Lucidity Lamb's Blog, page 8

Earned, a poem of truth

Reciprocity is a blade-handled knife.

Unexpected, undenied.

We each grab at pain and thrust at our equal,

Knowing we too deserve what we give.

When I rise, dreams wasted hence,

I hope to earn what I have spent.

You take it all and weep with the angels.

Bleeding, I wonder which one of us fell.

And when I land beyond the veil,

I can but lie a more noble tale.

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Still, Alone, a poem of the dead

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Friendly neighbor,

Lush lips loose.

Secrets of lovers,

Threats of truth.

Press me facedown,

Nearly dead.

Withhold my life with

Garrote thread.

Give me freedom

From our woes.

Leave me chilling,

Still, alone.

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The Bulbous Beast of Castle Boudoir

Photo by Lucidity Lamb

The Bulbous Beast of Castle Boudoir,

Blamed me for the curse upon its head.

Never will I forget the terror and

Wreckage left ‘neath its pounding tread.

I fled into the mountain’s mystery,

Curtained beneath the broken stone.

But it found me shaking in shadow,

Revealed by the serpent’s clone.

Howled, did I, and screeched, did it,

As it trapped me beneath its towering form.

Smashed between the scrubby masses,

I felt the steamy heat of its scorn.

In my head, I heard it shrieking

As it required no working mouth.

“You’ll regret” was all it imparted,

Psychic vibration pounding inside out.

My last thoughts, if any thoughts were real,

Were of its veritable perception.

I did regret the day I sought freedom

From my own virgin dimension.

Photo by Lucidity Lamb

Move

I love to move,

with the air

floating ‘round me like time.

I love to dance,

in the water,

in the raspberry sky.

I love to fly,

in the motion

of a storm’s tidal peaks.

I love to live,

in the dreams

where I’m more than I think.

Photo by Lucidity Lamb

Boredom, Trapped, a relatable poem

I wrote this one a couple years ago. Anyone relate?

Boredom, Trapped

Watching crime and

Listening to stories,

NCIS and

Autobiographies,

Self-help podcasts

And anime toons,

Wish there was something

More fun to do.

Been safe inside for

nigh on a year.

My god, I’ve got to

Get out of here.

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Blind, a poem of obsession

Find me in the sandstorm, my love,

Eyes scratched out and blind.

I am waiting here for you

To come to your senses in time.

We were meant to be together,

Even my psychic agrees.

My beautiful lover, I know,

You will come someday to me.

Remember the time we spoke

Of dreams we each held fast?

And you told me that you hated

How nothing really lasts?

And, it’s true, we never kissed.

And it’s true we never were alone.

But oh, how we laughed that day!

Your eyes spoke volumes to my soul.

You were so kind to pity her,

I know you’d have rather left with me.

I love how big your heart is, dear,

But it’s only fair now to leave her be.

You and I both know that true love

Never surrenders, never gives in.

If she won’t stop interfering with destiny,

I’m brave enough to carry the sin.

She can’t hold you there against your will.

She does not deserve the patience you’ve shown.

I can tell by the way you look at me,

You’d rather marry me and make a home.

That bitch has got to let you leave.

Poor man, faking joy while you’re abused.

Don’t be afraid, I’ve got a plan.

She’ll be gone. You won’t be accused.

I may have to go away for a while,

But I know, my love, you’ll wait.

After all, it’s so easy for passion

To transform sweet love to hate.

Its Just Pepporni

Too much pepperoni spoils the pizza.

Maybe you disagree. I mean, I like pineapple on pizza, so you may want to take my opinion with a grain of salt.

Taste is personal. My spouse asked me what I wanted on my pizza. I said pepperoni and mushroom. A nice, standard, nostalgic pizza.

He got double pepperoni, plus double of an additional type of pepperoni. So I found myself looking at a very proud husband and a pepperoni, mushroom, pepperoni, pepperoni, and pepperoni pizza. Wow.

Just wow.

I did eat it. A couple pieces. But I felt terrible after. Spices and grease and … and the cheese was all weird because eat was basically fried in pepperoni grease.

A glass of milk helped calm my stomach. But … my husband is so pleased with himself. I did explain that next time, less pepperoni would be better because of the grease, but he is obviously not understanding and I can’t explain it further without hurting his feelings.

So… am I doomed to too much pepperoni?

If it makes my love happy, than yes. Because how amazing is it that I told him what I want and he got me as much of it as he could?

Its great. Its wonderful. I am so lucky. But also… my stomach hurts.

Do you think this is what they mean by “Love hurts”?

Or is it just another example of the dangers of too much of a good thing?

Oh well. It’s just pepperoni. Right?

In Color, a poem of the atypical

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Tell Me a Story

Tell me a story of adventure.

