Tuesday, March 22, 2016

it's not a flame but a spark

it's not a flame but a spark

edward w pritchard

It's not a flame but a spark. Flint and steel far apart useless with disuse. Near or far no touching and no eternal light. Just a spark gone from here and now traveling across the universe silently towards forever. Wash the streaky windows well in the middle of a dark lonely night to find your very own spark muted in the distant strings of galaxies drifting apart in the desolate night sky. Cup your hands to your eyes to create binocular effect for shielding out random noise. Feel in your bones the friction of flint scraping steel creating an imaginary remembrance. Turn your face backwards to be comforted by the warmth.

Monday, March 21, 2016

it's a muted sky over the French quarter of New Orleans

it's a muted sky over the French quarter of New Orleans

edward w pritchard

Memory softens reflections creating a muted sky over the French quarter of New Orleans. Sometimes two, three, four planets line up in a circle around the full Moon and the Moon's bright light reflects in the sloshy puddles left over from the afternoon drizzle. From the terrace behind the black iron railings on the second floor of the flat you rent by the hour you can see your lost lovers face reflected in the puddles by the light of that muted Moon.

Throaty sad jazz music drifts skyward from the torch singer at the cabaret next to the famous beignet shop across the street. Like everyone in the quarter the torch singer has a past but she won't reveal her story to just anybody. When she came into town the first time as a scared teenage girl she asked a sailor to help her find the streetcar called desire; he carried her bag and helped her up the few steps onto the trolley to Elysian fields. Since then things haven't worked out so well for her and her sadness is reflected in her music.

A man in a tight white muscle tee shirt is telling his pregnant wife Stella about the Napoleonic Code as they stroll down the sidewalk one floor below your balcony. You might need to go down to cabaret to get another bucket of beer if you keep drinking at this rate. If you do go downstairs to the cabaret you will have to tip that torch singer. Only when she sings these sad songs, and only when it's a full Moon after an afternoon rain will the four planets line up in a circle around the full Moon and only then will you find your lost lovers face mutely reflected in a sloshy puddle on the street below the flat you rent by the hour in the French quarter of New Orleans.

When everything is right memory softens reflections creating a muted sky over the French quarter of New Orleans.


new orleans of my dreams/alternate version 2

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Tuesday, October 18, 2011

new orleans of my dreams/ draft one

New Orleans of my dreams/ alternate version 2

edward w pritchard

Life and death stand nose to nose in New Orleans; sometimes back to back.

Below sea level; you may wake part of the lake.
Water is sweet when it overflows; salty waves or Pontchartrain brine.

Liquor softens sorrows at the death of friends
and music soothes, swaying from the cemetery back.

Women lose inhibitions Saturday nights,
then holy hymns Sunday mornings sing.
Food too, spicy but sweet;
neighbors close, all discrete.

Morning start early with choices and plans,
afternoons a warm rain soaks our tired souls,
late nights end with drifting jazz,
stars are low in the sky,
and heat inundates the quarter.

One night in the quarter
is worth a thousand days anywhere else.
Bury me beneath sea level,
until rising waters carry me away.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

No more Neitzsche for you it's Camus from here out

No more Nietzsche for you it's Camus from here out

edward w pritchard

No more Nietzsche " thus spoke Zarathusa" as your philosophy for you from now on it's Camus' " the myth of Sisyphus".

We all saw what that the will to power stuff did to Nietzsche, ten years immobile in a chair.
No more rehearsing his stale ideas for you; it's time for some fresh life affirming new ideals.

Try Camus' take on Sisyphus. The rock of life rolls over top of you over and over again but out of spite please never give up. Life lasts a long long time that way.

We care. Keep on pushing.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

the road to yesterday is paved with nothing but misunderstandings

the road to yesterday is paved with nothing but misunderstandings

edward w pritchard

The road to yesterday is paved with nothing but misunderstandings. Better to not talk about it at all, better to not try to remember or logically analyze anything. Through a haze a wild thicket of sorrow smothered each and every illusion you ever had.

If you must walk along the precipice keep your eyes skyward. Old paths are littered with angular wrinkled frowning faces of annoyance. Don't gaze upon lost Time. Don't reminisce delusional happiness in the cracked mirror of imaginary yesterdays.

Gone it's all gone. Lost Time cannot be recaptured or repaired. Disappear broken Pilgrim. High up the Mountain the air is thin the path ends abruptly. There is nowhere else to go. Face your palmed hands against the bedrock of forever. The path ends here.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

blues for my aunt

blues for my aunt

edward w pritchard

We must be realistic and part of the common logical consensus when it comes to approaching the death of someone we know but haven't seen much in the last fifty years. We shouldn't be like one of my favorite humans Beatle George Harrison also recently passed away who said once in an interview I watched " people are die-ing [ dying] everywhere all the time and no one is doing anything about it." Yes George you said a mouth full there, after this, that; when that is non existence.

My Aunt passed away today. Her first husband was a Marine related to me through my Mother. My Aunt was young pretty and happy the time before last I saw her and had a lilt to herself like a bird going about the business of living unconcerned about the cosmic significance of things. She raised children, cooked and cleaned a house. She was loved by her Mother who lived close by and being her Mother's only child she was cherished and helped in life's difficulties as practical.

Then she was a divorced old woman when I next and last saw her with some senility, now called Alzheimer's disease living with a new husband who loved her and I suppose she liked to look at blooming colorful flowers on the cactus plants out in the desert where she lived and enjoyed the sun rises and sunsets despite her deteriorating physical and mental capacities as an old Woman whose facilities were waxing away as the material part of herself prepared to return to where ever our elemental parts go after we, our unique selves,  become non existent.

Way back my Aunt was the pretty neighbor girl who married the Marine who lived down the street when she was young and had four kids and later got divorced after she moved with her family away to Arizona where she eventually met another man and remarried. The second husband then took care of her when her mental and body functions were ceasing.  Even the last week of my aunt's existence her partner her second husband fought to keep her alive so they could be together a few more days.

Well to be a romantic dreamer here I want to imagine the first husband, my Uncle the muscled tattooed Marine dead a dozen years is consciously happy that his wife was well cared for in her final days and my Aunt a gentle soul sorta like St Francis of Assisi is drifting through deep space tonight conscious of the sound of birds singing and sunsets and dessert flowers blooming somewhere and sometime far away.

Who is to say non existence is just ceasing to be and that instead there are not a billion-billion possibilities of altered consciousness for us humans after death that no one alive or who ever lived can understand or accurately guess at or predict. Scientifically then, it seems to me if there are a trillion trillion galaxies of Matter out there, then being and non-being are beyond human understanding.

Each human soul is unique and each human soul is infinitely valuable before, during, and after Death.

The whys and wherefores of existence are beyond our comprehension; even in the imagination of the Poet, even during the speculations of the philosopher, even with the proofs of the scientist and even in the beliefs of the confidently Religious.