Scott Langston

Authoring Adventures

Category: Blog (page 2 of 5)

The regular meanderings of an author’s mind. This author’s. Thoughts and commentary about just about everything, bookended in the context of my writing career. Links to fascinating tidbits I’ve inadvertently stumbled across, reflections on intentional living and a good dose of mindfulness to boot.

Teenage

Neurons firing
Across carriageways
Under construction

Messages half sent
Half-received
Half conceived

Fantastical plans
Free of consequence
Free of sense

Forging ahead
To freedom
Independence

Responsibility looming
'Clean your room' ing
All happening too soon

Errors of judgement
Under the spotlight
Decisions of ego

Seemed like 
Such a good idea
At the time

Practicing adulthood
Without the tools
Ill-equipped

Metaphorically
Hand-held
And understood

Letting go
Safety-netted
Still abetted

A journey toward
Self-actualisation
A revelation

Constanza

Burn the wick
Just as the flame can burn the hand
That strays incautiously too close
Blistered reminder of impulse

So the hand can snuff the flame, command
Extinguish the light and the heat
Its purpose quashed and incomplete

Gentle shielding will understand
Nurture, direct the naked light
Use its power for doing right

Protect the flame,reprimand
The feisty draught set to blow out
The light offering to end doubt

The thoughts and actions left unplanned
In darkness fester and take on
A life, a needless marathon

Illuminated, become grand
The candle flickers and breathes life
Burning passions put paid to strife

Profession in diamante

Counsellor
professional, confidential
empathising, listening, caring
present, accountable, despondent, troubled
trusting, sharing, hoping
stuck, wounded
client

Does double acrostic exist as a thing? It does now…

There she blows

The day is stifling heat
Humid,even here,to the touch
Excitement felt at the promise
Realistic, though, bet-hedging as ever
Eager for a sighting, full of hope
Scanning the twinkling seas
Humpback whale, oceanic mammoth
Each false sighting helps anticipate...
Behind us! goes the cry. We look, absorb
Launching, a balletic, fun-filled twirl
One, three, four - performance in macro
Whales breach, flukes splash, blowholes blow
Scenes of splendour, humbling memories

A triolet in iambic pentameter – an apology

I’m so sorry it had to be this way
My intention was not to cause you pain
Perhaps we’ll feign again another day
I’m so sorry it had to be this way
But leaving is easier, as they say
Than being left, lost and wounded again
I’m so sorry it had to be this way
My intention was not to cause you pain

 

A nonet – Tired of being tired

Tired of being tired

She’s tired of being tired
She doesn’t want to give in to
This core state of being
This anti-life she leads
But there’s nothing left
To keep her here
No more hope
This must
Stop

So the prompt was “A darkest hour poem”

It doesn't get much worse than this
Unsmiling face and empty kiss
No solace here, my darkest hour
A stark moment when love turns sour

Peering into the abyss
It doesn't get much worse than this
A little death; this love was our
Brave new world, a call to power

Delicate, a brief Spring flower
Fading in my ivory tower
It doesn't get much worse than this
Ill-advised dreams fail in darkness

So here it is, my darkest hour
Nothing left now, hope's meek cower
My ending nears, an anti-bliss
It doesn't get much worse than this

Glorious

Glorious, they said, aloud
Head held high, saluting, proud
A victory march, again
More lies broadcast by his pen
Reality disavowed

His job done, his public wowed
No silver lining, this cloud
One more End-of-Days omen
Glorious, they said

Take a look back at fields ploughed
With all that hindsight allowed
Think too what will happen
If we abstain once again
And clothe ourselves in that shroud
Glorious, they said

Words

Words capturing feelings

Like drawing the Mona Lisa

With hopscotch chalk

On a gravel path

Whilst the model grimaces, coughs

And rearranges herself

Finally leaves, as clouds mask the sun,

Dances in the rain

And returns, soaked and uncooperative,

To scowl at the artist

And even then

Just as the outline form seems right

The rains wash eveything away

Other patterns form and reform

And the hapless artist

Can only watch

And drop is useless tools to the ground.

 

This – from 12 November 2005

I received a link to on online diary website I had forgotten I ever joined. It has taken me back to Viet Nam…

Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ is beginning to sound  recognisable, although he probably never envisaged the  distortion from the amp or the effects of the whammy bar…. I’’m also getting to grips with a jazzy version of ‘Happy birthday’ for Munch’’s big day in only three weeks’ time.  Two already – …hard to believe.

I’m teaching full time now. So the book is grinding to a  halt. Who am I kidding? It ground …ages ago. It’’s not  really a writer’’s block – -more a writer’’s apathy. This  project is in danger of slipping out of sight and mind. I  just can’’t get to it.

Sometimes I just look at my daughter and I think, ‘’That’’s  it. I’ve  achieved. Anything else I do from here on in is a  bonus.’…’ And it’’s not a bad thought.

Thoughts on this, 12 and a half years later…

  1. Beethoven’s Ode to Joy is still on the agenda. Guitar lessons have been revived as I invested in an electric guitar for my mid-life crisis.
  2. The book – The Year of the Monkey – never got back off the ground after a return to full time teaching. Other bits of writing, as this site is testament, do surface from time to time.
  3. Munch is now 14, and I still look at her and think the same thing.
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