Memories Like a Dream

My father and I are struggling to mount his just purchased used dirt bike to the back of our black VW bug and I’m giddy as a child because I am a child and then as a family we’re out in the field that runs past the yard with scythes hacking out trails that run past and around the old sagging barn and then beyond into and out of the wood as we sweat under the intense mid-summer sun but I don’t care because I know the reason why we’re all out there and I had never worked so hard and with such purpose and then finally I’m on the back of that bike with my arms tight around my mother’s waist as we fly through and around those trails that I had helped to lay as spiteful thorn bushes strive futilely to slow us down and thick burrs glom onto our pants and socks and hang on for their own lives as I hang on for mine and when we finish the ride that seemed to have lasted only seconds and mom powers the down the motorcycle in the driveway and I holler out jeez that sure was fun! she whips her helmeted head around and fires off one of her patented scolding looks at me thinking that I had just taken the lord’s name in vain…



Beauty in the Bleak

Bleak and Beautiful

lose me the colors
blemish me the sacred land
bleak is my demand

I need not the blossom hue
I need not the morning dew

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The Cubby Hole [Memoir Monday Prompt]

My childhood homestead was filled with wonderment. We lived on a dead-end street that ended at field that had a path that led to dirt roads and other such adventures. Next to my house was an expansive, swaying field where an old magical barn lived. I spent much of my youth in that barn and there much of the foundation of who I have become was set. I celebrate the Barn and the Field, as well as the secret Pond that lay beyond the dirt road in my poetry collection Poems from the River.

And while there was so much nature with hidden folds and crooks for me to escape to and which I did, there was also one such place right inside my home, which I used as a back up of sort for when I couldn’t get outside to escape from whatever it was that was chasing me or to whatever it was I had wished to become me that day. This not-so-secret secret place was hidden underneath the stairs. There was my inside place to escape, to daydream, to scare myself a little, to bring myself to quiet, and it was what we called a cubby hole. It had a small door that matched the paneling of the wall and inside, where all our games and decorations and other things meant to be hidden were stored, the ceiling was low, even for a child, and it was lit by one bare light bulb with a pull chain.

Like the barn, it, too, was a place of magic…

So tell us, in the form or device of your choosing…

Where, as a child, did you go to escape, to become? Where was your Cubby Hole of magic and wonderment?

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