What happened to the path/ part 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
what happened to the path?
fiction
edward w Pritchard
What happened to the path?
Wandering and searching for familiar ground
twists and turns to avoid past sins and mistakes
tacking forward this way and that
follow the sun and the stars in lonely journey
towards what?
will be revealed when we get there
back stiff and straight forward and onward did once we march
weary now time abandons us
turn around just ahead
Nowhere within plain sight
before, before-again, before
Saturday, November 29, 2014
my neighbor's motivations
my neighbor's motivation's
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I who so fear perpetual anonymity am so confused by my neighbor's disjointed ambiguity concerning their needs for endless privacy and at the same time conspicuous display.
Manicured landscapes, matching hunter green window panes, and burnt orange roof tiles advertised wealth and status to the indifferent world while private security and professionally trained bark-less dogs protect my neighbor from prying eyes. Additionally two internet security software scans invisibly march hour upon hour to maintain silent vigilance across and upon my neighbors virtual existence.
Highly motivated is my neighbor to have bro-friendships with Lebron James or President Obama but my neighbor trembles at Black folks moving neighborhood by neighborhood North toward his house. Envious is mine neighbor to be on a first name basis with celebrities starring in the Game of Thrones or the movie of the week, yet my neighbor builds a wall with a locking gate around his house, yard and children.
I who so fear perpetual anonymity am so confused by my neighbor's disjointed ambiguity concerning their needs for endless privacy and at the same time conspicuous display. In all things I am mine neighbor.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I who so fear perpetual anonymity am so confused by my neighbor's disjointed ambiguity concerning their needs for endless privacy and at the same time conspicuous display.
Manicured landscapes, matching hunter green window panes, and burnt orange roof tiles advertised wealth and status to the indifferent world while private security and professionally trained bark-less dogs protect my neighbor from prying eyes. Additionally two internet security software scans invisibly march hour upon hour to maintain silent vigilance across and upon my neighbors virtual existence.
Highly motivated is my neighbor to have bro-friendships with Lebron James or President Obama but my neighbor trembles at Black folks moving neighborhood by neighborhood North toward his house. Envious is mine neighbor to be on a first name basis with celebrities starring in the Game of Thrones or the movie of the week, yet my neighbor builds a wall with a locking gate around his house, yard and children.
I who so fear perpetual anonymity am so confused by my neighbor's disjointed ambiguity concerning their needs for endless privacy and at the same time conspicuous display. In all things I am mine neighbor.
Friday, November 28, 2014
autumn leaves they fall each November/ part 2
autumn leaves they fall each November/ part 2
fiction
edward w pritchard
Cora, my Cora return soon from the underground it's overwhelming when hostile nature ushers in Winter loneliness and darkness with endless flurries of useless, discarded leaves. I long to see the buds of fertile spring time beginning to spout in warm moist valleys.
Kore, my Kore we are in perpetual darkness here, the days are short and the nights are interminable awaiting your return. Your sudden disappearance has unsettled us all. When we will see your regal face again?
Persephone, you whose name may not be repeated or spoken, gone but not forgotten, in secret and in communal darkness we whisper your names and titles.
Carry an ear of corn with two clutched open hands if you must venerable queen, but return with the warm Spring rains to drive away Winter darkness and desolation.
Cora, Kore, Persephone I call your name but you do not answer, where have you gone my eternal feminine?
She who may not be spoken to; through three cycles I search for you in mythical places that do not exist on any map. Have you been abducted? When shall yesterday's harvest be renewed with the green buds of next gentle Spring?
Dance, dance she who is without legs or arms; should I fall far far below guide me through Hell to return to the light. Cora I call your name but you do not answer, Kore I preform the rituals but you do not appear. The harvest rots on the vine in barren fields awaiting ritual reunion. Alone in miserable anonymity we dare not speak your name mistress Queen Persephone; when shall next Spring budding commence anew?
fiction
edward w pritchard
Cora, my Cora return soon from the underground it's overwhelming when hostile nature ushers in Winter loneliness and darkness with endless flurries of useless, discarded leaves. I long to see the buds of fertile spring time beginning to spout in warm moist valleys.
Kore, my Kore we are in perpetual darkness here, the days are short and the nights are interminable awaiting your return. Your sudden disappearance has unsettled us all. When we will see your regal face again?
Persephone, you whose name may not be repeated or spoken, gone but not forgotten, in secret and in communal darkness we whisper your names and titles.
