And goldenrod leaves quickly become old
And those old leaves soon become just like me
Something broken and crushed, something empty
Long fallen from the grace it used to be

Hard to believe, less than eight years ago,
I think eight, I’m not sure, the years blend so
My employer came to me one down time
And said I wasn’t pulling in the dimes
I’m a utensil that was past my prime

That as such made me particular waste
And was let go from employ with due haste
Youth started its slide from my once young face
I knew the rules, there was no pleading case
No chance of rescue in this youth built place

I started at fifteen, oh such a knave
But had a knack for knowing clients’ craves
I worked there before I had license to
Attained status, before my year was through
This job was all I ever knew to do

The cache of being ‘personal escort’
I never knew a life without support
That cache provided me some global treks
Spinning clients through my erotic hex
And I won’t lie; I damn sure loved the sex

I joked this job was custom made for me
Their faces at the point of ecstasy
And as conversant in Sun Tzu as Mr. Magoo
My clients soon found out I had smarts too
And for the price, little I would not do

Out lasted many who’ve come through the door
Damn lucky to be there at fifty-four
But like my concaved waist, it couldn’t last
My job choices were very far from vast
Don’t have much future because of my past

I’m offered some dinky job on the side
But I still had a little too much pride
To be a has-been hanging on the scene
I remember how I treated has-beens mean
When I once ruled the roost as its main queen

I’m treated like someone they’ve never known
When I tried to hold some clients on my own
With individual contact of each
A beat down was the last lesson left to teach
That everything I had was out of reach

I’ve gone from elite, to stripper, to street
Where I fidget on very tired feet
Jumping from each nameless and faceless mate
Wondering just which day will seal my fate
The seasons are my only notes of date

And it’s Autumn again the leaves turn gold,
Slowly turning other colors they grow old
Long fallen from the place they used to be
What time has washed away past their glory
And then die, a cruel metaphor of me

<>==========<>==========<>

dVerse Poets Pub ~ Poetics: Autumn Chill is in the Air