young green leaves, rooted into rough hewn stump, anchored upon rich forest soil, draped across cragged heavy stone, wedged along ancient sweeping mountains, jutting from shifting geological faults, slipping around revolving green orb, floating in vast mysterious universe
– bardo
I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.
by powerful strokes levering solid against fluid an oar pushing on crystal water delving deftly and deep by muscular heft against molecular drag plunging paddles scooping by effort to counter friction blurring stillness into motion unseen effort into swirling chaos below the calming tranquility of a kayak drifting upon the lake
– bardo
I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.
the moment a tree falls in the forest crashes breaking branches thrashing limbs cracking wood makes a sound heard by just one witness who tells the story to friends who were not there an audience unable to confirm the moment the noise the disruption to the peace of the forest exaggerated amplified by words feelings hunches fears misrepresenting and unable to precisely articulate the moment
– bardo
I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.
the fate of a tree brings a curious twist starting as seed on wind, through mist tucked into the soil spattered with rain sprouting and growing new heights to attain shrugging snow, budding leaf basking summers often brief sunlit evenings casting long shadows brilliant colours before even more snows year after year, decades pass, seasons withdraw until fate arrives as a wind or a flame or a saw to be hewn and moved lugged, logged and planed milled into geometrically linear grained lumber. or not. maybe nothing more than a log for a fire split axed set hot aflame and a flame to admire to warm hands hearts and cook sizzling food a curious twisting fate from tree to fire wood.
– bardo
A cubic meter of firewood landed on my front lawn yesterday and I spent well over an hour carting and stacking it while feeling a bit bittersweet on the fate of these trees to become fuel for my future backyard fires rather than, say, lumber for the doghouse that I built a couple weeks ago.
I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.
”Wake up! Wake up!” The woodpecker knocks, flying from tree trunk to tree trunk, swooping gracefully between the branches. “Spring is here. Wake up!“
Against the pale white bark of the poplar trees, her red crest hat can be seen by all the creatures of the forest, like a flame alight in dark meadow.
“Wake up, poplar!” She knocks. “Wake up, spruce!”
“Let us sleep. It is only April. The winter is still not over.” Poplar replies with a shiver of her branches.
“Even the ants are still hiding in their burrows. ” Creaks spruce. “Let us be if only for a few more weeks. Wake us when the hares winter white coats have fallen, or when the wasps stir from their nests. Not now. It is still too soon.”
“Oh, but poplar, if you do not wake now and show the fresh green your leaves to the winter she will not know her time is passed. And spruce, if your boughs do not bud fresh and bright winter will wonder why you wait.” Woodpecker knocks, flying from tree to tree tapping her bill against the cool wooden trunks. “So, wake up! Wake up, I say!”
Spruce shivers her needles in the spring breeze.
Poplar shakes her bare branches against the whisps of low clouds.
”Let us sleep!” The trees all say together.
And so woodpecker flies along her way, red hat and all, chased by a stray snowflake fluttering down towards the ground and adrift on the cool spring winds.
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