World Inside a Grain of Sand

Why is it so hard to be as good as I want to be? I seek a certain perfection...not perfection as we might think. I am not a perfect success. I am not a perfect writer, poet, artist. I was not perfect in my careers. I am not a perfect husband or father, although those attributes would be worth the challenge I think. I have not perfectly challenged and beaten back the fears and anxieties of life, although I have spent some thought and time seeking that. The perfection I seek is more one of attitude and disposition. I want to achieve perfection in understanding, compassion, empathy, love, forgiveness. On the surface it may seem that these attributes are simple, free, instantly accessible. We do not have to cross an ocean to find them. We do not have to climb tall mountains seeking them. We do not have to hone our skills for years to know them...or do we? Can an eternity of compassion be found in a moment? Could all the love of the cosmos be contained in a small box just in front of me, within reach, if I could only, truly open my 'eyes' and see it? Could love, compassion and all that I seek be contained in that grain of sand in my pocket?

Why is it hard to be as good as I want to be? Perhaps I am where I am meant to be...need to be...

A Short Note To Say...

Men in the trenches

of that big foreign war

left loved ones behind

as they walked out the door.

"Dear John", the many

thousands of letters would read,

'I have found someone else

who'll better fill my need'.

Often no details were given,

more often a short note...

"Dear John, love you, goodbye",

and that's all she wrote.

Yes, its Saturday, and not just any Saturday. It is Saturday Centus, #60 celebration!! Woo-hoo!! Whoopee!!Can't believe we've made it this far through the insanity. Jenny, instead of giving me a prompt that would lend laughter to this joyous occasion, has sent me in a different and predictable direction with her "Dear John". I do hope that some of you will be able to take it in a different direction...something contrary to broken lives, broken hearts. Maybe its just me...that I am perpetually inclined to write about the sad things in life...a troubled romantic. That being said, I can't wait to read what you have written, in 60 words or less. Peace...

Domi Gutu (A Short Story)

Another Saturday, another Centus, another opportunity to explore this universe in my cranium...to see if I can match thought to word, drawing inspiration from a prompt...much to my surprise, my own prompt, "Within the Stone". I am compelled to share with you its origin. Within the Stone is the name of a coffee table book of photographs...closeup photos of the polished surfaces of rocks...taken by Bill Atkinson. It is a remarkable book that combines free association, literary pieces from seven guest writers with some 70 photographs. As stated on the inside of the dust jacket..." Atkinson opens a vault beneath our feet, revealing to our astonished eyes the tumult of color, form, and desire hidden Within the Stone."

From early childhood to present, I have been a lover of rocks, stones, geology...and photography. With this book, Mr. Atkinson is speaking to my passions. I was once told I had spent a past life as an Egyptian stone mason, working on the pyramids. When I heard this it all made sense to me...

Help, I'm a Rock

Help, I'm a Rock

Help, I'm a Rock

- Frank Zappa

Domi Gutu (A Short Story)

Sun shining hot

repressive, voracious

sucking energy

my lifeblood from me...

Circumstance of fate

tore me from my village

my family,

dropping me in

this hell.

Grubby, bloody hands

scooping rock, mud, water

into round, screened pan.

Within the stone

lies my misery,

and redemption.

Amidst these hot depths

of terraced, muddy walls,

I hear the voices...

my wife, my children

calling...

Tamba, we love you

Tamba, come home...

"I ti der bepi okuru o solo" ( I shall come, God willing)

The Wall

The wall was built long ago, by whom no one is certain. It is known to be ancient, dated to 400 AD. Cherokee legend holds that the wall was built, the area nearby inhabited, by a tall, bearded, "moon-eyed" race of people. Intriguing as these mysteries may be, this wall holds very special memories for me.

As young children, Matthew and I played over and along this thousand foot wall atop Ft. Mountain, devising make believe battles, pitting good against evil, sharing and trading our fantasy roles. As teenagers, we made love here...a small tent pitched at the base of the wall, beneath star-studded skies. Matthew was my first love...a love grown from friendship, evolved, and ultimately a relationship 'broken' by common circumstance. After high school I left to pursue an art degree at a small college in Rhode Island. Matthew left town to pursue...adventure!

Oh, we stayed in touch over the years, seeing one another on various occasions that would bring us back home. Yet, we rarely talked of our shared adventures on that mountain. Now, some 30 years since we left town, we have decided to return to the wall and see what great mysteries might await us there.

The wall was built long ago. For that we are certain. Yet, we are equally as certain that our friendship will remain long after these rocks, this wall, have crumbled into dust.

Convenient Journey

The end

is not

the end.

It is

beginning

again.

It is

convenient

for those

in need

of a

destination

to mark

the journey.