Creative Writing – Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds

Thousands of Feet Above

It was not easy in such wind to fold the sail as I had been taught by my grandfather. Who is supposedly watching, despite being reduced to a small pile of charred bone and ashes and buried months ago. He was always way the hell out there, but a promise is a promise so here I am. In space in time I sit thousands of feet above the sea. Just like you wanted Grampa.

When the eagle finally returned, there were bones in her nest. Bleached white and neatly stacked. Any meat was long gone, but there was something else. It had been many lifetimes since she had recieved an offering.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when his laughter scared the shit out of me. But sure enough, there he was.

I told you, he said, lifting me onto his shoulders.

…

Today, Merril hosts “Prosery: Meditation at dVerse” . We are asked to write flash fiction or other prose not exceeding 144 words. And we must use, unaltered, except for additional punctuation, the following line:

“In space in time I sit thousands of feet above the sea”
From May Sarton, “Meditation in Sunlight”

This Love of Shiny Things

They sat in a semi-circle on the grass. One child on It’s lap looking up into the hooded void. The whole scene set like something from The Children’s Bible. Lambs running about, a few bunnies and field mice. There was a stone well nearby with a wooden bucket on a rope. The Great Scythe was leaning against a tree, the blade like a mirror, polished and glistening.

Glancing up from their glowing screens
– mom and dad nod goodbye to the kids.

…

Blinded by the Light

The hollow bones of our birds were heavy and dense in comparison. Feathered flight seemed awkward and laborious. Their ships were build of substances unknown here, though perhaps comparable to light particles. There was indeed much light. When they left and only faint memories remained, the poets recalled the strangers as haloed and winged. The people’s gaze lifted from earth and sea, toward the heavens.

And now we are lost.

…

Archetypes

…

The Watcher and Deep Thinker
Sat in a corner smoking a joint,
Playing cards. Each with diamonds
In their pockets, and hearts in their

Hands. They chuckled about
Everything and nothing. Keeping a
Straight face was hard. Their excellent
Minds were completely unmoored.

Just kidding.

The Watcher stood on a bed of
Bones in an abandoned eagle’s
Nest atop the highest tree. His gaze
Followed compass points precisely.

The Deep Thinker was kneeling in an
Ancient well, miles below the surface.
Knees on bedrock, notebook in one
Hand, his father’s penlight in the other.

The Watcher looked up and down and
All around. Missing almost nothing.
The Deep Thinker read fine lines in the
Fieldstone walls that surrounded him.

The Muse? She was swinging on a
Porch swing watching the sun go down
Drinking a cold beer, watching the moon
Come up. Writing it down. Smiling.

Me? I was just feeding the Muse.

…

Marks

…

For a time in 2014 I was exploring and playing with ancient alphabets. It began with being outside at night, observing constellations and copying the Greek letter names of the stars to help memorize them. It wasn’t long before I was as fascinated with the marks and their origins as with the night sky. One thing led to another and soon I was copying Phoenician pictographs and the Sanskrit alphabet. At the same time my notebook was filling up with lines and pages of spontaneous free form marks. The marks were a combination of energy and abstract image. Eventually my interest shifted, I became absorbed in something else and the time was forgotten. There’s a sample in the post “Late autumn forest” from October 2014.

Seven years later, in the fall of 2021 I bought an Apple Pencil, thinking I could start using my iPad as a notebook. It took a long time before I was comfortable with that process. However, although the idea was for note taking, it was my drawing that took off in a way it probably hadn’t since I was a child.

I was surprised to see myself pick up where I left off in 2014. Pages of marks began flowing in a manner that felt like writing or calligraphy. Within the text, ideas and associations emerged.