The future is just a blink of the eye We have not yet reached the next blink. The blink just gone by is history A few blinks in the past I took a breath. When my eyes opened to a harsh brightness Dazzling my senses as I came through A red haze of darkness to where?
The eyes that foresee the future mirror the magic of the past. Eyes that once blinked attached to lives, That built this present we inhabit. When I sleep or my eyes are closed. I inhabit a world of not now. From suspended animation I wake when I blink my way into the future.
The blind live in a magical present built by patient sensual impression. A future through the eye of a blind eye Is darkness illuminated through thought. Constructed by sensual expression, Built by pure empathetic impression. “Amazing Grace how sweet the sound, I was blind but now I foresee”. The future is just a blink of the eye.
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May
WHERE TO NEXT? by John Yeo
I often ponder on things that matter, Sometimes incredibly simple ideas. For example, it occurred to me today Can anyone ever be completely happy?
A silly thought but very real There is always something else in view, the moment dictates how you feel Overwhelming happiness is never true.
I feel very happy, although I have wishes, If I have wishes is happiness complete? Complete happiness would be mischievous. There is always something, a goal to beat.
If there is a God, when I pass away, Who asked then and there. ”Are you happy?” I would have to think very hard, then say, Life was good, I enjoyed the challenge. “Where do we go from here?”
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May
THE MURGAL TREE by John Yeo
The Murgal Tree quietly moved in the wafts of the imaginary breezes in Teresa’s mind. He had been rehearsing an important piece of information in the depths of his voluminous trunk. ‘I know I’m unique, talking trees are not accepted by the rootless ones. Teresa’s parents must learn to accept our existence or we are nothing.’
Teresa broke into his thought stream. ‘How can we go about that? No one will ever believe us.’
The tree’s branches trembled visibly as he replied. ‘I have no idea, Tess. Perhaps if we can find another sensitive mind, we will be able to convince them.’
Teresa smiled and suddenly thought, ‘What about my Uncle Peter? I swear he is the same, he has been in and out of hospitals because he hears strange words.’
‘We must try Tess! Bring him tomorrow and we will let him in on our secret. We must do something or I will disappear.’
‘Are you sure Murgy? What if he doesn’t understand?’
‘We must give it a try Tess bring him tomorrow.’
That evening Tess and her Uncle were walking in the large gardens at the back of their house.
‘Uncle, do you believe trees could ever talk?’
‘Anything is possible Tess, Why do you ask?’
‘Will you come to meet someone with me tomorrow please Uncle?’
‘Of course Tess! Who will we be meeting?’
‘It’s a surprise Uncle!’
The next day, a brilliant Sun was shining from a blue sky. Birds were singing and flying to and fro in the woods as Teresa led her Uncle Peter to the lake where the Murgal tree was located. Teresa stopped under the tree and thought loudly,
‘Hello, Murgy!’
‘Hello Tess!’ replied the tree using the power of thought. Uncle Peter looked startled but he never said a word.
‘ Did you hear that Uncle Peter?’
‘No Tess! What do you mean? Did I hear what?’
Teresa looked sad and disappointed.
‘What can you hear Tess?’ Asked her Uncle. ‘Please don’t say you hear voices. They will never understand. I know.’
‘OK Uncle Peter, I think we should go home now.’
A few days later Tess arrived home, broken-hearted, in tears. ‘Someone has cut down and killed the Murgal tree,’ she wailed.
Uncle Peter looked away and looked unhappy, he said. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best Tess? Talking trees can get people into a lot of trouble. No one seems to take it seriously, I know! It might have been cut down in that fierce storm yesterday.’
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May
BLOOD ON THE TRAIL
The sirens sounded as we fled, Our escape was discovered quite quickly. I knew I would have to break free From the cruelty of false imprisonment. Men on horseback with dogs in pursuit We fled through the marshes in haste. Snarling,vicious dogs on our trail With sharp fangs that thirsted for blood.
We came to a fast-flowing stream. I jumped in the water to confuse the hounds I had lost touch with Ben in my haste. Suddenly a terrifying scream resounded An ear-piercing, soul-shattering sound An animal-like death call that carried And echoed for miles around. Then silence as a throat is torn out.
Just the sound of the hounds growling, Snarling and fighting for flesh. I hide here frozen, petrified with fear Pain and shock as the hunters pass. With Ben chained, captured and beaten. Bloodstained and shaking with fear The hounds have a stag, half-eaten. I make my escape and get clear.l
I love adding the detail to a very fine drawing Then painting a picture for sensual pleasure. I love the satisfaction of producing real art The pure creative pleasure of building a picture A feeling of accomplishment at the completion. Positive reinforcement of my own interpretation Producing a likeness, a creation of beauty. The application of paint in beautiful colours. To produce a picture to match the minds eye. The relaxation has benefits beyond measure Blocking out mundane thought by contemplation Of the subject, and the total intense concentration Leading to a final interpretation. Hard to resist The question. Why did I not become an artist?
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May
TO A DEAD PLAYWRIGHT by John Yeo
You will never come to know me in my lifetime. I feel I know you incredibly well. I have read and admired much of your life’s work; Your powerful magic will stay with me to my end. Reinforcing my humble hopes with high aspiration. Maturing with the years like a rare vintage wine.
