Wandering: Graffiti

Posted: August 5, 2016 in Wandering

Graffiti has always fascinated me. At train crossings, waiting for endless boxcars to pass, I used to see the most beautiful creations of art. There’s a lot of time to think while sitting in the car. I wondered about the artists who were skilled enough to paint such amazing collages on rusty metal, old metal, new metal, and what sort of lives they led. I could imagine them painting in the dark by flashlight, since obviously this would not knowingly be allowed in daylight. It took me to another world. And then the train ended with the reds, blues, and neon colors gone in a blur.

Recently, on my wandering and hiking in the mountains, I came upon a one lane tunnel in South Carolina. Mesmerized, I saw graffiti in a backwoods town where time moves slow and slower. Maybe the artists were young, old, or just wandering like I was. They could have thought they had all the time in the world to create, be young, be old, live forever. As the quote goes: “In the midst of life we are living; in the midst of life we are dying.” It’s the in-between that we live. Nevertheless, graffiti is a salvation to some and its electric colors splash light into a confusing world.

 

With folded hands she sat at the table, the one facing the lush woods pressed against the landscape like it had been painted in place. Sleep had not touched her eyes for two days, since that man in the deputy’s uniform suit had knocked on her door, removed his hat, and said the terrible words that had never crossed her mind. It was his job and she wondered if he slept at night.

Butterflies flew against the window and some were smashed on impact to flee the sunlight, some did not and she wondered at the cessation of life and why such beautiful creatures of nature would do such an unremarkable thing to cease life. She’s sat in the one cane-back chair for a long while now and didn’t know what to do next. A lady at the church called and told her to pray and everything would be all right, in time.

She pushed her graying hair back in a bun and tied it close to the back of her neck with a rubber band. All in a coil-like roll, twisted like. She felt old; she was old. Her hands were wrinkled with brown spots, from working in the garden, and veins scattered the tops and sides of the skin. She turned over her hands and stared at them as if seeing them for the first time.

“Liddy,” a male voice called from the porch affronting the lake. “Are you in there? It’s nigh to sunset and you need to go lie down before too long, you’ll need rest.”

She turned and rushed to the door and unlatched the key, slow as if her feet were weighted to the floor. The door finally swung open. “Is that you? Don’t stay in the shadows, let me see you.”

The weathered boards creaked under weight and she searched with her eyes for an image, any image that would tell her she wasn’t mad. No one was there and she was alone with the whippoorwills that usually came to sing to her before dark. Never, in her recollections had she known them to sing in the daylight, always twilight. She shook her head this way and that searching for anything that would tell her the voice was not imagined.”I hear cemetery birds not whippoorwills; they heed not the time of day.”

After silence, her head nodded and she went to the screen door and looked to the lake and back to the porch. Slow steps dragged her feet toward the bedroom, she kicked off her house shoes and lay on the simple, double bed in the small, plain room void of pictures. An old black telephone startled her and she reached to the night table and unplugged it.
She caught a scent of Old Spice Cologne and relaxed as she saw the indented feather pillow opposite hers. Her face was flushed, as she hugged the edges of the pillowcase. Hair askew,she breathed in life and closed her eyes. “You’re right, I’ll need rest,” she whispered. The officer was wrong. “Goodnight, you’re here with me.”

 

Image  —  Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

Life:  Small-Town Charm

Posted: May 25, 2017 in Uncategorized

In small towns, you meet interesting people. Everyone has a story to tell and Lynn did.Lynn is a fifty-five-year old widow, slender, tan, blonde, and alone. She walks the back streets in a modest sub-division like clockwork. She has no driver’s license yet owns a truck, car, and home.

She lives entirely on a widow’s Veteran check and has three dogs. She’s college educated and walks with her legs wrapped in one black- band, the other flesh colered. At times, I wondered why she had no close friends to-speak-of, when she’s clearly intelligent. She loves her neighbors and stops briefly to check on some.

Lynn admits to a beer now and then, and is opinionated without apologies. Aside of that, she’s a giving person. A giving person of sage advice has not made for, nor sought popularity. It’s Lynn’s way and that’s all right, because of the confidence she exudes with that blonde head held high. She’s strong and a survivor. I undersand. Best of luck to her…

Reality

Posted: January 29, 2017 in life

Reality refreshes itself
amidst exertions & challenges,
striving to believe in humans
without knowledge of truth
or the willingness to exert
right against wrong.
Truth is a shining, shooting star
of brilliance & success…
Oft times
Making itself known
Tired & restless
Ere the sun appears
Upon a new day:
Reflex backward without pity
for the wrong doers,
for they know what they do.
Lost souls you cannot reconstruct.
@sharpwyn

Life: For the Love of Family

Posted: November 18, 2016 in life

This is a free-write non-fiction.

The first dish I ever learned to kinda cook, as a teenager, was home made biscuits. The kitchen was a disaster with flour everywhere: the floor, ceiling, mine and Mother’s faces. No space was left untouched by white unsifted, then sifted, flour from a humongous can that sat on the kitchen floor near the stove. Mother stood there and told me that I didn’t belong in a kitchen, that it would take too long to clean it all up.
So…at the dinner table that evening, my family were assembled around the square, antique-finished dining table talking about our day and eating. Nobody was touching my biscuits. (Guess not, when the biscuits were hard enough to knock a person out if you tossed one on the mark. Also known as “hard as a brick bat.”) My feelings were getting hurt and I spoke up and asked if anyone had tried my biscuits. Silent, scared and uncertain looks from one to the other circulated!
Bless his heart, Danny, my younger brother grabbed one biscuit and started taking bites. He would pause and look around the table after every bite and reach for the tea glass. Finally, he spoke and said he loved my biscuits and urged the rest of my family to try them. Sure enough, Daddy and Larry played along, knowing the biscuits were hard as a rock. Mother declined. 🙂
Gosh, that’s a memory of love, I think. After dinner, the remaining biscuits went promptly to the chicken yard. I sure felt sorry for those chickens, but so proud my family would eat my biscuits just to spare my feelings. I never cooked biscuits from scratch like that, again.
My Grandma Dickey’s biscuits were perfectly round every time and always had white tops–delicious. Mother’s biscuits were brown and soft on the inside. Both could cook anything so well with hardly anything to work with, at times.
I can honestly say that the one good thing I can cook is chicken and dressing–that’s one dish explained for those who cook dressing without  boiled chicken bits in it. Mother said she liked mine better than hers. She really meant that. Gosh I miss my family so much. It is more so around Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. The comfort and emotional support they gave me was always, always, always so very much heartfelt and appreciated. I never took their love for me for granted, not for one second.

Poetry: Wilderness Abyss

Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

Into an abyss you crawled
Unfamiliar with the lay of the land.
Fingertips nil and
Skin void of flesh; warm blood
Trickled along
Clam shards on a wall of stench.
As you search for light
That doesn’t exist-you hesitate.
Not a good idea at the time
Too late, for the ledge you stand on
begins to crumble and all you
see is water and rocks below
you chose the wrong morning
to check out the new trail
where the flowers you had
to have were located.
wynsharp©2016

Poem: Youth Lost

Posted: May 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

Forbidden the fruit
From garnered memories
and overgrown paths

Steps lead beyond pastures
and rotted wood and barnyards
through dried flowers and grass

Denoted the seconds
A clock ticks somewhere
Listen-it chimes ever so fast

Hands in holy pockets-
Feet traverse homeward
Seeking dreams you did cast

Lost to the ages
Of Paradise past

Nothing remains
forever intact

Ne’er again
The die has been cast

@sharpwyn