WRITING IS AN ADDICTION

 

You say you are a writer. Tell me

Why do you write? And

What is writing?

 

Good question. I will tell you what I think.

 

I write because I must. It’s compelling.

It’s the telling…of stories…of life.

It’s the satisfaction of sharing.

It’s the daring. It’s the next best

Thing there is. It’s fresh, it’s living.

I write because it’s my calling

It’s compelling. It’s…it’s…

 

I’ll tell you what it is.

It’s an addiction. Writing is an addiction.

Nothing must be a distraction.

It is the strongest of all attraction.

It’s the glitter, it’s the glamour

Of imagination!

 

That’s what makes me write.

It’s so fulfilling. It is satisfying.

That is why it consumes me.

It burns inside me. The flames of

Creation that burn so bright.

 

Ah! That is why some marriages fail…

I see it now.

Yes, you know it. You know just what I mean!

 

It’s an addiction. A red hot can’t say no addiction.

It’s an addiction. A red hot never say die addiction.

Writing is an addiction, a can never say no addiction!

It’s an addiction, an addiction, an affliction…

 

OH! Oh-oh. Oh no.

It’s an…aff-lic-tion…addiction – affliction. And that can’t be good.

Affliction…A true died in the wool addiction.

Noooooooooo.

 

Oh, must I? Must I really?

Sigh. Yes, I must. For the good of my health…

 

Now where is…Oh. Oh no.
Oh yes. The meeting room…

 

Knock knock

 

Hello?

My name is Herb.

And I am…

A Writer!

 

Hello.

 

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Conversations, Hope, Irony, Poem | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

 

Rats and snakes and bats

RATS AND SNAKES AND BATS

H. W. Bryce

 

Rats and snakes and bats

None of them wears hats

Never trust a beast

That doesn’t wears a hats

It could be that he is bats!

 

They all comes out on Hallowe’en

Like it or not, and I’m not keen,

They all feeds on the witches’ brews—

To me that’s just slops, what thinks youse?

 

Darned if Hallowe’en don’t comes

This year on day thirteens.

If I weren’t spooked before,

I am now, don’t need no more

Of rats and snakes and bats.

 

My nerves is shot, my stomachs turns,

I have dreams where all beasts burns

‘Cause snakes they silent slithers,

Comes up behind and gives you shivers.

And then they smiles and bites your heels,

And I must say, that sure don’t appeals.

 

Rats and snakes and bats

None of them wears hats

Never trust a beast

That doesn’t wears a hats

It could be that he is bats!

 

And rats of course they scurries round

Back alley garbage scraps they’re bound,

They like sleeping bods to bite,

I wish they’d all takes a hike.

 

Rats and snakes and bats

None of them wears hats

Never trust a beast

That doesn’t wears a hats

It could be that he is bats!

 

Bats they all take flights in the dead of the nights,

They eat bugs and seek out human heads, rights?

’Cause they loves to tangles in your hairs

And God help you if they comes in pairs.

 

Rats and snakes and bats

None of them wears hats

Never trust a beast

That doesn’t wears a hats

It could be that he is bats!

 

So youse can takes your rats and snakes and bats,

They don’t needs your flesh to make them fats.

So calls your Peter Piper, he’s immunes to them bones,

And let him pipe them out of town, each ones

Of yer Hallowe’en rats and snakes and bats.

 

And good riddance says I to all them spooks,

Get them out of all their hidey hole nooks,

’Cause my nerves is shot, my stomach turns.

Rats and snakes and bats! None of them wears hats.

Never trust a beast that doesn’t wears a hats,

Could be that he is bats. Best for them is where it burns.

 

— —

Posted in Hallow'en, Hallowe'en, Holiday, Memories, Mocking, Mystery, Poem, Rise up, Satire | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

 

Orange Pumpkin, Orange Sky

ORANGE PUMPKINS, ORANGE SKY

H. W. Bryce

 

Orange pumpkins, orange skies,

Canadian Geese flying by,

Witches and goblins dancing ’round,

Little kids laughing, joyous bound

To a Hallowe’en party Hallowe’en night,

Adults reliving the fun again,

Remembering always the main

Thing in life is love, encourage right.

