Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

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…

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.”

 

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

Non fiction: Free Write

Posted: March 29, 2016 in Uncategorized

I love free-writes that get the blood pumping, the mind clicking that opens creative circuits, and I’m not getting graded for mis-spelled words or formatting. This free-write is about family.

When I was ten months old, my Daddy bought the farm next to my maternal grandparents and we settled there. His parents lived twenty miles across the state line, yet he chose to bring my fifteen-year-old mother back to what she needed–still a child, she needed her parents and it all worked out. She had her first child at seventeen and the last one at thirty-five.

But I never forget much, so my memories go back to learning to walk, and observe life, or rather older family members such as great aunts and uncles and I could fill books with growing up surrounded by a huge family and relatives that lived clustered off side roads and into the hills and higher levels from one main two-lane blacktop road.
To live within walking distance of your grandparents was like having two sets of parents. My son has one grandma, so he will never understand the bonds that exist between grandparents and grandchildren much like the bond of a parent. That makes me sad that we are all scattered, in present tense, from Alaska, to Texas, California, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, NC, and SC. Home is still home where I began, not where I reside in present tense.

That’s the best decision Daddy ever made since it gave my brothers and me a solid foundation which resulted in the best of abilities to live a normal, just about perfect childhood. Foundation you have in youth also makes you live longer as an adult, able to cope and so on. I loved home so much that every time I moved, such as finishing high school and moving 100 miles to Memphis, I stayed away about six months and moved back home–until I was in my twenties. Super little towns all clustered together like the heritage I came from.

I never understood why we were so poor when Daddy had a state job, but I figured it must have been because there were so many mouths to feed, bodies to clothe. Daddy paid cash for our house and land, but it was a small house with good ace rage for farming when he got home from work every day and weekends. Being poor is under-rated since we were happy and didn’t know another way of life and never had to do without sustenance or things we needed. Didn’t have a telephone till I was in middle school–didn’t matter.

Old people can be a real learning experience; I grew up and now consider myself old, as a baby boomer, so I think I’m safe to use a word that describes me, although my mother is in her eighties.

As I grew older, I learned, or rather figured out that Daddy was trying to make it up to my grandparents for marrying their daughter so young. Forgiveness was the reason and it backfired on Daddy because Grandpa comes from a lineage known for not forgetting or forgiving. He never forgave Daddy. To top it off, those two were Democrat (Daddy) and Republican (Grandpa).

I was a quiet kid who said little as a kid; I absorbed my world around me which was mostly nature and family.I suppose that’s the reason I’m still among the living, well that and my nine-lives. It amazes me of all the mischief and the chances I took at a young age and upward that I lived to tell about it. Then I grew old and totaled my son’s car on the way home from college about twenty miles away. I gripped the steering wheel, calm as can be and said out loud what I thought would be my last words, “Well, I guess this is it.” I’ve heard others say the same thing about being near death from an accident. Calm as a cucumber, for real. The mind knows when you’re in a bad situation and prepares you in a second’s notice.

When I write things like this, no one cares or believes me, but that’s okay since I am a fanatic about truth and silly little things in most categories imaginable. Most young people in this generation, related to me, anyway,including my son, don’t want to hear about heritage or where he or she came from, and have little time for “old” people, baby boomers.

I have five nieces and nephews and two great nephews and haven’t seen the youngest great nephew born in December. I’m not that close to any of my nieces and nephews except the sixteen-year-old one. She’s a tough one born with brains, good looks and a hard life after Mother got sick and she landed in the court system. Her mother, my sister will get custody back in a few months so we’re looking forward to that. Niece is going to be in the eleventh grade in the fall, on the Tennis team, and works after school. I call her the diamond of our family and that pretty much sums her up. Life isn’t easy for any teen as it was when I was one and actually picked cotton for one of my uncles.

This free-write means nothing to anyone but me, but that’s okay. Unlike the free-writes in college, it doesn’t have trolls, or haints in it and it’s not graded. Peace and be well.

Poem: Ere Sunrise

Posted: February 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

Ere Sunrise

Cores
of darkness
beseech me
and I slither
as a snake
through an
endless abyss
to encounter
a black hole
that seeks a prick,
a ray of light
that is not there.
Darkness seeps
with eyes
of erratic rays
to be expunged,
to escape, and
envision that tiny speck
of light
ere sunrise

Copyright © wyn sharp 2016