Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Friday, September 30, 2011

I Steal Words-Prose Poetry


I collect words. I keep them in my pockets, smashed against my textbooks, in little golden cages, stuck to the bottom of my muddy boots. I drape them around trees and put them in glass bottles. I pick them up along the beach and steal them from people's mouths. I pluck them out of the wind and sweep them into dustpans. I sleep with words crumpled inside my hands and pressed against my closed eyelids. I step on words and hear them crackle satisfyingly beneath my feet. I throw them against walls and suck their meaning dry. I bake and broil them, candy and pickle them. I ramble and rant, toying at words with catlike menace. 

I devour words,smothering them in half formed ideas with a side of confusion. I bath them in delusions and scrub them till they glow. I keep them on leashes and drag them on long walks, pulling them through the dirt and mud of my mind. When they howl, I scold them and prod them with pens and pencils. I iron out their wrinkles for hours and hang them out to dry on rainy days. I cradle them till they fall asleep and steal their secrets one by one. I analyze and hypothesize about them, muttering like a mad scientist about their inner cores. I put them under microscope and strip them bare. I paint them bizarre colors and drop them in house paint. I rub them across my skin and absorb them in. I collect words

But when I need them most...
I can never find a single one
But then again....
maybe they find me

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Story Peddler

-For all of you who have wondered where stories REALLY come from-

He started like this "People always ask me where I get my ideas. They ask how I can phrase my sentences so. They ask where I find my characters."
We nodded, we wondered this as well.
He continued. "It's very simple. But it starts, as all things do, with a story. A story about me, because the stories about me are the best, you know." He winked.
He walked silently, the rain washing away the sound of his footsteps and most of his thoughts. He pulled his jacket against his thin frame and shivered. His mousy blond hair was matted against his skull, wet and dripping and he didn't bother to open his umbrella. He loved the feeling of the rain pouring onto him, caressing his exposed face and skin. He walked with the awkward gait of a young boy, growing into his skin. His bright green eyes darted around aimlessly, taking in everything and processing barely anything. His book bag was slung across his shoulder, bulging and burdensome. He had one goal: get home and dry off.
He didn't notice the man at the end of the sidewalk, sitting on the wet sidewalk with a patchwork umbrella over him, so tattered that it served barely any purpose as an umbrella. The man was wearing an old faded top hat and he wore a bright orange tuxedo. A variety of luggage and strange items were laid out in front of him. The boy  kept walking, lugging his book bag around, unsuccessfully trying to flip a wet string of hair out of his face. He collided into the man. He caught himself from falling and began to profusely apologize, blushing bright red. The man stood up and looked at him intently in the eye.
"No harm done."
"Oh, shush your blabbering boy!" the man grunted.
The boy's lip quivered. "I'm sorry! I wasn't trying to blabber. You see I just feel really.."
"Do you have any stories, boy?" The man interrupted.
"Any what?!"
"Any stories!"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir.."
"Then obviously you don't have any. I'm a story peddler, you see."
"A what?"
"I buy, sell and trade stories, of course. Sometimes school children have the best whoppers and characters, so I buy 'em off them."
"I don't really understand. How can one sell stories? Like books?"
"No. How do you think people write books? They need to buy a story or an idea, first. Right? You can't write a proper book without one, now can you?"
"So you sell people..plots and such?"
"Exactly! Why I sold Shakespeare half of his stuff. He was one of my best customers! You know Stephen King?"
"Yes?" The boy said, scratching his nose
The man grinned and proudly declared "You are looking at his main source!"
The boys eyes widened. "You sell stories? Like really truly, real authors buy things from you for their books?"
"Well yes. Bad authors and amateurs buy them too. But my stories are hard to handle and they end up killing a lot of 'em. A real shame, but business is business."
The boy looked at him in awe, still perplexed "Can I buy a story?!"
The man chuckled. "Well if I have anything you can afford, sure. But you will have to start with a tamer one. Nothing experimental or crazy or steamy. Youngins like you gotta' start simple. Understand?"
The boy nodded, excitedly. "Do you have anything about pirates?!"
"I might." He began to check through one of his overly large pockets and pulled out a small jar. "This should do."
"It's empty!"
"Well you think I would just let anyone see my prime merchandise right off the bat?!" The man said scornfully, his multiple wrinkles very visible. "If you buy it, when you get home you can see it!"
"Oh... How much?"
"A dream."
"How do I give you a dream?"
"You tell me a dream of yours. Keep in mind, nothing really big. And then I take it and put in in meh pocket! Got it?"
The boy gave him a strange look. "What's the story about?"
"Lord have mercy..what's the story about? It's about pirates!"
"What about them?"
"It's about a pirate named Will Ferdinand who.."
"That's a dumb name!"
"WELL NO ONE ASKED YOU! Look boy, if you aren't interested I can go sell it  to Cornelia Funke or J.K Rowling!"
The boy sighed. "Fine. I'll give you one of my dreams. I just say it?”
The man nodded and wiped some rain out of his eyelashes
The boy shivered and spoke “ Here's my dream. I want to fly."
The man clucked. "Well that wasn't a small dream, but fine. Here is your story!"
The boy felt his stomach make a strange grumbling noise and he coughed loudly. He heard a whoosh in his ears. "What was that?!!"
The man rolled his eyes and pushed some of his gray hair out of his eyes. "Your dream leaving you of course. Here is your story! Now better get out of the rain before you catch a cold." He tossed the open mouthed boy the jar.
The boy caught it his hands and looked at it. He lifted his eyes to the man to realize..he was gone. The boy blinked over and over again. The man was just gone! He walked away slowly, glancing back at where the man had been. Finally, totally confused he began to run home. His heart was beating loudly and he could hear his feet slam against the pavement as he ran. He reached his home, ignored him mom and ran up to his room. He locked the door and stared at the jar. It was still empty. He opened it slowly. He looked inside. It was still empty. He became frantic. THERE WAS NOTHING! Then he became angry. He felt cheated. There was nothing in the jar. He sat on his bed and kicked the air.
The End

We looked at him, confused. "WHAT? Wait..there was nothing? WHAT? So you buy your stories?!"
He laughed. "Of course not. I fill that jar."
"The jar was empty. And I was so mad. I felt cheated and used. I had given away a dream for absolutely nothing. But then I realized how silly it was. It was silly to think that I could buy a story for a novel about pirates from some old man. He sold me another story."
"What other story?"
"The one I just told you. He gave me that story. It's not everyday one get's a story like that. And when I looked back into my jar I could swear I could see little words in it. So I wrote that story down, and another one grew out of it. The more I put into the jar, the more that comes out. That's where I get my stories." We looked at him like he was insane. "That makes no sense!"
"I know!" he laughed. He kept laughing
That's a dumb story!”we roared
“You want another one?” he asked
“YES!” we demanded
“Well it will cost you a dream, then.”
He winked.

Saturday, September 17, 2011


"I don't know how I feel about it."
"About what?"
"About everything!"
"Define Everything"
"Everything is that moment when you can see a glimpse of your entire future in someone's eyes. Everything is when you spill milk on your favorite dress, right before school and you think 'I'm going to be a failure.' Everything is that smile that that random stranger gives you and you have to catch your breath, because it was a beautiful smile. Everything is making wishes on dandelions and blushing because your  wishes are ridiculous. Everything is when your legs are so sore that you walk like a bowlegged cowboy. Everything is lying under the stars thinking about the littlest things and pondering the biggest questions. Everything is when you want to touch some ones hair because it looks like it was weaved from moonbeams, but you don't because they will stare. Everything is when you scream so hard your lungs burst into a million emotions and your cheeks turn the colors of cherry tomatoes. Everything is talking to you and knowing exactly what I'm saying, and if I say it long enough that I will arrive at some answer. Everything is ripping petals off a flower. Everything is putting your hands in your hair and breathing deeply, hoping your heart doesn't shatter and reveal everything it hides. Everything is dancing in the rain, jumping in mud puddles and throwing paper at a wastebasket and missing. Everything is that girl yelling at you to leave for no reason at all. Everything is fake assumptions and false gossip. Everything is your brother hugging you so hard you can't breath and tousling his hair because he's getting too old. Everything is getting word drunk and losing yourself in prose. Everything is late nights where you can't sleep and your thoughts stray like lost dogs and bite at leashes. Everything is inside jokes and memories yet to be made. Everything is the sunset, pregnant with light and color. Everything is the sound of laughter, the taste of chamomile tea, the stench of sulfur, the rhythm of your heart in time with your soul. That's everything."
"So you're confused about..."
"Which is.."

