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Aphorisms rarely confer the comfort they intend
                                    BUT
   “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure

An antique wooden trunk sits languidly beside the road (Alabama State Highway 98 Scenic Route, Main St. Daphne, for those that need to know) atop a concrete culvert cover amidst a color-guard composed of an unused ironing board, and a mildewed duffel-bag (but the nicer kind- made of synthetic blend, with the wheels that don’t really roll, and an extendable handle that’s stuck “in”; not the heavy olive-drab canvas of the pop-culture cliche, found slung across the shoulder of the love-lorn/shell-shocked/long-lost soldier returning home unannounced in a lifetime movie melodrama) discarded haphazardly, and awaiting their diesel-powered trash-truck ferry to the afterlife of moribund things; but serendipitously and surreptitiously it is to be rescued from oblivion by the unexpected happenstance of a passerby passing by distractedly (gone out of his way though he really has no where to go, just somewhere to be, eventually) meandering through town, down alternate roads making his way to a rendezvous with a friend to give them a hand, for a minute, with some chores they’d like to get through before they leave for Atlanta, because he hasn’t seen them recently, and he had nothing better to do.

How many others have passed by the unmapped X, but never saw it for they were so myopic in their missions and goals: rushed and unconscious, on autopilot, en route, to work, or to lunch, to mid-day meetings with clients for paper and gold; How many missed the possibility of adventure passing by, the childish excitement that could unfold, if they had just looked up from their phones and coffees and looked around for signs, untold? How many noticed the slight shimmer of fantasy left sitting by the road, but couldn’t stop because they were in a carpool, they weren’t driving, or just so unimaginative that to believe, for a bit, that a treasure exists outside the storied pages of fairy tales was too much to do, or too much to bear, with a rundown, old soul. Did a child see, with impressionable eyes, the chest of treasure left by a fool, unattended, out in the open (not buried, not even a bit, barely even hidden from view) and instantly wonder, too, just what might be inside? Could it be shimmering, shining jewels, loose and encrusting golden crowns, and goblets, scepters and silver candlesticks, precious oriental silks, or bullion and pirate *****; possibly a magic lamp, or maybe some enchanted tools?! A flying carpet!? Perhaps A Ghost of some grim ghoul. Did they beg a guardian to stop the carriage, but were denied and told, “we have to keep going little one, there’s much to get to that you don’t know. You have to go to school.”
Well, the glimmer caught the eye of one beholder and made them think immediately, “That looks like treasure!”

Indeed!
It did look like treasure: a literal chest, built of heartwood with a carved arch-top, weathered paint, rusted hinges, metal bindings and filigree.

(It was obviously empty of value, scuttled, broken, and relinquished to the refuse heap; However, To one with a limp, and a bad eye, and a deaf ear, brandishing a homeward bound insignia upon his chest and an island luck charm in black ink on his leg, whom you’d easily confuse for a pirate misplaced, you can see how it might seem to warrant an inspection.)

Plus: It’s uncommon to find a treasure chest
in the trash, in this century. Perhaps hope got the best of me; but also I knew its fate was not to be buried under heaps of plastic and rot.

I’ve a friend whose proclivity one could describe as a collector of things, useful and abandoned... but not a “hoarder” like on the television - Unless you count Ariel as such- with all her jetsam, Knick-knacks, thing-a-ma-bobbers, and dreams.

We are “of a kind,” prone to picking up after others, collecting aesthetic driftwood- anthropomorphized or just architecturally interesting, finding faces in fallen leaves, pointing to leaves that look like bugs, picking up bugs dried up like leaves and or sticks and stones and broken bones of small creatures long left rotting, beautifully decaying detritus of modernity - deemed useless; but still WE believe a greater purpose lies within, undefined by its usefulness, to be determined by it’s form Rather than function, appropriated and repaired  or dismantled and “re-crafted” into art, by simplification. Driven by a simple inspiration; To make beautiful decoration.

I pull aside, let traffic pass, circle back, reorient and reclaim this bounty of the proverbial “spring-clean.” Its condition is one of slight disrepair: needs hinges re-attached; but otherwise in fine shape. I collect this treasured trash and return to my path, on course to its new home with my friend to whom I was already bound; But now I come bearing gifts.

His smile was worth the drive and the dumpster-diving and the the whole day.

A gift given is a love lived-in, and a smile
shared with a friend Is love and life for me.
Journal entry
11:50pm 3•6•24
Rough draft

This is terrible, pretentious, drivel. But it’s a post-pastoral (a “post-oral” as it were), and it’s honest…
maria Feb 24
Like soap, your poetry cleanses my soul.
On paper, I'm filthy from your touch,
and your honey is sticky on my fingers.
But, your words and your laugh are a spring
that douses me in bubbles and gold.
I sip from your tears and sweat,
and youth revitalizes my skin and bones.
You are an oil that enriches
and cannot be rinsed away with water.
You are the dirt that gets under by fingernails
and houses the seeds of a hundred flowers.
maria Feb 23
Night comes for us all.
We watch as color and saturation leak from the world
until just a half sphere peaks in the horizon.
When the sky touches down and up rises the moon,
it is only its reflective glow that we have to light our walks.