Carry an ear of corn with two clutched open hands if you must venerable queen, but return with the warm Spring rains to drive away Winter darkness and desolation.
Cora, Kore, Persephone I call your name but you do not answer, where have you gone my eternal feminine?
She who may not be spoken to; through three cycles I search for you in mythical places that do not exist on any map. Have you been abducted? When shall yesterday's harvest be renewed with the green buds of next gentle Spring?
Dance, dance she who is without legs or arms; should I fall far far below guide me through Hell to return to the light. Cora I call your name but you do not answer, Kore I preform the rituals but you do not appear. The harvest rots on the vine in barren fields awaiting ritual reunion. Alone in miserable anonymity we dare not speak your name mistress Queen Persephone; when shall next Spring budding commence anew?
today's secret message
today's secret message
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The terrorists have cut the telephone lines over in Iraq and the rioters here at home have clogged the entrances in front of the stores on Black Friday to get their message across to raise your consciousness. Sounds like they have been industrious and busy so early this Black Friday morning.
Judge not them too harshly for their lives also have their discontents and inconveniences. They have to hitch a ride to the demonstration, or worse take a cross town bus. Buses are always late and it's hard on the knees and joints to stand out in the cold wind waiting to go to work. While you are on the bus you always have to keep your eyes down so you don't startle or frighten anyone and you can't appear to smile when you notice a very old couple or child doing something agelessly human.
Then there's the trouble about a place to live. Out of work again with no one in the family who will put them up. All their good personal stuff has been lost or chipped up in the frequent moves lately. Over in Iraq one who is with the cause saddens to find his favorite Indian blanket has been cut up for bandages for fallen comrades.
And the matter of the food is quite unsettling. No one is enough connected anymore to know their few favorite delicacies. Mostly for them it's communal food from a gigantic pot served on Styrofoam plates. No one proposes a toast to the cause anymore; changing and criticizing the world has become so passé lately.
Sometimes a terrorist over in Iraq or a rioter here at home just wants a young child to ask them what kind of work do you do Sir? or How did you get that scar on your forearm Mr. bad guy? It's hard sometimes to always be an outlaw and to be constantly on the run.To be out in the cold is really to be nowhere
Riding the bumpy bus with the strong carbon monoxide smell while very tired late at night after terrorizing in Iraq or rioting here in America a demonstrator will roll his eyes when he hears the secret sadness in someone's voice when they tell another story about how one of their neighbors got really wealthy by buying things on the cheap and selling them so-so dear to the good folks down the lane.
What's it about Holidays that are so universal? When you were a kid you saw things with one set of eyes and now that you are a tad too much the wiser you see the same wonderful stuff differently.
Yes sir, sometimes it seems like we know the ending to this Play we are watching before it's really over; Never the less we are grateful just to be here. Thanks to the few supporters of our secret and unheralded mass movement.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The terrorists have cut the telephone lines over in Iraq and the rioters here at home have clogged the entrances in front of the stores on Black Friday to get their message across to raise your consciousness. Sounds like they have been industrious and busy so early this Black Friday morning.
Judge not them too harshly for their lives also have their discontents and inconveniences. They have to hitch a ride to the demonstration, or worse take a cross town bus. Buses are always late and it's hard on the knees and joints to stand out in the cold wind waiting to go to work. While you are on the bus you always have to keep your eyes down so you don't startle or frighten anyone and you can't appear to smile when you notice a very old couple or child doing something agelessly human.
Then there's the trouble about a place to live. Out of work again with no one in the family who will put them up. All their good personal stuff has been lost or chipped up in the frequent moves lately. Over in Iraq one who is with the cause saddens to find his favorite Indian blanket has been cut up for bandages for fallen comrades.
And the matter of the food is quite unsettling. No one is enough connected anymore to know their few favorite delicacies. Mostly for them it's communal food from a gigantic pot served on Styrofoam plates. No one proposes a toast to the cause anymore; changing and criticizing the world has become so passé lately.
Sometimes a terrorist over in Iraq or a rioter here at home just wants a young child to ask them what kind of work do you do Sir? or How did you get that scar on your forearm Mr. bad guy? It's hard sometimes to always be an outlaw and to be constantly on the run.To be out in the cold is really to be nowhere
Riding the bumpy bus with the strong carbon monoxide smell while very tired late at night after terrorizing in Iraq or rioting here in America a demonstrator will roll his eyes when he hears the secret sadness in someone's voice when they tell another story about how one of their neighbors got really wealthy by buying things on the cheap and selling them so-so dear to the good folks down the lane.
