A ‘Borrowed’ Thought …

Anytime you feel bad about procrastinating, recall that Mozart composed the overture to Don Giovanni the morning of the day the opera premiered. It's the thought of the day from bluebirdofbitterness, (and the music is great, too!). I am in the middle of a busy period of procrastination. The story about the old lady and the mad … Continue reading A ‘Borrowed’ Thought …

Not On the Cards, by Cage Dunn

I think I’m speechless – and that’s never happened before, trust me! thank you, acflory … I’m so happy you enjoyed the story.

Meeka's Mind

Cage Dunn is an Australian writer who answered my recent call for beta readers. Cage not only tested my latest how-to book, she introduced it to two groups of potential writers at her local library. Their combined feedback was so much more than I could ever have hoped for.

Curious, I decided to read one of Cage’s books. That book was ‘Not on the Cards’, and this is the review I just left for it on Amazon:

At its heart, Not on the Cards is a story of love and responsibility: Gate Keeper to Key Master, mother to child, Gate Keeper to multiverse, yet for much of the time, its set in a carpark near Camberwell Junction. On the weekends, that humble carpark becomes a Trash & Treasure market with a deliciously bohemian atmosphere. I know, because the market is in my home town of Melbourne [Australia], and I’ve been…

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Black Cat

  Apparently, it's Black Cat Appreciation day (or maybe it was yesterday!), so here is not just the black cat (Boofie, with a grandpa named Barberry Tom Thumper) but also a few of his friends - and the leopard was his dream-shape. See the poem, Black Cat, by Rainer Rilke.

Elegy

parallax

Energetic – Word of the Day

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The creek line along the outer wall of King’s Canyon.

Elegy For Mother

I stopped on the rise
where the trail opens to a valley,
and sat for a while admiring your view.
I took off my shoes and savoured your sand,
ran my hands down your powdery skin,
stretched my arms out in praise,
breathing you in,
taking you in memory,
sacred memory.
Purified in your creeks,
fuelled by your self-offering,
I reflect this on your paper,
in my electronica chic,
mineral products so smooth.
All that you are is
all that I am,
and all that I have.
Yet, though I valliantly try,
I have left you
exhausted,
depleted,
like a football I once kicked,
burst and rent.
Kyoto a faded vow,
my lust has consumed you
your energy spent
feeding mine.
And more than admiration,
or the faithlessness of plattitudes,
Mother,

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