Writing

Changing Line
© By: Basheesima and Kevin D. Porter

Swimming upstream and struggling onwards
Catch the drops and follow your brothers

Against the currents of Zephyr’s thunder
Wings fanned, dropping asunder

It’s not ours to find
Walking a changing line
You have to alter your mind
Walking a changing line

Swimming upstream, alone with another
Pouring the thoughts, words out of…order

It’s not ours to find
Walking a changing line
You have to alter your mind
Walking a changing line

Rivers seam the oceans mending line
Our worlds are joined to find
Some, some others time…

Catch the way of the other
Join the plight, become water
Changing the day, exploring the border
Delight in spite, without quarter

It’s not ours to find
Walking a changing line
You have to alter your mind
Walking a changing line

It’s not ours to find
Walking a changing line
You have to alter your mind
Walking a changing line

You know what’s yours is mine, walking in different times
You have to alter your mind, walking a changing line

***********************************************************************

Plateau World
© By: Basheesima

Exactly where it is
Exactly where it was
Cast up, cast down
All around
Twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

Streaming rain
Like liquid silver
Falling fast
As a rainbow
Twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

We’re upside down
On a plateau world
Tossed around
On our plateau world.
It’s twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

We are our own
They are there
But they are not
What we see
Twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

Like standing
On a mirror
We’re synchronized, then lost
In a thought
Twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

We’re upside down
On a plateau world
Tossed around
On our plateau world
It’s Twirling
Like a prism on a string
In a sunset

******************************************************************

Poem
Word count 142

Wings
Written by: Basheesima

Lady on the wall, dance in pictures
Moonlight casts, your ebbing mask.

Cold floor at your back, reflections tarred and black
Let your devils shed, undefined in your head.

Hanging another notch, to your dangling rope
Is…there…no…hope

I look down your in my arms, grasping for the wind
In my arms, I pray for wings.
I look down your in my arms, grasping for the wind
In my arms, I pray for wings.

Breath is still, shivers in the chill
Half-split moon, ladies on the wall

There…in place…dancing inside…my face.

I look down your in my arms, grasping for the wind
Lady give me dancing wings,
Promised for her
I’d do special things.

You’re not in my arms, grasping for the wind
You’re not in my arms, gasping for the wind
God, I pray he gave you wings.

*******************************************************************
Short Story
Word count 327

“Oh what a girl can do!”
By: Basheesima

The object of my most recent desire, or rather obsession, is what is inside of a two-by-four-by-seven inch cardboard box.

Actually, there is more than one box; there are twelve. Each box’s contents are distinguished by vibrant colors printed on the outside. There are words also, but they just aren’t needed. My coinage, for my box colors are: painfully perfect purple, really right red, whipping sweet white, and lastly in my collection is greedy green.

Two greedy green boxes are in the freezer; more inviting looking than the chicken breasts covered in frostbite, last summer’s ratatouille, and even the half-gallon of rainbow sherbet.

Another greedy green is in the fridge, snuggled up to the milk, right where it should be for a quick grab. A friend hid a really right red box, along with a perfect purple, a whipped white and four greedy greens. Their secret place is not to be divulged until I come begging on my knees and asking my friend to show mercy.

On each box, taunting me, is printed, “Oh what a girl can do!” Since I am a girl, it makes me think about just what I can do with the contents of greedy green. Well I’ll tell you because I timed it: the contents of two boxes, greedily gone in twenty-five-minutes, yeah baby!

Also stated on theses boxes is five skills can be accomplished: goal setting, decision-making, money management, people skills, and business ethics. These goals are for the seller, not the buyer of these boxes. My seller, standing tall and athletic, spoke in a sort of half English, which was foreign sounding only because of the separation of generations rather than nations. I wonder if she has earned her people skills badge.

I like to support things, and the Girl Scouts, with their cookies, have found a way to really make me want to support THEM. “Oh what a girl can do!”

The End

*******************************************************************

Short Story
Word count 585

Title: Chatter, Chatter, Monkey Mind
By: Basheesima

“I should have brought a shovel. At-the-very-least it would have been smart to sharpen the end of this pickax.’

“How I love the feeling of the sun’s rays on my back. See, now that always intrigues me; how the air temperatures can be below freezing, way below, and the sun, that amazing ball of fire in the sky, can still warm where it touches me. I wish I had no shadow side.’

“All right, little pickax, now we are getting somewhere. But, this is the easy layer, the soft stuff. Well, not as soft as when it fell from the sky as delicately as a bird’s lost feather, and as cold as ice. Just look at all the tiny particles of dirt mixed in with it. Amazing. I always thought of snow as pure white.’

“I better dig a little faster; my jeans at the knees are getting a fair bit damp.’

“I see what they mean by the term white-blindness. The brilliant sunshine reflecting off all this snow, as if off a million mirrors, is blinding me. I always feel blinded. Blindsided, blinded by guilt, blinded by beauty, blinded by others, blinded right when I think I understand why. STOP! Don’t go there. Taste the snow, taste the flavors of the clouds.’

“Stop. Listen. Ahhh, thank you chickadee for singing out your song and stopping my monkey mind. You are such a wee bird. I’m in awe of the few of you who endure the grasp of winter. Just how do you survive?’

“Wait, what have I got here; sunflower seeds, milkweed tufts and broken brown oak leaves distributed into this patch of snow by the whipping winds?’

“Come on girl, dig! You’ll find them. I just want to see them. It’s been such a long hard winter. That smells nice? What did I put in the woodstove; apple, cherry, or is that maple I smell? Just look how lovely the smoke drifts over me, over the garden, then up to join the sky. I think it is maple wood burning. Thank you my dear trees for your heat; soon your sap will run, and this year, like a squirrel, I want to bite under your limbs and see if I can suck the sap out. Why do I think of the strangest things? And am I mad out here digging in the snow?’

“How else in this world of whites, greys, blacks and browns will I see them?’

“How far am I? I’ve dug maybe a two-and-a-half-feet deep into winter’s white. But there, YES, I’ve hit ice! All winter it snows, the snow melts and compresses, it snows, melts, compresses, snows, melts, compresses, and ice forms way below the freshly fallen.’

“Brush away an opening so you can see. I didn’t realize it’d be so cold sticking my head in this hole I’ve dug, but I know I’ll see them, and this will all have been worth doing. The ice is so black, so smooth and the trapped air bubbles look like miniscule planets in this universe of ice.’

“Is that a raven I hear? HA! He’s going to think I’m carrion in this hunched over position with my head deep in a snow hole. But, there…oh look there, I can see them; my gardens flowers. Wow, it was months ago, that I saw the first snow, land on their fuchsia colored petals and bury them alive. Can I really smell them, or is that my imagination. What vibrancy, what beauty; I do believe I feel faintly fantastic!”

The End

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