Image by Joke vander Leij from Pixabay
I remember my art as geysers bursting forth from my insides, gushing in torrents…couldn’t help it anymore than breathing; it was liquid breath after all, underground under high pressure for eons. When boiling, steaming, it rushed out as screams, screams, screams, stinking of sulfur. Some how this was followed by weeping and songs, songs, songs, reaching for beauty seen but not truly experienced for years. A purging of pain before genesis of incomparable joy. This still happens sometimes, but
the words I write now
reside in a folder called
”compost” wherein my
mind helps them moulder.
Can’t contain geysers
inside folders.
Nature forbids it,
provides something else…
Many organic things thrown into the pile; life that lives without air breaks them into micro-bits to be digested, refuse becoming something richer, generating heat, steam, redolent of
barnyards,
or low tide,
rotting fruit,
dank graveyards.
These odors bring surging memories, with memories come images, sounds, with these the soul is stirred to feelings filthy or exalted…
Until at last
something green pushes
its way out, seeking
light, growth, joy.
This takes patience,
faith.
~ Wry Welwood
19th of June 2022
Fathers’ Day
Inspired by a prompt from JD Harms: Stuck.