It is not how long I live, but how I live. I am accounting for all the time I can earn. Tax your body and expect returns. – Ash
The only thing I hate about writing is having to return to the real world. – Ash
Boats sway nestled to port
quietly breaking the ocean toward the shore
its laps catch my ear
then, I see
I watch as the moorings drip
counting seconds for no reason
high over in the charcoaling sky
chimney smoke rises, strangling the hills
blips of buoy lights reach north and south
tomorrow to be a beautiful day
this, a story, a grandfather tale
to comfort me
as I am ushered home by the dear harbour
before it can sleep it sings
lending me its sounds for sweet dreams to come
allows me the harmony of its salty crests
until I turn my door in goodnight
I listen for the songs of the harbour
four shadows passing by midnight
the king, the jack, the ace, and the joker
pushing and shoving…jousting in jest
their laughter lulling the moon
as street lights froze everything in time
and the world just slept
shuffle and stroll in the wake of the chopping shore
they poked and praised, challenged some more
free until the sun began to peek
then they retreat with the dampening dew
enough stories for a thousand tomorrows
from a single night
a key to a forever yesterday
Sometimes being creative and battling writer’s block can become a vicious cycle. So, I went for one. – Ash
The body was easy to move from the place to the car to the boat. As it always is. Premeditation is kind of my thing. I have done this same routine maybe a hundred times. No, I believe it is a hundred and six times. Yeah, a hundred and six. You know, blondes are my favourite of all the women. Slightly more gullible. Usually more attractive. All of them walking by themselves late at night. Coming from their restaurant shifts, drunken bachelorette parties, or on their way to an ex-boyfriend. Then, I would present myself to these tired, these tipsy, and these texting specimens. Most nights, it is an unlit cigarette in poor lighting that works effortlessly. Cliché I know. Although, there were times I would fake a bleeding lip on this fragile face of mine. It was easy with these ladies the way I look. Always so helpful they are. But now I am bored. Unmotivated. No more of this killing racket. I am done. Finished. The girls just do not seem to fight back anymore anyway. Shall I leave a clue? Maybe allow one to getaway? Hmmm. Better yet! How about this one? Number 107. I mean, after all of that and you, my pretty blonde lady…are still breathing.
As a writer, I sometimes lose my direction. Everything becomes inside. When I start to feel that way, I go outside. I run straight into the arms of Mother Nature and she sets the scene for me. – Ash
Every day is another chance to make it your best day. You can, you will, you should, and you matter. – Ash
Picking rain touches
seen there beyond the window
blending with our tears
I wanted to drop in and let you all know that one of my most recent poems has been published on Spillwords. It’s live as of today. I submitted it a little while ago, they liked it, and informed me last week of their intention to share it for their own audience. It made my day and gave me something to smile about given the world’s current state. (A post about that is coming) Now, some of you have already read this poem here on my site, but I thought I would go ahead and share it once more to help take our minds off some of the craziness that’s going on.
As always, I hope you enjoy it. Please don’t forget to comment and tell me what you think. It’s all of you and your continued support that drives my writing and I’m lucky to have such a awesome following.
So, without further adieu, please click this link and move on over to Spillwords.com and enjoy Ash to Dust.
Stay safe, practise social distancing, and we’ll get through this troubled time together.
One word at a time, let us take back our lives.