.
It is a very human thing
To imagine that
We can rule time
With words…
Days, weeks,
Months, seasons…
September.
Autumn.
Flowers are much
Much wiser…
They just wait
For the sun to rise,
And if it is warm enough…
They bloom.
.
.
.
If you want to know what After Eight Moments are about, click here.
Description for the visually impaired; Close up on a late summer, white flower bloom.
Life is a river
Flowing without any pause
Moments memory
Copyright (c) 2021 Namrata D Prabhakar
The Writer’s Digest team has witnessed many writing mistakes over the years, so we started this series to help identify them for other writers (along with correction strategies). This week’s writing mistake is putting off submissions.
Source: Writing Mistakes Writers Make: Putting Off Submissions – Writer’s Digest
How to stay motivated in a sales job is a concern of many people. In fact, one of the primary
Source: How to Stay Motivated in a Sales Job – Inspired Motivation
As much as I recommend avoiding the romanticism of the writer’s life, I do find myself fascinated by famous authors’ creative processes.
And what better way of fuelling this fascination than by gawking over their tools of creation?
To be honest, the only reason why I have a LAMY 2000 sitting in my drawer is because Neil Gaiman uses one to draft his stories. I’ve also written on Vim to emulate George Martin’s preference for Wordstar.
But now that I’ve decided to stop blindly going down the path of tool-collecting, I’ve found myself gravitating towards simpler and cheaper options.
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A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Good days become sweet dreams with time.
I want to see you again….
The powerful Pacific ocean hide the love stories of fearless lovers.
I wandered the beaches of Monterey.
I looked at faces. Chasing ghosts of old lovers and sweet kisses.
Longing for the embrace of sweet lovers lost in time.
I sit with my sweet red wine. I wander to better days and beautiful faces.
I remember my beautiful Beatrice. She loved the sea.
We would hold each other tightly.
Listening to the music of the waves and the breeze.
The empty beach was our paradise.
We needed some wine and a blanket to protect us from the cold night.
I remember my beautiful Beatrice dancing alone with the ghost of unknown past.
She would bring me up and we would dance like free Gypsies with…
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Tell me, how you lived?….
Old poet told the people at the poetry reading. Dead men, do not rise. He read some quotes. “For each man kills the things he loves, Yet each man does not die” Oscar Wilds” “Who knocks? I, who was beautiful, beyond all dreams to restore azure skies, chaos, broken softly, in the dust.”
I chanted for war, now I chant for peace, the dead cannot be awaken. Now I know. Us, who love the posies shall ask. Tell me, how did you live? Was your hand outstretched in the offer of friendship? Did you beleaguered the world create chaos or did you blessed the world with kind face and gentle words? Did you befriend many? Love many?
I shared some wisdom “Please laugh often, love often and dance often. Know the fragrant of the deep sea, dance in the field of the wildflowers and make love…
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Sharing two poems I wrote in a recent poetry circle facilitated by Ali Grimshaw https://flashlightbatteries.blog/. I continued to be amazed at the beautiful connections made across many miles over computer screens. ❤️
It is difficult
To remember
The me who
Once was seven
Do you find
The same
To be true?
Oh, there are
Glimpses
Flashes of
Childhood
Aided by
Photographs
The reciting
Of stories at
Family gatherings
I believe at seven
Happy outweighed sad
And freedom came
When swinging
To the sky
Then bravely
Jumping out
It is difficult
To remember
The me who
Once was seven
But I am grateful
For her spirit
Continuing
To reside in me
Even when
I’m afraid
To jump out
Of the swing
Hours spent
Together
Make me want
To remember
Not just the present
But every visit past-
Each block of time
Long or short
Places another…
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How quickly we
can change perspective
what seemed so important
now forgotten
Shifts casting us
into new possibilities
never more to be
the same
The Reluctant Poet 