The Waterfront

Dear Readers,
I thought it would be interesting to study my thought process. I try to understand the ways and reasons why I review and revise certain writings, so I decided to post this work, The Waterfront, in its different shapes (versions) in the order in which they were written. I'm not sure about the final piece, but the process is certainly valuable. Sometimes I sift through (process) stories and poems in my head while writing, and I am able to post the finished piece as is. Other times, I seem to edit forever until it feels "right". Sometimes words roll off my mind a mile a minute, faster than I can write. Other days my brain considers each and every word resulting in scanty pieces.


I)
The murky depths beckoned
Millions of tiny waves rippled across
Reflections on the surface from the afternoon sun
Cast haphazard shadows all over the water

The embankment was steep
Muddy with cans strewn upon
A grey steel railing ran around
Fencing off the water

The small house was painted white
Old yet of simple style
The second floor afforded the view
Of the waterfront below



II)
Clear deep blue depths
Beckoned as tiny waves rippled across
Reflections on the surface from the afternoon sun
Cast delicate shadows on the water

The shoreline sloped softly
White sands bare and inviting
A bamboo fence surrounds all sides
Keeping separate the water

The large house was painted white
Modern and exquisite both
The French windows opened wide
Revealing the waterfront below


III)
Murky depths
Millions of waves
Reflections
Haphazard shadows

Embankment steep
Muddy
Steel grey rail
Fences off the water

Small house painted white
Old yet simple
Second floor view
Waterfront below



IV)
Clear deep blue
Tiny waves ripple
Reflections at noonday
Delicate shadows

Shoreline slopes softly
White sands invite
Bamboo fence surrounds
Separate is the water

Large white house
Exquisite modern
French windows wide
Waterfront below

Door To Nowhere

I peered inside. It was eerie and dark. A foul smell overwhelmed my nostrils. Giving my eyes time to adjust, I entered slowly and stood right by the door. I could taste vomit. I could smell it too. Soon I could see better, and inched forward cautiously. The weight of the door caused it to slam forcefully behind me. Automatically I tried the handle and it turned. Whew! I was not locked in. There was a long corridor leading off both to the left and to the right. I dared not go further. Yet my feet were still moving and I fell forward over something. Someone screamed in pain ... a horrible hoarse sound. It made my skin crawl and the hairs on my arms seemed to stand on end. I suddenly felt cold. Then there was a string of cursing let out through clenched teeth. I sat up and rubbed my head, anxiety taking over my entire being. From nowhere a beam from a large torchlight startled me and it remained fixed directly on my face. Across from me was an old man, wrinkled and disheveled and dirty. He looked very very old. He sat upon crumpled bedding on a stone cold floor. Plastic bags and torn duffle bags surrounded him. Then he began to cough. A long and raspy bout that must have hurt his chest. It went on for a long time and the light darted about as his frail body shook. I covered my ears with my hands. Finally the coughing ceased. The old man swallowed a potion he had taken from his jacket pocket. Silence. Those little beady grey eyes did not blink. He gazed at me for hours, or so it seemed. He just simply stared.

Heartbeat
Hoof beat
Pulse of the Earth


Planets
Rhythm
Dance of the Stars


Nucleus
The Soul
Foundation of the World


Threads
Veins
Bodies in Motion


Explosion
Vibrations
Nature's Forces


Drums
Windpipes
Creation's Spirit


Swinging
Swaying
Cycle of Man


Awaken
Evolve
Universal Light


Qi
Prana
Human Essence


Chai
Dunya
Language of Life

Dear Readers,
This piece was born from the last post. While I was writing that story of my train journey up north, certain words and phrases jumped out at me, then clung to my mind and begged to be freed from the tangled mass of words on the page. It was a persistent feeling to recreate the journey in poetic form and were I equipped right now, I'd paint a picture too. Imagine a collage, a photo image and painted picture of this narrative side by side with the prose and the poetry. A delightful idea perhaps ...



The train weaves a snakelike course
Destination certain yet path unknown
Unexpected sights and thoughts
An assault on the senses,
The ugly and pretty both.

Sheep and pony graze alone,
A figure on a tractor content
Age-old trees line ancient tracks
Vibrant green clothe grotesque limbs
Painted by the hand of God.

Sand quarry, settlements
Journey in bygone years a peril
Fears threaten as excitement builds
Chord strikes, guts writhe in hope
New life; rekindled dreams.

The Train Ride

The train snakes through a tunnel and over a hill, passing vast countryside after countryside. Various scenes and diverse settings whizz by. A huge expanse of the tallest trees but this is no jungle. A sheep farm with a small flock feeding. No sheep dog or shepherd in sight. Another empty land except for a lone pony grazing in the afternoon sun. More trees as if the tracks had been deliberately constructed through these woods. How old were these railway tracks anyway? Older than the trees no doubt. Some of the tree branches distorted and ugly like the deformed arthritic fingers of an old maid. Their leaves so alive and green in contrast, as if freshly painted by the hand of God. A farmer out on an old tractor in a wheat field overgrown with tall grass-like stalks. Nearby lies a small settlement, a town of sorts, with a pet shop sign and a public library; Randolph-Macon college sitting majestically in neat and tidy grounds. High above, clouds float by; light and white and free. A trail disappears into the thickness of trees. The train bumps along an uneven portion of railroad, riding well beyond the green surroundings reflecting a golden hue from the warm sunlight. Earth rises above the tracks as a hill of dirt, the train seeming to be in a valley for a moment. Houses are dotted about the scene, and the skyline becomes visible once more. Tell-tale signs of man's intrusion exist in the graffiti on a wall arch erected for some unknown purpose. Another trail. Another settlement. Thoughts drift to what might lie on the other side of the clearing. A sand quarry comes into view and the next plot houses stacks of hundreds of wooden crates and aluminum-coloured sacks. What sort of creatures lived here? Intriguing. Snakes, wild rabbits, possums and skunks, maybe ... This was the eastern part of the country and progressing northward, memories of history book descriptions surfaced. How harrowing were such journeys in the 1880s - fear of robbers and the unknown in spite of exuberant excitement of hopes, and dreams of a clean slate and a new life. Yes, a feeling familiar begins to well up inside. Life has been a distressing journey in recent times. A journey nonphysical, yet the fears and risks have been all too real. Reverie of life in the 1880s strikes a chord, evoking a gut-deep sense of hope. Personal dreams vividly emerge, one after another. A clean slate and a new life ... yes, life is a risky yet necessary journey. Years of lethargy melt away, leaving, at last, exuberance and excitement bubbling forth from a fountain within the soul ... a well-spring of life energy restored.