Times Turn into Times Turned Over in Future Times

Can you remember back to a time when you were only mere days removed from getting high praise for walking on two legs?

Can you recall, those early moments in the kitchen, when you’d stare up high at those marble countertops and dream of seeing what exists beyond its aerie reach?

Have you forgotten, how disappointed you were, when you found out it wasn’t all you’re imagination painted it to be?

Whatever happened to all the comparisons?

     “Oh, how talented you’re child is, he’ll be the next Hemmingway or Hawthorne for sure”

“Oh, what amazing athleticism you’re kid possesses.  When I look at him I see the next Jackie Robinson, Walter Payton.  He reminds me a lot of Ty Cobb, as if they themselves were around to have watched him play”

“ You’re little boy has such an imagination.  He’s so entertaining. I see a younger version of Bruce Lee, maybe Errol Flynn”

When was the last time your scribbly-scrawled blots of crayon were hung up on the fridge?  When was the last time you’re great aunt called you her little Picasso or Van Gogh, not even considering what their backstory’s were?  When was the last time your grandfather pulled a quarter from your ear, and you thought you were witnessing something bigger than the world itself?

Life gets in the way.  Doesn’t it?

And you close the door behind you.  Scuffing the snow off from your dirty boot soles, greeting those inside, warmly, yet complaining about the travails you endured to simply make it to their house.  And then, you see the little one, and you say, glowing from ear to ear, “How’s my little Marilyn today?” and she shyly shrugs her shoulders…. that’s when you pull a dollar from her hair, as if it had been hiding out in those blonde curls all the day.

Over at D'verse, for Meeting the Bar this past Thursday. Victoria offered up the discussion about exploring childhood and it's memories.  I've been really sick this week, just feeling a bit better upon waking up a few hours ago, so I'm hoping the meds are working.  In any case, I missed joining the party, yet thought I'd still take part in the prompt.  I actually had a piece that I had started a long time back that fit this theme rather well.  

The idea of how children's perspectives change and how their expectations alter upon finding some answers interests me.  I wrote the second question/stanza a while back and filled in the rest of this piece from there for this discussion.  If you haven't already, I urge you all to stop on by D'Verse, read Victoria's article and check out the poems shared, as you can do for the other linked discussions as well.  

"It's about Wild things," who Gnu…{OS} "No, it's about monsters"

Over at D'Verse they're talking about Wild Things.  Stop on over for the beer, but stick around for the poetry on tap. Cheers.


When I was a child
I could care less
where the wild
things were…for I already
knew, it wasn't a them
but a him, yep, Charlie
Sheen, in one of
the funniest films on
baseball every made…the
original one people…the original

But as I mentioned
in the opening line
I was a child.  Yes,
a child but not a child
without interests..that's for certain.

I saw those many monsters
atop lunch pails, on books
kids were reading with some
attendant I had far too early
a crush on.  But hey, that's
pre-pubesence, yep…

I actually remember one kid
I knew, he had his math book
covered in wild things print, I had
a plain grocery bag cut to fit…I'm
who I am, and he's…well I really
don't know, never cared to...,
but now that you got me thinking about
it, I know a guy who knows a guy who
knows a girl that could probably tell me…

But I was a kid, a kid that liked what he liked
and knew what he thought he liked and those
drawings never impressed me much…nope
I preferred transformers, GI Joes and comic
art…thought these wild things were embarrassing
to be considered in the same industry that could boast the likes of Frank Miller..yep
wolver-fn-rine.  Now that was a wild thing, for sure, with
bones made of invincible steel that could protrude from his
knuckles as he saw fit and a body that self healed…yeah, that
dude was badass…and his name was Logan for crying out loud, now
that's a name…

But I was a child back then and didn't really appreciate many of
the things I do today…I didn't know the first thing about the ologies,
nope, Psychology, Philosophy, Sociology, these things were not a sprig
on my uneaten dinner plates….

But, today, things are a bit different…and I look at things with a much broader view, one filled with an appreciation for novel creations, uniqueness and open to suggestion/acceptance…

So, while I still don't particularly think these wild things are the prize of the art world, I appreciate what they are, and how they do what they do…

lines that reek of instability
Disproportions mirroring the inner mind
Monsters…a metaphor….yep

for society and for our own personas…we most certainly can be and it's important to understand this, and it's important for us to embrace this, so we can keep them under wraps…

So…long story a bit longer than intended here….that dude crafted some pretty deep things there in his wildest of imaginations come to life…and that
is
cool.

Very cool.
And who would have ever thought
A child would have to mature
to enjoy what a monster represents.

And it's sad when anyone passes before there time, but at least, this author got to spread so much of his imagination to children everywhere, and to late blooming adults as well...

The Dewy Decibel System

It’s the sound of squishiness

it’s the wild wonder spelled in glass

steam, printed atop the coldly sung surfacing

of freshly coated skin

It’s the carousel of the everyday

It’s the lightning rod ever on display and

burgeoning despite the squalls

of abhorrent screams, seemingly always

attracting dismay

It’s the mystery of order

It’s the conjecture of absolute reimaging

It’s the way a pixel can represent

both a dot as is, or a dot alone without

the foundation of what one day

will be a heart, a home

Of moist collections,

wiggling atop deep green blades and

slushy puddles of childhood exuberance

that sweetly spell out the squishy sounds

posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  

A Mothers' Tear

Inhale.  Orange zest and lemon curls, bouquets sculpt with wild flowers

Geometric ruffling in decorative lace

Devoured by the flavor amidst scripted parsimony,

That leave some so uninspired, yet

As a child I would attend the gala every year,

Chicken cordon bleu, cheese pouring out

Into puddles, infringing upon the green beans,

Baskets filled with fresh baked bread,

A quick slice, to which butter promptly melts

A taste that lemon splashed sparkling water quickly washed away,

Occasionally I’d take notice to the names of guests as they would appear,

On laminated paper, as if anyone could forget who each other were,

I’d Exhale, a simple sigh, as my mother took my tiny hand,

Guiding me away from the feasts and fancy, across the gymnasium floor to our once a year enchanted place, an area more open and clear, where only the two of us would dance and stare,

Still lacquered shiny from the game the night before,

I’d forget about the mud and dirt as that song would play it’s lonesome melody,

And her lips would curl towards the ceiling high, and I’d always wonder why she’d tear

Upon seeing the splendor within my eyes,

But tomorrow the town shall renew once more,

Weekly trips to the fruit stands, riding a bicycle my dad used to own,

Seeing children from the neighborhood, scattered across the grassy groves

Immersed in every type of play imagined, an idea lost with age,

And now, with a moistening of the face, I knew what my mothers’ tears had to say