Where’s Your Slice of Heaven?
Today’s my second participation in the Blog Off—the brainchild of several of my talented tweeps. This week’s subject is “Where’s your slice of heaven?” Though I’ve been to some pretty spectacular places in the world, I have to say that I take possession of my slice of heaven each time I live fully in the moment in my creativity. A shining example of this took place last week. Uber-tweep Richard Holschuh pronounced “game on,” enticing me into a smack-down of “At Play in the Fields of the Word.” We took turns tweeting bits of creative writing as you see it here—140 characters at a time, each entry inspiring the next. It was a frothy, exciting exercise, and I thought I’d share the outcome, which has been given a name but otherwise left as it happened—a monument to “in the moment” poetry. Maybe we should start a Poem Off!
The best thing about my slice of heaven is that I can take it with me wherever I go (and always do). Happy #TravelTuesday everyone! Don’t forget to pack your love for language when you’re taking off for parts known and unknown! See other #letsblogoff entries of my intrepid compatriots here as they go live today. As you will see from their varied explorations, they are a smart and diverse lot with some incredible things to say. You can also see everyone by following #letsblogoff on Twitter.
The Richness of Essence
by Saxon Henry and Richard Holschuh
As one season closes, another climbs: brisk rush into the throws of
fallen leaf, savoring the last of summer’s repast.
The day unfurls, swelling with the sustenance of lit hours, and curls to
sleep, a tracery record of experience. A new bud dreams.
When the shoot noses its way past the loamy soil, the echoes of
unfettered joy drench us in the promise of fullness.
The summer-warmed earth dons her cloak of gold and flaming crimson,
rustling upon her breast, her breath slowing perceptibly.
She clings to the softness of the balmy season even as the warmth
she craves wanes. Autumn’s last leaf skitters away on arid wings.
The sun bows its equinoctial arc, sheathing its glory in ragtag shreds
of dreary gray, as the cricket’s chirp slows and ceases.
The hawk flattens itself to the heft of the brisk breeze, its heart
intent on hunting the prey gathering husks of survival.
Glinting dully across the steely chop of the chill lake, the final rays of
the day slump in surrender behind the embattled hills.
Night slips in on the sun’s wake, darkening the thickets that clump and
freeze into macabre sculptures from frost’s embrace.
Shadowy fingers reach into the forest’s depths, gathering the rattling
sere remnants of high summer clutched amongst the brambles.
As the frigid wind whips through the gorges and buffets the craggy
slopes, the clouds smother the sun’s ineptitude, scowling.
Withered bracken flattens before the warning blasts, hugging in vain
the memory of nurturing warmth. Alone, the moor, once again.
Winter lingers long. Smoke fills the pockets of the valleys with acrid
haze; then bleak turns crystalline at snow’s bidding.
Across the snowbound landscape, a trillion tiny crystal goblets catch
the sun’s dim radiance, magnifying to blinding brilliance.
So I have officially gone all poetic on you: proof is last week’s post, Swan Song, with da Vinci, Dante Alighieri, Michelangelo and Petrarch amongst the tagged and touted!