Beatrice Writes- When I sit with pen in hand, it is usually over tea, to idle down a list of chores to be done about the house and land. Or to jot down sundries, needed on a dreaded trip to town. In about mid-life I realized that I did so like to draw, a hidden talent no doubt handed down from my artist Ma.
I never quite grasped poetry, left the words to Godfrey, I let the art move and transport me. The pleasure in stick of charcoal, smudged like the pictures I draw from happy memory. It was Godfrey and I and Lloyd my dad, riding on the rusty old tractor we had. We are spreading manure on fresh, plowed ground, laughing as Lloyd drives it round and round. We are six years old and Godfrey’s Ma pitches a fit, when he gets home for tea after playing in shixxzzt. Still wearing his boots and manurey clothes she hangs little Godfrey on the wash line, and sprays him down with the garden hose.
Worzel Writes- Today I began with my pen in hand, with no set destination or hurry to get there. With a latte’ for a treat, at home in my turquoise chair I go where my pen takes me, most often a memory of laughing with Godfrey.
Once upon a time I dragged a very reluctant Godfrey. Dragged him into a Men’s Wear Store out of sheer curiosity. He was measured and tucked, and made to stand up tall, and go try on a suit in the change room down a hall. He got indignant with me peering under the door, all I heard was muttering, saw his kilt and one sock in a heap on the floor. He reported that the suit, “Itched and grabbed every place”. With laughter and tear on his dear odd face, he invited me to join him in “The Wet Hanky” dance. So round the jackets and ties, the thongs and grundies, past the itchy dress pants, yes we danced.
Godfrey Wrote- I go where my pen takes me..when I take it in hand – though yes I am a picky bugger, it must have a solid grip with ink black or blue. Thoughts and words pull me into a happy place, and a tray of sweet pastries and biscuits are a big help too.
Time ceases to matter with behind in comfy chair, feet warm and dry, pleasant smells in the air. I drift far away to a place, young and strong, and am striding along through golden tussock grass. I am seeking wild horses West side of Gloriana Pass.
When seeking wild horses not too far below the snow, you do not worry of tomorrow or the pain you bear in heart or ankle that you broke long ago. Holding pen in hand, someone with whom to write, often I do not notice as night hands to dawn, her bag of possibilities for the new day.
And in time for sleep put pen down and book away, feather bed for the vagabond deep, clean hay. I dream of seeking wild horses in a far away land, let me seek wild horses where they lead me in my dreams, pen in hand.