One day I met this girl (repost)

Let me tell you something, it was a special day, that day way back when. See, I was sittin’ on a porch bench, watchin’ leaves fall over the lawn, when I noticed a girl coming through the gate and striding up the sidewalk. I wasn’t really sure about the “girl” thing at first, due to her appearance: blue-jean bib-overalls, sandals, hair shorter on one side than the other, face a little messed up. However, the girly shape gave it away eventually.

Anyway, she just walked up, stepped up onto the porch like she belonged, gave me a kind “Hi,” and took a seat beside me on the bench. She kindly introduced herself, and I did the same. I offered a drink. She said no thanks. Then we proceeded to have a talk. She apologized for her appearance: all the grease on her bibs–she’d been working on her car–and her chopped hair: said her little sister was a beauty school student who needed a practice dummy. The conversation went on about her family and such, and how she’d obtained that large, crescent-shaped scar on her face–a car accident. Again, I asked her if she’d like a drink. Again, she said no thanks. So we talked, while birds winged over the sun-washed lawn, while the ice-cream man played his jingle in the street every now and then, while kids went bell-dinging by on their bikes, and the sun began to stretch long shadows across the yard, we talked.

Then I happened to notice something: her chopped-up hair, her scarred face, her sandals and greasy bib overalls, her crooked smile under a set of tropical green eyes … Yep, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever met.  Then she gave me that quirky little grin, tucked some of that hair behind her ear, pecked a kiss on my cheek, and POOF! she disappeared into the thin air–just like that. So what did I do? Well, I’ll tell ya. I opened the squeaky screen door, let it bang shut behind me, went to my desk … and started writing this girl’s story. Yep, that’s how I met Trisha. That’s how I meet all my characters–just a little talk on the porch. Is that crazy? Nope, that’s a writer’s mind. Now Trish is a special friend. I’ll never forget the day I met this girl.

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–I met this girl

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Goddess … a magical sky

Moon

I have been in the dark
The sliver of light to be
Pulling the oceans below
Turning so soft to see

A life of waxing is long
Though the waning is gone
My heart will be full
My path continues on

A boy was I in the dark
A man to be
In the next degree
Till is grown a matriarch

The girl I met was she
Now I know why she cried
Waiting for me to be
Truth that never lied

A  woman she has become
Light is waxing smooth
Knew I found the one
My full goddess which I swoon

In this fullness of our moon
Turning together to reveal

I am her, and she is I
A god with his goddess

A magical sky

Moon

— Erik S. Lehman

Soul of a boy … Eyes of a man

I remember who I was as a child. Now I ask myself, Where did he go? Contemplation in silence has occupied the last three meditative days. I sat in the lush forest … amid whispers of wind, and wondered when I went astray. The child was wise with nature. He didn’t ask for answers, only found them while wandering landscapes. This child was not a child, only a young being marveling over the breath of nature, using his innate ability to see art not only in the typical forested settings, but also on everyday streets … where emotions of life can be witnessed on the faces of others; or how light writes a moment of time on a cityscape. See, in my mind then, I was a photographer, while friends were firemen and such boyhood dreams. I had my camera, given to me by an elder man who had answered my question of “What do I do with this?” with an all-knowing, little grin, from which came his reply of “You’ll see, boy. You will see.” Time has revealed the boy in me once again. Therefore, upon realizing that my life of dilettantism is coming into focus, I am content to settle on one, and answer the dreams of the boy no longer dormant inside: I was once a photographer in mind. Now is the time to be one in soul. My life has shifted that I may finesse the fleeting moments of light. My black-and-white purpose beckons to be fulfilled. Everything but study is put aside. Silence has become my friend once again. I will write with my lens, telling a story without my pen. The boy wanted to be an outstanding photographer. I am that boy … now reminded of a quote to live by: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” And now I understand the words of the elder man. Yes, sir. I see. And one day they will see … black-and-white art from the soul of a boy, through the eyes of a man. One day.
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Universal

Billions of different galaxies
Billions of different eyes
Neighbors and friends
Wandering the skies
Harmonious creation
Harboring a goal
Creation flies
In a spiraling soul
Stars we are
Universal
432722066_b97400a39b_mtErik S. Lehman

Writing Endurance …

Wherever we happen to be in our writing lives at any particular time, we should never view our work as “bad”, no matter what others may think. All we can do is the best we can do at the level of talent we happen to possess at the moment. We continue. We persist. We learn with a sponge-like mind, free of self-deprecation, and trust that each work will be better than the last. If we’re lucky enough, we have our “Masterpiece” in mind for the future; keep it there for now, lest it be ruined by lack of experience. I myself have my literary masterpiece in a journal, waiting for my talents to catch up. However, I know that the road is paved with a formula that all great writers have endured. We must be tough-skinned, especially in this now saturated market. Like actors in the beginning, we must take the abuse, and accept the part of “neophyte” until everything finally comes together for that “Eureka!” moment…. All right, thank you for listening to my pondering, and I will finish by saying: take the knocks, brush them off … and write on.

Inkers

Writing is simply permanently infusing your unique, imaginative tattoo on the collective consciousness of the world. Cheers to all the creative “inkers” out there.

I sing

Money doesn’t matter; be true to yourself, even at the risk of this imaginary word called “failure”. We all know that word, unfortunately. But I do not fret over such an illusion, for there is no such thing, in the grand scheme. Time is short; without fear … I sing. Oammmmmmm 🙂

“So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing afriend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none. When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”

– Tecumseh