What's it about Holidays that are so universal? When you were a kid you saw things with one set of eyes and now that you are a tad too much the wiser you see the same wonderful stuff differently.
Yes sir, sometimes it seems like we know the ending to this Play we are watching before it's really over; Never the less we are grateful just to be here. Thanks to the few supporters of our secret and unheralded mass movement.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
properly grateful, appropriately unsettled Thanksgiving 2014
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
2014- Thanksgiving
Properly grateful, appropriately unsettled we approach today, Thanksgiving 2014.
Never the less we are grateful to just be here. Thanks to the few supporters of our secret and unheralded mass movement.
Hopefully tomorrow these rioters across America will not unite to destroy Black Friday by all going shopping at 6AM on mass and clogging the lines at check-out for all the other good people [ those who don't wear the same button as they do-{1}],
and thereby keep an unforgettable shopping experience from occurring which would be bad for business and disturbing to Wall Street and the national psyche. That's the rioters new strategy to change America " hit then where they ain't"- attributed to Knute Rockne-ancient deceased football coach.
Thanksgiving 2014- plenty, abundance, good food, peace, serenity- t'ain't all bad,
Here's what I wrote before:
the changes brought about by suffering
fiction
edward w pritchard
The changes brought about by suffering
what they are know not I.
But real,
loneliness, failure,
ambition fizzled,
harmony lost,
solitary existence.
Emergence on a dark night of rain drenched wretchedness,
flux flashes, red dawn dripping fatuity.
end
[1] as sung by Melanie Sofka
Edward w Pritchard
2014- Thanksgiving
Properly grateful, appropriately unsettled we approach today, Thanksgiving 2014.
Never the less we are grateful to just be here. Thanks to the few supporters of our secret and unheralded mass movement.
Hopefully tomorrow these rioters across America will not unite to destroy Black Friday by all going shopping at 6AM on mass and clogging the lines at check-out for all the other good people [ those who don't wear the same button as they do-{1}],
and thereby keep an unforgettable shopping experience from occurring which would be bad for business and disturbing to Wall Street and the national psyche. That's the rioters new strategy to change America " hit then where they ain't"- attributed to Knute Rockne-ancient deceased football coach.
Thanksgiving 2014- plenty, abundance, good food, peace, serenity- t'ain't all bad,
Here's what I wrote before:
the changes brought about by suffering
fiction
edward w pritchard
The changes brought about by suffering
what they are know not I.
But real,
loneliness, failure,
ambition fizzled,
harmony lost,
solitary existence.
Emergence on a dark night of rain drenched wretchedness,
flux flashes, red dawn dripping fatuity.
end
[1] as sung by Melanie Sofka
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Friday; windy with a chance of rioting or serial shopping/ part 2
Friday; windy with a chance of rioting or serial shopping/ part 2
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The rioters have began to burn cars and houses as they walk en mass through neighborhoods. Anyone with a landscaped yard, anyone with a nice home, anyone who doesn't put thirty or forty US dollars in a Water proof glass jar on a small folding chair at the front of their yard is subject to being burnt out by the roving rioters. Once they take your jar with your contribution to the cause the rioters use a large broom and paint a purple stripe down the center of the front door your house, then property and loved ones are safe for now. Safe until the color changes again, from purple to orange, or green, anything but bright red. Red is the symbol that a traitor to the rioter's and the revolution's cause lives within.
I have long since given up on protecting the house. Funny it isn't burned yet; for the last several decades I haven't kept the place up but in time it will be torched, it's been weeks since I put any money in a can in a sealed glass jar sitting on a folding chair on the curb. At first I would sit out in the cold late at night and cheer the rioters.
I lost the car to thieves a month ago. No matter it wasn't dependable enough to drive about in times like these and of course I fear the Police and the Guardsmen.
I watch the squirrels to decide how to behave during the times of rioting. The squirrels are very busy and extremely nervous as they move about finding and hiding food. I have constructed a hidden lair over by the lake where I hide underground when I hear the thump of the footsteps of the rioters coming through my neighborhood. The rest of the time I am like the squirrels, always moving, searching, and storing away for later. I used an ancient abandoned badger's den for my secret lair; course I had to enlarge it some by digging and scraping but it is snug and warm inside and I think it is good protection from the bands of roving rioters.
Sometimes I ask my neighbor Goldstein what will happen next. He isn't a rioter but they tell him at synagogue what is going on. At least that's what I think. I never talk to children. If they don't like your looks or are feeling contrary today they will report you to the rioters for spite.
In camouflage clothes with black paint on my face and hands I lay underground in my lair very quietly when the rioters move about. It's very dangerous when the rioters are on the move. At least that's what I think.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The rioters have began to burn cars and houses as they walk en mass through neighborhoods. Anyone with a landscaped yard, anyone with a nice home, anyone who doesn't put thirty or forty US dollars in a Water proof glass jar on a small folding chair at the front of their yard is subject to being burnt out by the roving rioters. Once they take your jar with your contribution to the cause the rioters use a large broom and paint a purple stripe down the center of the front door your house, then property and loved ones are safe for now. Safe until the color changes again, from purple to orange, or green, anything but bright red. Red is the symbol that a traitor to the rioter's and the revolution's cause lives within.
I have long since given up on protecting the house. Funny it isn't burned yet; for the last several decades I haven't kept the place up but in time it will be torched, it's been weeks since I put any money in a can in a sealed glass jar sitting on a folding chair on the curb. At first I would sit out in the cold late at night and cheer the rioters.
I lost the car to thieves a month ago. No matter it wasn't dependable enough to drive about in times like these and of course I fear the Police and the Guardsmen.
I watch the squirrels to decide how to behave during the times of rioting. The squirrels are very busy and extremely nervous as they move about finding and hiding food. I have constructed a hidden lair over by the lake where I hide underground when I hear the thump of the footsteps of the rioters coming through my neighborhood. The rest of the time I am like the squirrels, always moving, searching, and storing away for later. I used an ancient abandoned badger's den for my secret lair; course I had to enlarge it some by digging and scraping but it is snug and warm inside and I think it is good protection from the bands of roving rioters.
Sometimes I ask my neighbor Goldstein what will happen next. He isn't a rioter but they tell him at synagogue what is going on. At least that's what I think. I never talk to children. If they don't like your looks or are feeling contrary today they will report you to the rioters for spite.
In camouflage clothes with black paint on my face and hands I lay underground in my lair very quietly when the rioters move about. It's very dangerous when the rioters are on the move. At least that's what I think.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
when will the governor of Missouri reinstitue the riot act?
when will the governor of Missouri reinstitute the riot act?
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
We in Ohio remember what happened at Kent State in May 1970 when the governor gets his back against the wall by rioting and to save face calls up the riot act. [ Google riot act now]. We don't know much about the Governor of Missouri but assume as a boy he decided to make something of himself and reputation is important to him.
How will the Governor of Missouri react to rioters in Ferguson if they interfere with Thanksgiving turkey or Friday shopping across his State?
Here's what I wrote before about what happens when the tanks roll in against civilians:
When tanks are pictured on the news
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
A tank is like a strong man with two hands clutched in a knuckles facing forward fist.
Airpower brings death and destruction but tanks bring capitulation.
Civilians die when the tanks roll in. When tanks are pictured on the news the battle is in the final stages and the game is serious. Slogans are useless when tanks belch metal and fire at exposed flesh.
Soon weapons makers will send flying tanks into battle. Soon there will be no more civilians.
It's time again for Buffy Sainte Marie to sing " Universal soldier". The tanks are about to roll again.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
We in Ohio remember what happened at Kent State in May 1970 when the governor gets his back against the wall by rioting and to save face calls up the riot act. [ Google riot act now]. We don't know much about the Governor of Missouri but assume as a boy he decided to make something of himself and reputation is important to him.
How will the Governor of Missouri react to rioters in Ferguson if they interfere with Thanksgiving turkey or Friday shopping across his State?
Here's what I wrote before about what happens when the tanks roll in against civilians:
When tanks are pictured on the news
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
A tank is like a strong man with two hands clutched in a knuckles facing forward fist.
Airpower brings death and destruction but tanks bring capitulation.
Civilians die when the tanks roll in. When tanks are pictured on the news the battle is in the final stages and the game is serious. Slogans are useless when tanks belch metal and fire at exposed flesh.
Soon weapons makers will send flying tanks into battle. Soon there will be no more civilians.
It's time again for Buffy Sainte Marie to sing " Universal soldier". The tanks are about to roll again.
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