Research: A short Postscript!

Note: This Post Originally featured on the WickedWriters Blog…

A tricky place…

I sat, contemplating.

Sat in consideration;

sat thinking, mulling and pondering

– just why?

Just why, you say.

Why should I deviate

from fictional play

to reality?

He spoke not a word today.

Just a wave to beckon me on,

then, carelessly tossed away,

my identity drifted aside.

I wait; contemplate.

Did I offend?

Some transgression; even fate?

No. Idle curiosity satisfied, I move on.

The old man, sprang from stasis.

His weathered features, grey,

like the dried bed of a dead oasis.

Taxi? he called.

No. No taxi, I plead.

First, I seek the help of others,

a money changing need.

Taxi? The old man reappears.

But, where is this he leads?

Steel: a crumbling, decaying fragility,

we mount the old man’s wheeled steed.

Darkness embraces us.

Again, where is this he leads?

Sand: it gives place to concrete.

As lights flash by, time pays no head.

The old man smiles in my darkness.

I sat, contemplating.

Sat in consideration;

sat thinking, mulling and pondering

– just: why?

Steel: the crumbling, decaying fragility;

the old man’s wheeled steed creaks.

Through darkness my taxi’s ability,

once denounced, now championed.

Paper: the folded bills demanded;

the old man’s smile fades…

…his extortion plans now interrupted.

The old man turns away; I smile.

Just why, you say.

Why should I deviate

from fictional play

to reality?

I stand at the foot

of seven star luxury, contemplating.

Stand again, as considerations put

the breath of life in words I write.

Later, as I continue a stand,

more darkness envelopes our ground

as wind rustles and whips at sand.

Yellow dust coats my parched throat.

And, later still, I breath again,

as sand no longer troubles,

replaced by simple generosity, plain

– hands  full, I smile.

The paradox of the unreal real

stands, now bare, before me.

Yet again, in my existence, I feel

what I have known.

  4 comments for “Research: A short Postscript!

  1. November 21, 2010 at 3:29 pm

    Sharon, it’s the thing about poetry… it does leave a lot to the imagination… and no bad thing that is, too!

    Now, an electric wheelchair followed by a band of enthusiastic budding market traders does, indeed, sound like a great basis for a funny story… perhaps a blog one day?

    D :)

  2. November 18, 2010 at 9:08 pm

    Ah, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, “they” say.
    Take care, my friend.
    And be very, very careful.

    Is it true that which is risked becomes more precious?

    • November 19, 2010 at 11:56 am

      Sharon! A million dollar question!

      Libya was a fascinating experience and I hope to go again soon. But it is a place to BE experienced, not just read about! There is so much potential in the land and its people!

      Was anything at risk? If I was to go by the judgement of others then perhaps so; but, on my own instincts, I am prepared to make my own judgements and, in doing so, am alive to possibilities!

      The creative possibilities of the unknown are precious to me. So my answer would be yes.

      And there is as much risk in my own yard!


      • November 19, 2010 at 3:07 pm

        So glad, David. I probably read a lot more danger into it because of my son’s situation. Been to Tunisia and I loved the souks, the markets and the people. Have a funny story about an American in an electric wheelchair going through a 2000 year old souk, followed by a band of children.

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