Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 305

Whaddaya know, it’s mid July. June’s pretty much wedding season. And the holiday season’s not quite over is it? Frankly the past year(s) have been illuminating. In terms of friendships, life, love, writing, whatever. And no it’s not quite over yet. Coz we’re not done living yet. I watched a Ted talk yesterday. The guy talked about human needs. The need for certainty. Sure. The need for uncertainty. Err yes, because life gets boring otherwise. The need to feel significant. Wahoo. The need for connection and love. Connection, yes. Love, too scary. I’ll leave you with a quote from Vladimir Nabokov: “At eighty-five…he saw his decline as a ripening and an apotheosis.” Hope you’re inspired to write already.


8 thoughts on “Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 305


    Somewhere in the stretch of our lives,
    towards the final years of old age,
    the glory days of youth pay us
    visits where we rediscover
    hearty laughter and we stand tall
    enough to share the joys that once
    came so easily. The young man
    speaks of adventurous nights;
    the old man laments the long nights
    wrestling with memories, the aches
    that slow the fireball he was.

    Once in a Sicilian village
    I noticed an old man sitting
    beside a young boy. Together
    they were laughing like two schoolboys.
    The old man looked up, introduced
    me to Matteo, his young friend,
    and the two of them shook my hand.
    Old age need not be famine years
    or infesting plagues of despair.

    The road, though rocky, the walk, slow,
    we can call back our young selves
    and share the walk with them.
    They can offer us a strong arm;
    we can tell the stories they began.



    “Marry me,” I say,
    casting all wisdom aside.

    You look like a cat
    looks to an entrapped
    mouse and I change my whistle
    from tenor to shrill
    in that sudden squall
    from a flensed and open heart.

    I stand by my words.

    ‎July ‎13, ‎2017 1:01:58 PM

  3. Pingback: Taking The Chance, by Christopher Hileman | Red Wolf Journal

  4. We Bloom and Fade

    I am a flower of the field that
    rise, bud, bloom,
    fade, seed, wither
    and someday die
    and my time here passes like day to night.
    a brief glory of color and scent
    then energy spent on decline
    or so it seems to me
    as I edge toward midnight
    and that long, long sleep.

    And yet that isn’t all the story
    for you’d have to ask the honey
    bee, the hummingbird, the spider
    that visited me for added
    perspective of my flourishing and death.
    Ask the child who admired its beauty
    the gardener who tended me with care
    the photographer who captured my
    spirit and framed her for all to see.
    There’s lots to this being me I can’t see.

    And what good does it do to envy the wild
    rose her robust red as though this pale
    pink is a shame. Why should I compare my
    bushy blooms to the tall, slender stalk
    of a showy lily, the bountiful hollyhock,
    the exotic orchid or common dandelion.
    Nor does it mean that I’m the best
    or the least, I’m just one of many.
    And though the winter snows are due
    I’m glad to have shared it all with you.

  5. Life and Other Scary Things

    I’ve tried it many ways
    this dipping into life
    I’ve timidly stuck in my toe
    and shivering withdrew,
    valiantly waded in waist high,
    ballerina tiptoe style
    but it just prolonged the agony.
    I’ve thrown all caution to the wind
    and dove headfirst into the deep
    but somehow I didn’t like my head
    covered before my feet.
    Now, I think I’d recommend
    springing, eyes open wide
    into the deepest part
    with both feet
    screaming and kicking
    and utterly indiscreet.

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