 

Though night may bring the look of doom,

Daylight will light the pumpkin’s bloom

And the kids will again come out to play,

And while the sun shines, adults make hay.

 

All hallows eve, the night before All Saints’ Day,

Once believed if you deny or ignore, you’ll pay,

Like Westminster’s Guy Fawkes* bag of tricks;

Now its treats for little kids to replace such tricks.

 

Orange pumpkins, orange sky,

the kids to grow up strong and

faithful to the laws of love.

And pumpkin seed brings pumpkins more,

The cycle of life, of give and take;

Work with love, the people’s crop,

the secret of life right at its core.

 

*Although Guy Fawkes Night is actually celebrated Nov. 5, it is often compared to our Hallowe’en night. Both are celebrations. Ours replaces the rites for the souls of the dead, often with fireworks; England’s celebrates with effigy-burning bonfires for the failure of the Gunpowder Plot to blow up the British parliament building in Westminster in 1605. Fawkes was guarding the gun power under the House of Lords. A tip off led to his arrest and the prevention of the planned explosion.

Inspired by picture of pumpkin patch under orange sky posted by Orlanda Oct. 14, 2019.

A pumpkin harvest sunset.
Photo/Lynn Bauer

Posted in author site, Celebration, Fooling, Humor, Memories, Poem, Remembering | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

 

Life is an open verse

LIFE IS AN OPEN VERSE

H. W. BRYCE

 

Life is an open verse,

Often undisciplined

               rugged and rough

/with broken lines, unlike its synonyms,

Frequently enjambed.

 

With calms between the storms,

With reasons, maybe rhymes,

     And life is a sonnet of love

a feast song of rhythmic couplets,

Complete poems on their own /

An opus of open verses

In their own right…

           If you do it right.

 

   Sometimes life draws a blank

And you’re stumpefied for a /clue       ?

But you are open

    \to new thoughts. . .

So you brainstorm for ideas

And “voila!” a new line, a new verse

Opens up         /like a flower

    On your path of life as an open verse…

 

Sometimes life breaks out in a song,

A time when nothing seems to go wrong,

Each day is a melody,

Every week a new chorus.

 

    Yes, life is an open verse,

     Open to Love…or worse . . .

 

“Oh, the poet labors all his days

To build the beauty in his rhyme”*

And the person labors long

In his trying to stay young…….

Some doors, they stay open,

Some doors shut right in your face.

 

And life is like a pudding

Too thick to set a pace sometimes,

Or too loose to not run away…

. . .Too uncertain just to stay.

 

Some people keep on trying To spite the nose that’s on their face,

But neither freedom of the verse Nor the rhythm of the beat

Will conform to a stubborn mind Unless they learn to be kind

 

In life you are free to try this Or that, or the Other, dance

Or sing, Mope or take dope, Build yourself up or drive

Yourself down, Life is an Open Verse, you’re free to take a chance.

 

The music of life that you dance to Can change with a tap

On the drum, the steps that you take Will of course depend;

Sometimes there’s a chorus you can keep / Repeat for a little while.

But then, the disc jockey picks up the Pace and . . . your rhythm ends.

 

Others you can learn from, They live with joy and charm, Gay Abandon,

They seem to know the Secret is in the Living, the Gift is in the Giving.

 

Life is an open verse. Make music first before you fill your purse.

Do what you love, make your life A Love Affair, every step another verse.

 

*John Keats in Endymion:

 

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,

Its loveliness increases, it will never

Pass into nothingness but still will keep

Full of sweet dreams, and health,

And quiet breathing.”

 

ME—A life well led is a thing of beauty

 

The breaks, the capitalizations, the “punctuations” and symbols
are intended to symbolize the rough and tumble of living.

Posted in author site, Caring, Life, Poem | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

 

Conversations

CONVERSATIONS

H. W. Bryce

Of all the conversations

That I’ve had, inside my head,

I like the ones with you the best.

You were the one with wit,

The one who challenged most.

You always built me up and

Never did you boast.

You could always find a way

To prove your argument.

You were always the quick-thinker,

Fast with the witty retort.

Your sarcasm always came with

That patent mischievous smile.

 

And most of all, you said you

Loved me, but never said the word.

