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…

March Began Eventful

Posted: March 28, 2017 in life, Wandering

March 1st slipped past me & left deep bruising when I flipped the ATV. It was a blur that sent me to the ER for CT scans & X-rays.

I don’t remember the accident, although I was told details of hitting a rut that is unrecalled. Wasn’t cutting up, just driving around water. Last thing I recall was slow driving through high-dry weeds to avoid a muddy-watered path. I was told I pressed the gas & flipped about 800 lbs airborne then weight of the ATV pinned me on my side/back. (Memories of totaling my son’s car by driving through a wayer puddle, hydroplaning, & clearing out a ditch, to b stopped by a “For Sale” Corvette, off a secondary road, come to mind.)

First week post-flip, I could walk fine, although I couldn’t get up & down without excruciating pain lower right side & back.  One week layer, l held to the bed-post to pull myself up & steady on two-feet. Didn’t complain when I had to crawl up & into the backseat of my jeep. Had to have a driver, but I made it okay–slow & very careful. Pain–that too would pass.


If you know me, then you’ve heard me speak of my “nine lives” running out. Came close many times over, from lack of fear. ( As far back as childhood, Mother was wiping blood from my head & body parts.)

Be as it may, after two & half weeks, I’m good as new & ready for my next adventure. Resilient, thus far & blessed.

Pix I took before & one post-flip follow. I truly believe in living life while I am alive. To do otherwise is not life–to me.

Gotta love a RR track!

Out of practice posting pix in this blog, as you can see. These & more are all on Instagram. wynsharp

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

Stain

Posted: April 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

I got my first pair of glasses in middle school. I think it was sixth grade. It’s a weird thing, prescriptive eye correction. You don’t really know you need it until someone else tells …

Source: Stain

I know the feeling, entirely. Rarely do I wear my scripts, except sunglass scripts, but when I put the contacts in–YIKES…did my make-up wrong.