The beauty of your verse and your wide comprehension Of life, and life’s changing, ever changing situations . Kings and Queens with their hopes and dreams Lovers and clowns, tragedy with comedy entwined. The language of mystical life, hopes and fears Sowing seeds in my thought, building high inspiration.
The players weave your silken web of dreams sincere, Teasing the groundlings and the intellectual elite. With exquisite laughter, impossible expectations. Poetry and plays enduring four hundred years. Love and wit, expressed in rare language Drama with wonder, blood, cruelty and fears.
The irresistible, controversial, William Shakespeare.
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May
SCI-FAE by John Yeo
I came to consciousness in a haze of non recognition of where I was, who I was and how I had arrived here. Everything was strangely unrealistic, unusual, unrecognisable a colourful arena in a world of kaleidoscopic strangeness. As if a disturbed artist had poured and continued to pour his paint in rivulets of colour on an ever changing landscape. An orange flare dazzled the permanent light that shone from the multi-coloured suns lighting up the distant horizon with a green fire that seemed to be all-consuming. Billows of purple steam sounded loudly, hissing and spluttering as blue liquid stone flowed down a yellow ochre liquid bed on a river of jagged rocky liquid. There was a silent crash of electric thunder as a winged figure sped up from the bowels of the middle sky. Emerging from a point that mystically merged with the pink of a rising horizon and the disappearance of the future into the past. A point in time that was midway between now and then. “Welcome to the world of Sci Fae!” Boomed a falsetto base sound, that seemed to convey communication as if a note composed of a base clef swimming in an ocean of liquid soprano had arrived together to assault the ears with pure music. Then a loud buzzing as an alarm sounded on the machine that lay in waiting. An information loaded gadget waiting for the button to be pressed to silence the alarm. I tore myself away from my dreamworld of the night, to face the familiar mundane music of snarling, honking, beeping traffic that I would certainly become a part of soon. An alarming prospect indeed. “Morning Darling!” I mumbled as I dragged myself out of bed.
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May.
VAGUE THOUGHT (Rebirth)
When I grow up again I want to be free Of all the things that are holding me back. When I grow up again I want to be really me.
I’ll be branching out, growing strong, like a tree, Removing the shackles without drawback When I grow up again I want to be free.
I’ll quickly dispose of childish immaturity Reaching upwards to grasp all I lack, When I grow up again I want to be really me.
My mind will be reaching for my destiny Shaking off vague thought, not looking back. When I grow up again I want to be free.
I know there can be no guarantee My ambition will withstand any attack, When I grow up again I want to be really me.
I will change my life and become carefree Keeping my ambition firmly on track, When I grow up again I want to be free When I grow up again I want to be really me.
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May.
INSPIRATION
During a brief moment of inactivity I began reading an article in the Spring edition of ‘The Paris Review’; a quarterly literary magazine featuring original writing, art, and in-depth interviews with famous writers. I began reading an article by Ishion Hutchinson, a writer who I have to confess I have never read before. The article was entitled, ‘Women Sweeping’ and began with an in depth appraisal of a painting by artist: Édouard Vuillard entitled ‘Woman Sweeping’, apparently a portrait of the artist’s mother. After a wonderful detailed description of this painting, the writer seamlessly switches to a beautiful word portrait of the life of his own grandmother who lived in Jamaica. I was entranced by the description of her lifestyle, which apparently was the trigger that led to the comparison with Vuillard’s painting. This was fascinating and incredibly detailed, lifting the lid on a harrowing, harsh lifestyle where she lived in Portland Jamaica. When asked how she, ‘made her house’, she would say, ‘Through baking’. Her baking and a market stall produced a comfortable career. Out of it she built her house and raised her children. Although she was illiterate, on the base of the table in her house, were four books: the King James Bible, a Church of God hymnal, The Jamaican phone directory and a worn, illustrated copy of John Steinbeck’s ‘The Pearl’. Ishion Hutchinson then seamlessly returns to the portrait of Madame Vuillard with a continuing interesting appraisal of the painting. The article finishes with the death of his grandmother. I was so absolutely fascinated by this piece of writing, it prompted me to download the painting and re-read the article. I also obtained a copy of John Steinbeck’s book, The Pearl’. It also inspired me to write this piece. Thank you Ishion Hutchinson. I have to admit this is what inspiring writing is designed for…..to feed the imagination and encourage further thought.
My response today to Doris Emmett’s Post-a-Day for May.
THE HERMIT by John Yeo
The hermit sat in some welcome shade, Sunshine lit up the forest corners, Nobody ever visited this secret glade. – With a gentle breeze the branches swayed, A sparkling stream with cool clear waters, The hermit sat in some welcome shade. – Wild birds sang and approached unafraid Colourful, friendly, social performers, Nobody ever visited this secret glade. – Deer who grazed here never strayed Far from this glades secret borders, The hermit sat in some welcome shade. – Butterflies fluttered and Rabbits played, Sheltered safely from their predators Nobody ever visited this secret glade.
After he swapped the old life he had made For a solitary life to escape his oppressors. The hermit sat in some welcome shade Nobody ever visited this secret glade.
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