Free-write Friday

Just for fun. 

“I chose blue”

elevator

For some reason the blue button has scratch marks on it. Like a dog had clawed it or a child gnawed. It’s right at the same height as a six year old. I like kids. So I push the blue button. The elevator jerks, stops, jerks, and heads down. I wanted to go up so I’m surprised. I like up. Up is toward the light and success. Down is failure and despair. But down we go two floors, three. And then we pick up speed. My ears pop, my chin tightens, I feel my cheeks flubber like a wave coming to shore. I think that a crash is imminent and I want to brace myself but all I do is hug myself even though my knees are about to buckle beneath me. When we hit, we hit hard and rebound back up. I suck in my breath. When we hit the top, we bolt back down. This is the trampoline elevator. A spring engine machine. I picked blue. The color of kids and dogs. The doors open and I am smiling.

Free Write Friday

Time & Place:
You find yourself in an elevator. The door closes and you see only five buttons. A sign hangs above them that reads: “Find Happiness.” Each button is a different color. Red, blue, green, orange and yellow. There are no other instructions and you must push one to get the elevator to move. Which color do you choose and why? Where does it take you?

Learning to run on the road less traveled

Everywhere, the crowds play their violins and
strap on ancestral gems,

picking and choosing pathos and wines to dip
their bread into until
their hearts are full.

They shop around for magic harps and sunken
treasure wedged beneath

the blackest night and call it Truth, crying all
roads lead to truth.

I read their books, I read their lives, I read
their money trail,

I see the course they are blazing,
I feel the thunder of feet upon
their enlightened aura’s,

I listen to their new-found panacea’s, boiled
in a new light.

They choose a charm and call it holy.

A prayer and a wish become the same.

I remain
behind the masses.

Nothing is new under the sun.

Old cauldrons with fresh soil still produce mud.

The dust mingles with my tears, the trail will
not see my footsteps, a false light beckons
but I don’t chase it any more.

I examine
the enemy and learn to run toward the Rock
to hide beneath
its sheltering
harbor.

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Written for:

#Free Write Friday; Roads Less Traveled

Talk about a time you took the road less traveled and the differences it made…