The Stars at Night

She lies in a world free from the noise of bustling people going here, and there;
a place, devoid of chattering voices filling the air.

Her quiet empty shell lies upon the ocean floor.
Her body -- all but a skeleton.

Her youth and glory, saw partying people; the wonderful ensembles of musicians entertaining her guests; romantic couples strolling arm in arm dreaming of their faraway destinations while making plans against a backdrop of a clear, crisp, starry night. A comforting night that sadly turned towards an ultimate darkness.

A cold black void extinguishes her last light. Optimism and dreams vanishing with the perished, and perishing. No longer will she witness the sights of joyful party goers, listening to the sounds of clinking glasses of champagne, the rattle of dinner plates, the metallic clatter of cutlery amid the hum of voices filling her rooms.

She misses the sound of heels upon the dance floor, and feeling the dedicated enthusiasm of the band with their striking melodies enchanting the crowds... Sadly, she forever embraces the company who lay along side her -- the party she took with her below, including the musicians who played 'til they could no longer play with a calm that soothed.

Forever, her guests, hero musicians, and their captain, lay under an eternal night upon an ocean floor. But as she sank, she raised hope... Hope for many who made their destinations. They too have since found their resting place, but not upon the ocean floor. Nevertheless, they too have joined the ranks of those no more.

To the beautiful Titanic, your brave musicians, and your passengers.

References:

Musicians of the Titanic.

Nuts in May

Ah spring sun!
ready to run!

winter is over
rain has gone

windows open
doors unlock

ominous grey
to azure blue

spirits lift
like morning dew

a sea of dark
turns an ocean of color

flowers blooming
bunnies grooming

California poppies
fill the scene

blue waters fill the bay
white horses sparkle away

nothing like May to put
the wind in your sail

long shadows
grace the trails

maybe it's nuts
to run while it's hot

then again, may be not

maybe it's time
to go nuts in May

time to run?
"you must be nuts," they say!

My Silent world

I cannot see

I cannot smell

I cannot feel

I cannot tell

I cannot speak

And I cannot listen

But upon my head

Morning frost glistens

Making Waves

ride the wave that  few dare to ride
there's always one from which folk hide
get in close
watch the wave start to crest
kick furiously with the best

you may have the ride of your life
you may wipe out with a tumultuous roll
dumped along the sea shore
in a barrel of a wave
and hear the ocean roar

you may ride alone on the wave
gliding safely to shore
assured by the roar
in an ocean of approval

however you end up along the shore
you will sure to have been seen
creating a scene
going against the tide
and enjoying the ride

drowning in a sea of despair
is not an option

Creative Writing Workshop 1 : A "Lost" Experience

So here I was feeling like a high school kid suddenly daunted by being assigned a phrase and three words: "Early Spring", "Tempted", "Dangling" and "Lost". Our task was to write creatively for 10-15 minutes using those words and phrases in our prose. Writing poetry was also an option.

I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past  high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...

The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.

My work began:

I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?

I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.

Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...

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Beerspiration

heat, sun,
a balmy breeze
caressing arms with no sleeves
flowing dresses
lady writing in a straw hat
man reading
laptops
laptops open
laptops closed
tables adorned with beers
sometimes coffee
heads down
forward, focused
heads up
talking
engaged
a face pensive waiting for a friend

necks crane forward
scrutinizing screens
strained
drained heads on one side figuring out what it all means...
hands animated
explaining

heads nodding uncomplaining
different color heads of hair
no one stares
who cares?

tattoos, glances, trances,
interesting stances eliciting ladies glances
they hide behind dark frames where they look discreetly in vain
buses pullup right outside
how do they feel as they watch us inside
outside having fun in the sun
the straw hat looks up; she smiles
what a style

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Green

a field after rain
a face in pain

a light that says "go"
moss where a river flows

a jealous muse
a mix of yellow and the blues

a carpet where snow once lay
the beginning of a spring day

leaves shimmering in an evening sun
a glow of a cat's eyes when day is done

the fourth color in a rainbow
and of city signs that glow

Evergreen branches blowing to and fro
the color of life that ebbs and flows

Yosemite National Park - Karen Bayley-Ewell June 2013

Night Run

I saw you running across the parking lot. You didn't hear me at first. I thought you were ignoring me. My heart sunk and I felt hurt. Maybe you didn't see me? Hear me, or even remember me? It had been so long. I ran to catch up with you in the morning sun. I was surprised at your pace. I called again. You turned -- and the smile returned that I remembered -- the one that melted my heart.

You were hot and sweaty. Clearly you'd been running for some time. I didn't care. We embraced once more. We held tight and resumed a night flight. We ran, and we ran, and talked and talked; I can't remember what about.

