Crossing a Wooden Bridge
From present to past and future returns
Present are we — breathing life into the dead carcasses of walking dead — we remain until a mule spattering disgust kicks us on the painted canvas we are attempting to hang for all to see. Chop wood, carry water — always the go-to internal response — with the villagers trying to knock our vessel into emptied broken pieces.
Breathe again — stepping onto the broken bridge — cautiously walking into the past — the origin of fleeting thoughts. Aged and worn are the timbers held with rusty nails — piercing the flesh with unspoken words — reaching to heart-centered beginnings like a sliver caught under the first few layers of flesh — painful remains of a battle with peace and tranquility — crossing a wooden bridge to past and future returns.
Like cheap perfume existing on our minds — offensive firstly — then permeating into a fieldless blossom of heart-smelt knowing of truth in the cheapest of storylines to the finest of china serving up a loving heart-song for all to hear — bringing us to our favorite tune — emitting true-self with every kissing of steps upon the mother birthing us all.
No bells and whistles — cliché as we speak — our truth sounds like a recorded message from the ancients — as it was in the beginning. Creative or destructive tongues-speaking perceptual understanding of how the world spins into existence — returning to healing sounds of aviator songs and tasteful blossoms forbidden fruit — savoring every cherry — sour or sweetest of symphonies singing through.
Thickened sauce — simmering centuries of thought — adding a little more seasoning to a bland flavor of souls. Gelatinous touch — heaviness in an airy pairing of pain and suffering — transmuted words like changing one’s clothes from morning to the afternoon of our days.
Nearly burnt by simmering thought — saved by the timer set to our heart’s calling and added spice of a secret recipe — freely given to all who wish to dance with the burner’s boiling effects. Like canvas’ abstract approach — Picasso-like in every step we take — infused with love and joy in all the surrounding misery.
~ Ani Po
Immense gratitude for Promptly Written, the Promptliciousness of Ravyne Hawke. Marcus aka Gregory Maidman, Christine Graves, Rose Malana and all those contributing time in reading and writing thoughts.
Today’s piece was in response to Christine Graves prompt on Sensing the Story and this is where my mind took me.
Sensing the Story
Use all your senses
Sight: A wooden bridge
Scent: Cheap perfume
Sound: Bells and whistles
Taste: Cherry
Touch: Gelatinous
The above picture was taken near the Inka trail. While not wooden, per se, it does bridge the past and future, while present we remain, bridging the gap of past, present and future tense.
