My brain seems a bit more in order than it had in a long while. I’ve felt scattered for a few months. Well, if I’m honest, I’ve felt like a huge screw up. But no matter, I’m feeling a bit more sorted out. After a relatively long dry spell, I’ve been writing again. It is nice to have the words return when it happens. It is a feeling that almost makes those blocks worth it. Scratch that, let them stay this time.
I’ve been doing a lot of reading again too. It seems that with my brain functioning fully, I can do a great many things. I’ve discovered L Frank Baum. What a fantastic imagination he had! For a few years now I’ve wanted to read the original 40 Oz books, the first 14 of which were written by Baum. I’m on book #5 right now, The Road To Oz. They are such fun books and keep interesting even without any violence. There is a little bit of conflict in each book, but it isn’t typically a murderous villain. The foes are thoughtful characters who explain themselves and the position they are in. I wish I’d found these books in childhood. I tend to create worlds in the way Baum did. I’ve secured 12 of the 14 of his books and I’ll find the final 2 I need this weekend. As is typical, they all seem to be between printings. Ruth Plumly Thompson, the second and most prolific Oz author will take me a lot more time. 15 of her 19 books are still in print, but somewhat expensive. I’ll have to buy them slowly and may never get to read the last few unless they are reprinted. The cheapest copy of one of them I found was $150… I don’t need to read it that bad!
Icons crumble, gasping for desperate breaths.
The poets have been usurped by melancholy memoirists,
aching to have original lives.
Every story seems to be told, despite repetition
offering nothing new to literature, to life.
I keep sweeping up remnants of fallen giants —
Thoreau, Dickinson, Whitman, O’Hara;
I even find Baum and Steinbeck and Spyri in the wreckage —
I collect the bits I can in a beautiful vessel where they remain safe.
Nobody seems to be searching for the treasures,
the once proud glory of the masters of Word fades into irrelevance.
Picking through the pieces still brings me joy
even if I’ve no one to share them with;
I wish I were as beautiful whole as they are in shards.
Peacocks are blue and green and brown
they have really long necks and wear a crown.
Peacocks sit in trees or run on the ground;
they cry out “help” — it’s a very loud sound.
Peacocks strut proudly, displaying a train.
Peahens gather ’round, all the color of champagne.
Peacocks are indigo and eau de nil;
they roost in our hearts, making them fill.
I’m not wild about this little thing, but I wrote it in order to create a project for Stacy. It is growing on me, but rhyming of any kinds tends to make my skin crawl.