It’s official. I am going to make a collection of short stories. Won’t you join me?

I will get a web page up for it soon, but let’s hash out the details.

What do you think?

How long should they be? I’m thinking maybe up to 10,000 words? I’m thinking no minimum. If you can tell a complete story in a few words, its worth looking at. But generally a short story is 5k to 10k, I believe.

Tell me a story about a quiet blacksmith.

Topic? This is tricky. I am writing a couple stories but they don’t have much to do with each other besides people having issues with depression or anxiety. Should it be that? Or how about any neurodivergent occurrence? Does that make sense?

Deadline? I’m thinking publish around new year’s but that means the deadline is like November 15… well, yeah, that seems like enough time. Maybe November 1 so I’m not so rushed in putting it together and getting judges to vote and making a cover, all around the holidays.

Tell me a story about dried flowers.

What about awards? Awards go hand in hand with cost to enter. I like keeping it free, but that means minimal rewards. Is the opportunity to be published and get a free eBook sufficient? And a certificate of publication?

I’d love your thoughts on this. And, any feedback from anyone who participated in the “Their Love” poetry compilation? I’d love to hear from everybody.

Ok. Back to my day job.

For tonight, we write!

Tell me a story of strength.

Perfectly Imperfect

Perfection is only true of the imperfect.

This is a concept that has been rattling around in my head since I was young.

Let’s talk it out.

Humans like to fight. They like to complain. They like to overcome.

You may have heard of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. The model stipulates that people need certain things before they can even worry about other things. For example, if you are not safe, you probably aren’t too concerned with improving your self-esteem.

It’s an interesting idea but I don’t fully agree with it. It is often true en mas, so from a sociological point of view, I think it has some merit. But we aren’t studying people – we are studying the individual. You. Me.

So let’s dismiss the idea that you have to have a full belly before you worry about religion or bettering society as a whole. Let’s dismiss the idea that you need to have your needs met before you can have any self-esteem.

I find Maslow’s theory inherently condescending and fallacious.

Even if you are hungry and homeless, you can still dream up an idea that changes the world, and you can still feel like you have worth. You can still feel the love of your family and friends, even if you are all on the street together. Can’t you?

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Let me know if you disagree. I currently have a full belly, so I must admit to my bias on the subject. I may wish to know what certain things are like, but I don’t think a person can truly know what it is to be in a situation unless they come to it without their own intention. No matter my capacity for empathy – Having choices breeds its own bias.

Back to perfection. I would define perfection as the state of something which cannot be improved. If that is so, it sounds like a lovely thing. A perfect object is without flaws. A perfect job is without fault. A perfect path is without obstacle.

Wow. That sounds dull.

What if the thing that you want is to have a feeling of accomplishment? Not happiness, per se. Being free of the need for external sources of happiness is just as important as the Taoist say. But accomplishment is something else.

You can Buddha that idea as far as it will go but I can’t imagine a perfect situation in which I could be truly content, other than death. For isn’t the concept of death simply the lack of life? And isn’t life defined by struggle? So if you are not struggling to eat or procreate or learn or grow or improve yourself or your surroundings… What about you is alive? Vital?

Photography by Lucidity Lamb (Scotland Clover)

A perfect world, therefore, is one in which there is room to grow, improvements to be made, worlds and ideas to discover. But then, it is imperfect. If you need to discover a way to fly to the moon, it is because the current travel options are imperfect for such a task. If you want to eat oatmeal, it is because the apple was not the perfect solution to your hunger.

I have been known to sit and consider ways I can improve my home. I’d like to dig up the grass and replace it with something softer. I’d like to finish the wall in the bathroom from where we replaced the shower but ran out of money before we could get someone to finish the wall and tile. I’m very happy with my home, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see the imperfections – the things I can still do to make it better.

I have a cupboard full of food. I have a roof over my head and a family. I have a job and a hobby. I have so many wonderful things in my life. But I am not sitting in my living room, contemplating the perfection of my house.

I don’t want a perfect home.

If my husband was perfect, I would feel terrible. I am not perfect. I try not to change him, but there is a very long list of things I would change if I could. But then he’d be… boring. Part of the reason for that is that we don’t generally know what we need.

Photography by Lucidity Lamb ( from GWAR Concert)

I need my husband to annoy me into getting up in the morning. I need him to annoy me into doing my job. I need him to annoy me into living because I don’t have much desire to carry on day after day. I need him to want to go to concerts. And I need him to need me.

I don’t want a perfect husband.

Perfection is not want I want. I want to achieve. I want to find a lacking and invent, create, discover the solution. I want imperfection. And any perfection that does not have a flaw is, therefore, imperfect.

Perfection is good in small doses. A perfect picture, a perfect day. But a perfect world sounds awful.

Photography by Lucidity Lamb