I don't know how many miles we ran. Such pleasure was immeasurable, but each mile felt as good as the last, regardless of how many passed. The run lasted the night. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, but still the moment was against a back drop of melancholy. I knew where we'd begun and that this run would end and that I would never be yours -- my friend. And indeed, the run ended.

A tear flowed onto my pillow.

It was time to get up. For once, getting up was easy for I was away from an unreal world that lies and deceives. A world that raises hopes to be no more -- like the sea disappearing along a shore.

Later that day, I took to the hills. Like an old time cine movie, I replayed the dream over a five mile run. You were beside my side again. Only this time, no tears, just a fond memory flowed. "Miles" can be recaptured anywhere and anytime. An unreal world, but a creation of mine. An action replay of a love sublime forever captured until the end of my time.

Hasanlu Lovers

two lovers lay without a face
tragically long silenced
discovered in this ancient place
no voice to tell their tale
as archaeologists dig
the voice of past
declare their story
their tale revealed at last
their grave captures
a timeless love
touching forever
in a loving embrace
this shared love
shines on with grace
how sweet they look
in their resting place
their voice of love speaks
through an eternal embrace
for love knows
no time, age or place

Creative Writing Workshop - A Strange Signature

I often spent a fine hour exploring all the nooks and crannies of my favorite antique shop while chatting with the owner. I had no idea of the age of the couch way in the back, but my dealer friend guessed around early 1900. The couch soon became my latest treasure despite being covered in worn leather and in need of a good clean. I just couldn't resist the character of this vintage piece of furniture or a good bargain. Its disheveled appearance just added to its charm.

My not so new treasure looked grand in the living room and it complemented the hardwood floors.  It was the most comfortable thing I had ever had the pleasure of laying on.  As I laid back into its welcoming leather arms, I wondered what lives the couch had seen and what conversations it had heard... Perhaps it had witnessed fanciful parties of the roaring 20s, or overheard war stories of the Great War as people danced The Charleston...? My hand wondered around the sides of the couch and I dug deep into its dark depths. I felt and dug out an old thruppenny bit with George V and the year 1913 on the back confirming the approximate age of the couch. I recovered a beautiful sapphire ring which I am sure someone must have spent hours looking for and who died wondering what on earth had happened to it. Lastly, my fingers stumbled upon a piece of paper. I spent a good moment grappling with it trying to get a firm grip and eventually pulled it out. The letter was post marked, Oct 3, 1917 from Craiglockhart, Scotland. I took the letter from the opened envelope and noticed a strange signature at the end of the letter. I started to read the letter, but could barely make out the handwritten script. However, the words, "Dulce et Decorum est" jumped out at me. Of course, these words form the title to one of my favorite Great War poems by Wilfred Owen, the author of the strange signature.

Before my mind wondered a million miles, I got a zip lock bag and placed the ring and letter inside... Further research led me to find that this was one of the earliest manuscripts of the poem. This manuscript was older than the oldest known surviving manuscript addressed to his mother. The manuscript I held in my hand was an unknown, but priceless treasure; a treasure that later found itself in the Imperial War Museum in London. I was even more proud of my ownership of the Owen family couch and now knew that I had no intention of ever getting it cleaned...

Although it seemed impossible...

You wake up. Your gear is set out and organized from the night before. Butterflies flutter inside, and you tell yourself, "You've worked hard for this!"

Although it seemed impossible, you've arrived at the end of your six months of training and achieved your qualifying time. You lace up your shoes; microchip firmly in place, check; bib number, check; safety pins for bib number, check;water, check. Nervously, you check again as your partner impatiently grumbles something about obsessive compulsive disorder... You take it in your stride. It's just all part of the routine of another race day morning.

The 5am morning air is cool and brisk, but still. You feel a slight chill in your sparse clothing of microfiber shirt and shorts, but warm up quickly with a gentle jog towards the start. Music plays in the distance and bright lights break the night. Everyone looks the same, save for a few intimidating tall very lank people standing nearby... The butterflies return. But then someone smiles and nods knowingly. You smile back. The butterflies settle again and you no longer feel alone.

Your wave is called and you approach the start line with finger on the start of your *Garmin. You calm yourself and conscientiously resist the adrenaline rush and being dragged into a prematurely too fast a pace. All your practice,experience of previous races and how to listen to your body come into play. You've worked hard for this fine Boston spring day. Those early morning commitments where you rose before the winter sun have culminated into  achieving your position at the start of the Boston Marathon. It was not easy running an hour before the day began. But here you are, 10 minutes before the end.

Although it seemed impossible six months ago, you've made it -- almost that is-- until the day that an act of violence so violent that it stole your legs away, your moment of glory and your passion literally blown away forever.

Although it seemed impossible, it was a nightmare, come true. Although it seemed impossible, two young men were convinced by their faith that stealing dreams was their duty to put their world right. To say how wrong they were seems too trite...