Lyrical Light

The Mother to hurt, she sings old but enchanting melodies; and as I sit listening, her voice, the sounds of lyrical light, spin, illuminating a mystery of webs. To her every thrill, I surrender; to the rise and fall of nuances, I tremble. Where ends the nervous tide rushing the stream? The preponderance of waters slipping over the falls? Only she comprehends sweetness in darkened light, the tenacious tenderness that is her fingertips.

The woman’s ardent simplicity allures me. She is the flower, the stormy skies, the steamy rains. This ageless beauty whose delicate lines characterize her face. A timelessness without void. The degree of everything assuring one thing, one thing-but take care, the illusion of midnight…did you feel it?

Strangely, such simplicity conjures critical thinking; questions better left to higher intelligence. As such, I could father neither psychological nor emotional critiques as to (even) begin conversations of worth. Yet, here, I sit as she bends and shapes me, molds me, reconstructs this dinosaur into something It could never be, something It would never become. She is Mastress to metamorphoses, Mother to the moment, and this moment and as her creation, I am:

RAWDATA

The moments lapse, while next to me you sleep.
Outside, rains feed the starving skies and foliages.
Outcomes, matters of choice or chance? I am better
served by forgetfulness but submit to memories.

Lying here, the terms, like water, flow into my mind.
Oxymorons, palindromes, portmanteau. Willingly,
we don pretentious masks, caring to believe that
without them, we are forgiving, honest, truthful.

Did I ask of you; and did you offer, memory fails me;
for, forever, it seems that loyalty and even support are
not the obligations of crutches. What brand of repulsion
ravishes raindrops; and then makes them cry;
and is it not sad?

Unlike non-negative roots, our radical emotions
negate; degrees of despair whirling wildly, soaring to
fourths, fifths, higher. And then acquiring the nth
degree, we violate critical thinking.

Borne by unknowns, we are rawdata, variables, pieces
adorning Chess Boards; our end games subject to the
Heavens and Hades.

The mirror reconfigures our appearances. Our reflections
regard us deceitfully. Anatomically, and inside the brilliant
womb, we experience metamorphoses, we mutate. Nevertheless,
the bending of our forms fails the bending of our lives.

Healing is relative and time heals, sometimes. Recovery,
distant; discovery: daunting. Like honeybees, sorrowful
tears lure us; they sweeten our lives, they are our lives.

Inside the Cosmos, colloids randomly connect, and
during which, esteemed questions of life arise, choices
are never chances, but and apparently, the answers are
non-sensical.

Shortly, the rains pause and then the clouds illuminate;
Science and the Heavens entice me, I am content and at
ease; and then effortlessly; and, almost as if consciously,
susurrating winds disperse the clouds, exposing lost dreams.

Breathlessly, I cannot help but wonder, which of them are
yours, mine…

…Every one.

Copyright (c) 2015 Delbert H. Rhodes

Un-Wrapping the Words

Menu Grammar Check

By Delbert H. Rhodes

Flowing upon the page words form living chains, strings of text for everyone to admire.

Grammatical portrayals of punctuation, style, and phrase abound and although seen remain invisible to uninformed eyes. The expression “Family Dining ‘At It’s Best!'” demonstrates improper grammar.

The neuter pronoun it as used here in the Contraction form (It’s) rather requires the Possessive form (its) without apostrophe, and as such erroneous grammar cannot hide. Naturally, one hopes that the error was intentional so as to make some sort of point. Terminologies enthrall, persuade, discourage, and overwhelm and even abhor us. They are a mixed bag of human emotions; and thereby, control us as readers, and listeners and as people caring to peruse the written page.

Expressions may be similar, or altogether different still interpretations are as diverse as are the people exposed to the scripts.

The world of words opens us to the worlds of the past, present and future; it recaptures childhoods, makes us cry out in the night and helps us to constructively analyze events living in the yesterdays of tomorrows. Searching bestows treasures unavailable without a willful inquisitiveness.

The lyric of song fills the air with musical passions; rivers of imagination float us away. We drift, as would aimless canoes propelled by rushing waters. Fantasies groping and swelling; our faces brightened by big eyes in the face of twilight; the coming day offering the end to suffrage and the beginnings of joy.

I love words, they challenge me to take risks; while daring me to look inward at someone or something difficult to bear: something I, preferably, would ignore or deny. Words, and the manner in which I make use of them “make use of me” and difficult though it may be, they forge a better person.

The writer is merely an architect drawing images of illusion: titillating the fancies of individuals creatively reaching beyond their grasps; every venue representative of imaginatively stirring lures parenting dire circumstances; each moment availing itself to passionate artistic muse by manner of creative genius.

Ideas, and no matter their seeming fixations are flexible, lending themselves to modification and to the living will of change.

If the world of words, and the graciousness abounding within their elements were attractive then what one finds and understands is that words offer something nothing else can and that is the opportunity to create reality from unreal sources. By bending truth, and fiction and making dreams come true the world of words helps us to believe.

Meeting the challenge lives in the hearts of the daring and the risks may be great. Whatever one’s truth or fiction unearthing the treasures of text demands searching, finding and then un-wrapping the world of words.

Copyright © 2013 Delbert H. Rhodes