20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


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Glistening Years

With curly locks, toys, dolls, blocks
You hold me near
I hear that beating rhythmic flow
Your love
Will never stop, never go

With braided hair, sweet embraces, garden picnics
Sun-filled yards, glistening tears
You sing to me
A song to laugh, to dance
Over scrapes, beyond shadowy fears

With growing years, a clear warm voiced song
As you hold grand little ones
I loved you then, I love you now
Moments shared have showed me how
I hear that beating rhythmic flow as you leave

As you go
You in heaven as on earth will be one to wipe away
Every
Tear
Every
Fear
With
Glistening years

By Jonathan McCallum
@jonamccallum


2 Comments

Hello, Birds

Well, I’m having fun being back at 20 Lines.

The little wingèd creatures come to view
and charm me as they clean the grounded seed.
Now winter’s gone and everything is new,
including those who wear their springtime blue.

I watch them from the deck or through the glass,
these fliers who make up this April’s class.
They come from skies that seem to toss them here,
their wings providing necessary gear.

(a rispetto)


Priming the Pump

I need to prime the writing pump again,

go deep into the well where words reside.

I reach into the past for fountain pen

so I can prime the writing pump again.

When traveling in France I’ll cruise the Seine

or swing through universes planet-wide.

I need to prime the writing pump again

go deep into the well where words reside.

(a triolet)


Hello Again

I just want to say that I have made my blog private for awhile. Therefore, I hope to return to 20 Lines and do a bit of writing here again. This is such a home for artists of words and images and I feel comfortable here. How many new people have joined since I was here last. I look forward to coming to know you through your work and comments.

I have taken Melissa up on her publishing offer through Sable Books and as of last night’s conversation with her, am going to publish my second book of poetry. After a few back-and-forth emails and one long phone conversation, I know Sable is the right choice for me. I would encourage any of you who are thinking of publishing to give Sable Books a try. I am so excited to be in the beginning stages of compiling my book. 

I could hardly sleep last night because words and ideas pushed around in my mind for attention. It was such a happy conglomeration of thoughts, though, and I am ready to forge ahead.

Here I come, Sable. Thank you for being there for me at just the right time.


Fledgling

I’m trying to find my own voice and form, and I think it is short surreal vignettes. Instead of trying to write like someone else it is the first time that it feels like me, and it is a strange feeling like a fledgling voice cracking under hormonal change.

Surreal Royale

all you can eat carrion

uffet family style
carnage topped in
marachino zesty rinds
Surreal Serial Cereal

away little birdie
maggot updrifting aloft
raining down firmamental
pustules popping brains
worry mind no more


Sea King

Massive wave hills were breaking further out than I had ever seen.
I told myself and my friend that I would stay close-by shore,
And go no further, no more.

Slipping into the icy froth of the rip express lane,
Passing familiar rocky point,
I sat on my board, just gliding seaward like floating royalty in a river coronation,
Absorbing solar praise,
Robed regally in wet fur seal like suit,
Laughingly shouting back to my friend enjoying the shore-break surfing:
“Check this out!”
Forgetting to embrace shoreline wisdom.

My mistake apparent within seconds,
I am no king of the sea.
Today the familiar merry go round rip
joyfully ridden back to wave riding position
Bulged uncharacteristically and pulled me near to panic,
An unstoppable river, impossible to defy.
I was riding a water chairlift out to liquid white mountains.

In a salty blink, I whispered, “Save me!”
Doubt gushed, poured and exited out.
I saw daughter, wife, scenes of life.
I heard a royal blue voice call out: “Keep going, yes further out.”
Each shivering stroke showed feeble faith
As the sets rising green and tall drew terrifyingly near.

A precious wave approached from an unexpected angle,
Birthing hope within—to catch it would be certain escape.
It lifted me up, throwing me down, carrying me in.
I rode that surfboard like a rapid-rafting baboon,
Arriving to the shore,
Whispering appreciation to the real Sea King.

By Jonathan


1 Comment

Trespasser

The well was cool and nourishing
and deep, but years ago
in an act of courage and
defiance, you moved the heavy
stone across the opening, allowed
the thorny branches to grow over
and around it, so that no one
could disturb your tomb, or drink
its healing waters, and you turned
your back, confident that the thorns
would do their job to keep the trespassers
out, but what you could not see in your
rage and self-hatred, was that the thorns
and brambles  shadowed you in your
exile,  shrouded you in your attempt to be
invisible, shrunk at your valiant effort
to fight them back, grew thicker and
stronger, shielding you from the world
of your creation, until that day when
the thorns pressed deep into your
flesh and you finally tasted the sting
in the back of your throat, and it was then
that you knew the only respite left was to
return to source, and there in that ancient
place, you tore back the branches and
brambles, bleeding and broken, but it was
too late to care, and you uncovered the patient
stone,  waiting for your return, and there
as you wildly plunged yourself into the waters,
as if returning to your mother’s womb,
there you realized that the thorns you fled had grown
out from the belly of your pain, and that you,
you are the trespasser, bathing in your own
well of salvation

©SpiritLed 2014

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