 

Yes, of all the conversations that I’ve had,

I like the one in which you soothed

My shattered nerves. Your calm

Was contagious, and how I loved

The feel of your gracious hand

Upon my fevered brow. I now

Return the favor, as you lay there

In your need. We’ll have many more

Conversations, you and me.

You can trust me in that, for I will

Not keep it hidden here inside my head.

 

And of all the conversation that I’ve had,

I like the one we’re having now the best.

 

Image by DanaTentis from Pixabay

Posted in Alzheimer's, Author, Being there, Caring, Choices, Conversations, Decisions, Dementia, Dreams, Fading Images, Memories, Poem | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

The Rain at Night

 

The rain at night

Photo by H. W. Bryce

 

THE RAIN AT NIGHT

 H. W. Bryce

 

The rain at night

                Falls upon my patio

The pitter-patter

                Raindrop music notes

They sing their melody

                To match the melancholy

Of the blue mood

                You left me in

When you said goodnight

                And left me here all alone

 

But I don’t mind

                The night is sweet

You kissed my lips

                The mood so neat

I dream of you

                You said you cared

The feeling was just right

                The future looks so bright

 

Oh I day dream

                You are the cream

In the coffee of my life

No bitter grounds

Left in the cup o f life

                Nothing but love I’ve found

 

So here’s to you

                I swear my oath

Forever love

                To you I’m true

 

Raindrop melody playing on my patio

Each pitter-patter drop a memory

Of you, the sweetest person that I know

Oh how I wish that you were still here with me

 

The rain at night

                Falls upon my patio

The pitter-patter

                Raindrop music notes

They sing their melody

                And troubles matter not

The rain at night reminds me that

                You are the cream

In the coffee of my life

No bitter grounds

Left in the cup of life

                Nothing but love I’ve found.

 

–Happy Birthday to you dearest Ann “Beyond the Sunset”

 

Fifty Years together, three years, eight months since.

Thanks for the memories Ann. Never forgotten.

 

Listen to the song Ivan Boudreau wrote from my poem Beyond the Sunset, and sang at our Celebration of Ann’s Life. https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/QgrcJHsBpVtcBbMFFzPnQMSZLqHvdLtHrFq

© Ivan Beaudreau / H. W. Bryce – music and lyrics

 

Posted in Author, Being there, Caring, Dreams, Memories, Poem, Remembering | Tagged | Leave a comment

ELEGY TO THE ART OF LIVING

ELEGY TO THE ART OF LIVING

H. W. Herb W Bryce

The true art of living involves
The ability to beggar your neighbour.
If your neighbour has a treasure that you want,
Have it; he’ll thank you for freeing up the space.
And never send a thank you card fer nuthin’.
It’s insulting – for him; but it’s a thrill for you.

Never celebrate a birthday. He’ll feel left out.
Then celebrate it late, like a dirge. Make sure
You find ways to make him feel old. And
When he asks, give him yer shoulder – cold!

It’s a good idea to insult people in wheelchairs;
They can’t fight back and you’ll enjoy their lack.
That’s the art of living, that’s the way to score.
That’s the art of living that no one knows no more.

It is to create a need then gouge your neighbour.
He will feel the hurt and you will thrill to the core.
Do unto others, yeah, just like you want to—
He’ll deserve it anyhow, sooner or later, so do.

Do covet your neighbours wife, she’s a beauty;
He’ll never know who, and you’ll have the laugh of your life.
And tell all the lies you want; its such fun.
Your neghbour will be so confused, and your job is done.

Yeah, folks don’t know how to do this no more,
And I miss the fun. It’s the lost art of living
It’s the beauty of giving…the shaft to your neighbour,
And life is never having to be forgiving.

Ahh! I miss them good old days when the art of living
Was real living. When you woke up every mornin’ with a new trick in your bag,
Another way to beggar your neighbour, when you laughed till you gagged.

(sigh) Ahhhh, well. Them was the good old days.
Yeah…I miss them days…

— —
Image by Ryan McGuire from PixabayElegy to the art of living

Posted in Caring, Decisions, Dementia, Discrimination, Humor, Just get along, Life, Poem | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment