Happy New Years! As I put this piece together we have about ten minutes to go in Alberta, Canada. Mother Nature, as she did in many parts of the world, decided to make it more than minus forty degrees Celsius with the wind chill so most of the New Years events here were cancelled.
The fireworks, I believe were still happening, but they were supposed to be earlier this year for families and kids, but I didn’t hear any fireworks popping and crackling yet. I usually do from where we live. Anyways I hope you enjoyed your New Years celebrations tucked snug in your home, at a party, or at New Years events. Wishing you all much happiness and joy.
So, here we go . . . Oh the fireworks have started. 🎉 Some of these quotes are a bit cheeky, as well.
Scattered in vivacious colors, a thousand was not enough, but would’ve a thousand paper cranes healed you, done anything? I guess they weren’t for you, they were for me, to keep my hands busy as your eyes glassed over and the pain meds kicked in; they stopped me from crying out from asking, why you didn’t even try to heal, for you, for me. I leaned over your bedside the paper cranes around us and you gave me a half grin with your dimpled cheek, somehow there when all other reserves of flesh were gone; then you were gone before I could memorize your last smile.
Chop, Chop. Chop the wood. Repeat. Chop. Chop. Day ends — Supper. Shower. Sleep too deep. Jarring alarm, awake again. Breakfast. Shower. Sore muscles hurt. Heat eases. More coffee. Uniform and axe. Greet the guys. Say hello — going off. All directions on the forest grid. Each with a partner. Nick is with me. A cadence of chops. Echoes. Chop. Chop. Chop the wood. Split it. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. The trees are felled. Grinding buzzing. Giant chain saw. Felling trees. Cutting logs. Then we chop. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Lunch. Hungry. Seconds. Chop. Home. Shower. Supper. Eat. Sore muscles. Sleep and dream. Standing there. In her T-shirt. Sweet lips. Short shorts. Gentle laughter. Stroke of hand. Touch. So real. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Dreaming. She’s gone. Three hours. Then, chop, chop. Chop the wood.
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write about wondering what “future archaeologists, whether human or from an alien civilization, will make of us . . . exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist.” Thanks to Michael of last week’s Tale Weavers from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie who provided a prompt about the moon. As well for A to Z Challenge for a GoodRead’s quote the letter today is the letter W.
” . . . All that is now / [a]ll that is gone/ [a]ll that’s to come / and everything under the sun is in tune/ but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.
“There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it’s all dark.” — Roger Waters
Gazing into the future, ‘neath a pale moon gleaming bright,
Hard to believe, people who were, saw the same moon’s shining light.
They had houses, electricity.
So many ethnicities.
It’s different now, the gene pool changed,
Those who look unique all estranged.
All look like us, all brown eyes, dark hair, and medium skin too.
I can scarce picture blond, red-haired, green eyes, or eyes so blue.
Genetic defects they called them, so now we’re all plain, the same,
It’s weird to think, they dyed their hair, all colors, none went gray.
How was it to be individual,
Not for the whole good — sacrificial.
What makes a person now is,
Incredibly different knowing this —
Society of people who fell as those before left their cities,
Frames of what once was, rusted metal, not all that pretty.
Their language full of slang, we cannot pin down lingiustics,
Cannot find words, spoken globally, their lyrics I sing.
But their music is strange, listened —
To some and our technology it fits.
Technology they had weird, but we —
Discover strange things, sound gleaned.
Words not understandable but melodies clear and bright,
Music is forbidden, I sing in secrecy to ancient tunes light.
Some days we watch their stories, their films, when the moon is round.
My favorite days, those brilliant plays, words with lovely sound.
And we find little toys, scrapbooks, phones,
While in the distance the guns drone.
Each man, each woman a soldier,
Controlled by who knows? With no souls.
No hope as those gone far ago had, of a war ending soon,
Gazing into the future, we lived under the same moon.
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write, “an elevenie. An an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is.”