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October 03, 2020

Subjects of Regret

Subjects of regret and lost opportunities break over my mind like winter waves on a California beach, wind-whipped, with cold and hard shivering goose-bumped skin

All across these moments have come and gone some linger, some flee with such haste they are flashed exposures similar to never bought wedding proofs. In these cold empty memories, silence reigns as if sound never heard anything but echoes of screamed regret. In those screamed moments my body shuddered, and my mind trembled as those screams expressed all those thoughts never given voice.

This is a mind with so many songs to sing. Like a frozen winter, there is no ground only snow, melting whenever it touches these fingers so ready to spill the blood of all my thoughts. Every sentence clashing like lightning holds its place refusing to leave these clouds with so much rain floods look like puddles, and thoughts become ocean surfing letters to a beached blond paper which cannot hold anything resembling ink.

Where on this landscape is there room for simple sentences, and plain thought arranged on the grass in simple, easy phrases anyone can understand? Never guilty as charged. Worshipped words are those which bring poetic positions into starlight clarity as sentences touch any mind with wonder, beauty and a sense of the lightness of being.

Burton Road images never knew their value until they became memories. Always future reflections see the past with a mirror. Look, regret sends a greeting card, an invitation to evaluate and attempt to understand now what we did not understand in those previous moments of action.

All these images only have meaning when the context needs no explanation. Any, every, and all images capture but one moment in a forever flow of information. The trophy sought on these moments is clarity - a quality of being coherent and intelligible. All those finger pressed instances regard time with an irony of eternal humor.

As usual, this is not where my journey began. Walking down an old road always brought fresh thoughts. Now the road does not call. Thoughts are old, tired, and tread so many times it is at a point of boredom.

There are no voices howling in the brush waiting to stalk me. Waiting instead in a perfect sitting pose, proper, straight and vastly formal. It is one of my favorite images. It was a new year's morning of some 20'something year. I do not remember without looking it up.

My writing journey began in a creative writing class in Payson, AZ. Wait, that is not right. My writing journey began with Sue Arnold. My creative writing began with Ray Bradbury, which broke out into my own in a creative writing class in Payson, AZ.

Another person who worked at the Payson Roundup took the class with me. They never managed to write with their blood. They danced around the knives of honest writing, getting close to the skin but never piercing the meat of their own truth. Cutting open your wounds in creative writing is the only way to release yourself and find your blood on the paper.

I am grateful for your visit. Thank you.