Archive for June, 2011

Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam. The Book ...

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Poems are not my strong suit, but I do enjoy writing them.

Outstretched Fingers:

Michelangleo’s beauty?

Sistine Chapel, Man

reaching for Greatness.

God’s loving hand.

Man, striving

never to attain, God’s


Distance of inches

might well be

dramatic abyss,

craggy Bulwark,

Grand Canyon.

Man’s outstretched fingers:

Voided perfection

Man’s longing achievement:

perfection of gods.



I wasn’t sure if I could post a poem or not for Inspiration Monday.  I believe the “rules” call out for a story.  But, what is a poem if not a story?  Right?


It’s been a strange week.  I can’t remember if I wrote a story for INSPIRATION MONDAY XV or not. So what the heck? Here is my submission.  It’s using the word prompt “MIND STORM”.

Upon awaking, Sam’s mind felt hemmed in: heavily fogged by confusion.  This was not where he fell asleep last night. This is not his bed, it is not his room and the atmosphere feels wrong.  Struggling to pull his consciousness and self-awareness into sharper focus, Sam vigorously rubs his temples and pinches the bridge of his nose.   All through the process of swimming up from the blackness of a strange and uneasy sleep, Sam could feel rather than hear the deep mechanized thrumming and hum of a huge engine.  It seeped into his shrouded brain like Maple Syrup as it soaks into a pancake: taking it’s time  absorbing and sopping up the sensory information without Sam realizing it was happening.

Sam began to sort out the thumping noises from inside his head.  The first thumping was actually similar to a severe hangover, though Sam had not drunk more than his usual cocktail after dinner.  The other mechanized thumping came from the twin jet engines affixed to the wing of an aircraft.  The room Sam found himself in was not a room at all, but rather the fuselage of a fancy corporate jet.  “How the hell did I get here?” became the 2nd coherent thought in his head.

Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Sam planted them shoulder width apart, locking his knees to keep the wobbly legs from dropping out from beneath him.  Peering around the cabin, Sam was looking for a human or any information that would help him understand how he got here.  There were no answers to winnow from the plush interior of the jet.  Sam willed his feet to move forward, one foot at a time; a slow motion shuffle toward what he knew was the sealed cockpit door.

Sam tried the steel reinforced door.  Yup, Locked just as one would expect.   He next tried a tentative knock at the door.  Fearing what he’d learn about his condition from the folks on the other side, yet unable to restrain his curiosity.  No answer.  Nothing to indicate he was heard at all.  Sam’s inclination was to bang harder.  He stopped himself from that action.  He hated to feel out of control.  Banging harder only signaled (in his mind,) a lack of control.  Anger, frustration, anxiety, and hell just about all the feelings that accompany the realization one has lost of control of his future simply burst through him at that moment.  “Get a grip” was banging around in the crowded halls of Sam’s indignant mind.  Now if only “GET A GRIP” would actually latch to something firm and take root!  Grow strong and be productive by manufacturing the calming effect of mental stability.

Sam’s mind keeps churning.  Unable to control where it wandered, Sam feels himself being sucked into  a  vortex of pain.   Sam felt  his mind peeling away one layer at a time,  but how and by what?  This couldn’t be answered.  His mind was rotating faster.  Scary fast.  He imagined himself as a soggy sheet of toilet paper rotating around the toilet bowl, sliding down into the depths of a septic tank to the awaiting amoebas with hungry jaws to finish him off.   His mind went black as he endured the iniquitous pain.

Neighbors alerted the landlady to a God awful stench emanating from the apartment rented to an older Koran War veteran.  Everyone knew him as  Sam Duncan.   She opens the door for the police to discover Sam: sitting in his chair, staring blankly with dead eyes at the TV which was looping through an old Cary Grant movie playing through the VCR.  The autopsy revealed Sam had suffered from a brain embolism.  A MIND STORM.

I remember 50 years ago as yesterday.  My sister and I feel repelled by shattered glass. I wonder if our minds had focused our revulsions autonomously or had we talked about the spider glass of the King County Children’s Home” transport van? I don’t remember talking to my sister in the hours following our seizure.  Only fear. I remember numbing fear.  I remember isolation. Crushing loneliness and withering apathy.  I remember malice oozing from the psyches of the child inmates.  I remember the cot my sister and I shared. I remember pain and loss. The spidery glass devouring our lives.

INDIGO SPIDER’S SUNDAY PICTURE PRESS has kindly provided the challenge of writing a story prompted by a photograph.  This week, I’ve chosen: Visual Prompt 1 — Colorado Pop by Elliot Erwitt

Once again, I’ve chosen to write in the DRABBLE format. What do you think? Too little information? Or is the photo with the storyline enough?