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Don't Call Me Sir

-No I have no idea what this is, but if you like Harry..comment!-

    The Mailmen waves and drives away. He's driving way too fast. His head is probably liable to fall off at the rate he is going. Not my problem. He's a good looking man, despite his sort of unfortunate ears. Not saying he looks like Dumbo, but he may be a distant cousin. He's approaching that stage in middle age where the guys get all ugly and weight starts to fluctuate. I feel bad for the wives then.I never had a wife to watch it happen to me, thank the dear Lord. Though come to think of it, she would probably be as ugly and old as me now. The Mailman's wife can at least take comfort in the fact her time will come too. Anyways I still have my eyes, most my teeth and a little hair, so I can't complain.But I bet he's got it coming.

    I don't remember the mailman's name.I always was bad with names. Sometimes I like to get all philosophical about names. Like do names define us or do we define our names and lot's of junk like that. When you get old thinking seems to become like a champion sport. Or you just don't think at all. I do a lot of both. I just call people by whatever they remind me of now. So I just call the mailman, Letter. It amuses him, but it's reasonable and it works. I call him sometimes when I am expecting something and it doesn't get here. He always is all polite and explains some junk like "I just deliver mail, I don't effect when it gets here." I understand that, but he could drive a little faster, to me, rather then away from me.

    I used to try to keep a phonebook with numbers and be all organized. Dear me, I still can't even remember to bring my groceries out of the car or where I keep my glasses. Now I just paint numbers all over the wall of my bedroom and little drawings of what the people remind me of now. The one next to me is of Ribbons, my neighbor and her number. She's a regular ol' good gal and she makes me food sometimes. She took me to her yoga class last week. It was boring. We all just sat on balls and hummed and did stupid moves like "Flying Dog On Water" or whatever. But the instructor was cute so I struggled through it. She said it might help the aches in my joints but so would eternal youth, you know. I like seeing all the phone numbers in my room because it makes me feel connected. Like all the numbers are symbols of connections I have made in my life and cocoon me, or something. Ha,next I will be saying I'm like a butterfly. If anything I am more of a grouchy old stink beetle.

    All the mailman brought me was a newspaper and a little postcard from some relative I don't remember who probably wants to get into my will, which will not happen, so sucks for them. Not that it will be anything grand or colossal though. You don't get to pick your family but you can ignore them. Except when they are persistent and annoying, which they usually are. Then you just  buy earplugs or move. I've done both. Oh,and I got some bills. People always want money. You give them a twenty and then they are all "Hey, so I know you gave me a twenty but I need a ten now because if I don't get it my children will starve and the world will explode..and oh, I will turn off your electricity." Darn them.I gave up cursing but some people need stronger words then darn.I'm going to have to get more imaginative.

    I have a newspaper cave where I keep all my newspapers. You could say I am a pack rat but I'm hate vermin and  I'm a more elegant person. That's a lie. Don't believe me. 'Cept I do hate rats. So I like to think of myself as more of a collecter of time or even a pack monkey. Monkeys are always good animals to be associated with. I have newspapers dating all the way back to the 40's. Yes, I was alive then. Yes, I could have beaten you up. I would like to mention as a young man I had the best abs in five counties. But you can ask around. I used to read the newspapers before they became about what dumb thing the president said now and how good Tiger Wolf, or whatever is at golf. You know back when people were interesting and stuff. Back when Superman was still dating that reporter girl. You know what I hate most about newspapers now? Those advice columns. People say stuff like "My life is a ruin! My boyfriend and I have been dating for eighteen years and it's been the best time of my life. We were together constantly and I used to call him every hour. And now he wants to break up and says I'm suffocating and my life is messed up!" And then some pompous person answers, who in my opinion probably still lives in their parent's basement, saying that its obviously that he is just questioning the relationship and maybe he's cheating on you and it has nothing to do with you. It's like, honey it's been eighteen years, he should have put a ring on it, you are a creep, let people breath and get a life. Now shut the hell up. You know what I mean?

    But, I digress. I keep all my newspapers in this room. Whenever I am lonely because yes, I do get lonely, I go in there. I hate people who like "I DO POGO DANCING EVERY NIGHT AND I HAVE A MILLION FRIENDS AND I TEXT WHY I TALK TO YOU AND LIFE IS SO GRAND!" I'm human, I do get lonely and I don't think pogo dancing even exists. I sit with all the newspapers and let the years soak into me. I read little snippets and just sit with the history. It's like a pig sitting in mud.

    I really don't flatter myself with these comparisons. But I am just sitting in my one mud. Sometimes I look at some of the newspapers and want to yell "HOLY CRAP, I'M OLD!" I can spend hours in there thinking about everything, or nothing. Don't matter. Some of the newspapers I read on past vacations or painted, accidentally, while I was in one of my painting fits. I get those. I just paint so much I don't stop and walk around with a paintbrush in my hand, or at my worst moments, hanging out of my mouth like a cig.  I wonder if I put paintbrushes in my mouth because of some weird cigarette withdrawal I am still experiencing, 20 years after I quit. I still miss a cigarette after dinner. But I don't want to ruin my lungs and die coughing up cigarette butts. I may not be George Clooney but I still want to look okay when I die. I'm no ballerina or whatever a guy version is called (Ballerhino?),but dying with a cigarette shoved up my mouth, burning my lungs, makes it sound like I have no grace at all. But God has a sense of irony. Of course I'm going to like die the one day I forget to wear pants or while on the toilet. Not going to put that below God.

    But I'm still blabbering like an old fool. Like an old fool, yeah, that would be the day. I can't believe I even made half a living as a poet. People are so dumb. I'm actually kind of eloquent in poetry. It makes me sound all smartified and like I'm not some old man living with his fat old dog that likes messing up Bob Dylan lyrics and can only cook chili, when he don't burnt it. Keats, I'm not. I wrote a total of three poetry books and a bunch of critics with airs said things like 'the crisp, almost homely beauty of the lines in  this poetry book, are mesmerizing and yet radical in their simplicity. They read like a walk in a beautiful muddy park or crisp breeze heralding the scent of something else." BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. Like that makes sense. Using a bunch of metaphors and words no one understands somehow makes a critic smart and dignified and good. If you ask me, they are just spewing a bunch of sewer water while spraying perfume to mask up what they are really doing. They are just writing crappy reviews.  Thankfully, I'm a better painter then poet and everyone agrees with that. And I can play a killer poker hand. If I didn't become a painter I would probably be the world's best poker player. But I haven't had enough time to you know, let that skill develop.

    I don't really remember why I am writing this and my stupid dog is bursting my ear drums. She is howling at the moon. I named her Duke and that's her proper Christian name. She ought to be a Duchess, but I wanted to be all ironic because I am oh, so clever like that. Yeah, it sounded funnier then. She's pretty much the world's ugliest hound dog and I tell her that. But she don't care, though maybe it's why she isn't fond of me. We have a passing relation. I feed her, she doesn't bite my hand off. It works. It's not paradise, but you can't have a pleasant long term relationship with any female. They are all irrational, even the dogs. They do not getter better with age or chocolate or jewelry. That's why I joke the moon  is my girlfriend. Everyone says it's a man on the moon, so why can't it be an ugly woman? She gives me light, I tell her she's pretty and we break up every day. She always come back every night though, just like a woman.  She just can't stand being away from me. Can't blame her .So Duke is howling at my girlfriend because obviously Duke is jealous. Told you females are irrational. I ought to go yell at her and end right here before I drill your eyes off. I'm skilled like that.

    So anyways. I'm Harry. But they all call me P.J. If you call me anything else I will slap your nose off. And if you call me Sir, I will call you a slew of colorful names. I'm old but I'm not dead, when I'm dead you can call me Sir.Good Night.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"