Night comes for us all.
Whereas stimuli and light override my senses,
the coolness and silence of night dampens them,
and with it, my thoughts race.
As my body relaxes against cool sheets,
my mind is buzzing,
and my heart tiptoes from one place to another.

Night comes for us all.
United but separate, our experiences are the same.
We look at the same moon and spy the same stars.
We linger on the same wishes,
and in the anonymity that darkness grants,
we dream and ponder and hope
that something hears us, sees us.
And in that dark anonymity of night,
that subtle weight we constantly carry grows,
and we are anchored to the Earth’s core.

Night comes for us all.
We wait for it to pass,
yet every day, we welcome it gladly
for rest or fresh eyes.
It is a gift and a gurney,
a calm and a casket.
Night is what we make it,
and night is what we need it to be.
glass Oct 2023
scintillated leaves
a cold piano sits
separated lights glinting over black
organic liquid crystal
made of melted sleep
silk screen politics
upheaval and sink
091023
Heidi Franke Oct 2023
To heal,
Journal they say
Like a worm in the dirt
Of my front lawn
Sliding, pushing through
Air pockets
Arduous, unending crawl
No words come
To mind
Where can I breathe

To heal,
Journal they say
Words don't come easy
They fly up like
Torn pages of a book
Riffed, stolen letters of some name
In the nameless wind
Grasping what isn't there,
A cynical continuing void

To heal,
Journal they say
My hands become deaf and blind
The pages curl and mold
Pen and paper inventing before I have begun
All I have is the deep
The deepest inside
That comes here
Traversing incredulity, while I
cry

To heal, they say
glass Jul 2023
sitting in sun past locked windowed doors
wrist tendon tensioned from trying tagging for the first time
sometimes it pulls at my sleeve and i cannot predict when it will be, but at least it doesnt drag me like it used to
merely quietly suggesting to tentatively assume that it is true -
and i feel it striking down, rolling over skin, curling at the edge
but i will not give in
052323
glass Jul 2023
patience demanded now
it couldve been worse but i wasnt sure -
looking, and my thoughts are not current
and im sorry and im scared and is it worth it

unsatiated crown
cutting off, its all i know
the only thing i can control
and i worry and i falter
because all thats in my palms are stones
052723
in my deepest
exhale
i found the
weight i carried
float away
from me
and now
i can finally
breathe
Nihl Jun 2023
I emerged as the middle son of a resolute military family—a nomadic existence bereft of any fixed abode to call my own. No town or state bears witness to the imprint of my childhood, for I have been consigned to the liminal spaces, perpetually suspended between homes. It is an accursed experience, fraught with the ache of belonging nowhere, and yet, it bestows upon me unexpected offerings.

The bonds of friendship, woven through the thread of shared memories from childhood, elude my grasp. There are no cherished recollections etched upon the walls of a familiar dwelling, no nostalgic imprints of camaraderie nurtured through the passage of time. Instead, I traverse the vast expanse of existence as an eternal outsider, a wayfarer devoid of a place to call my own.

And yet, from this tempestuous journey of perpetual transience, there have been a few select gifts bestowed upon my nomadic soul. A unique charisma courses through my being—a bittersweet manifestation of my transient nature. It is a magnetism that dances on the periphery of attention, challenging the captivation of others with its fleeting essence. Like a passing zephyr, my presence tantalizes but eludes, leaving behind an ephemeral imprint upon those who chance upon my path.

In the ebb and flow of a life unmoored, I have come to cherish the transient beauty that accompanies impermanence. Like the fleeting bloom of a wildflower, I embody the essence of transience, embracing the delicate fragility of the present moment. It is within these ephemeral spaces that I find solace, for I have learned to embrace the inherent impermanence that weaves through the tapestry of existence.

Though I yearn for the stability of rootedness, I have discovered the gifts hidden within the nomadic rhythm of my life. The absence of a fixed abode has granted me a fluidity of perspective, a capacity to adapt and acclimate to the ever-changing landscapes that unfold before me. I have learned to find solace in the transient connections I forge along the way, cherishing the fleeting encounters that breathe life into the narrative of my existence.

As I wander through the kaleidoscope of human experiences, my heart bears witness to the beauty of impermanence. Like a wandering troubadour, I carry within me a melodic resonance, echoing the transient nature of existence itself. In the fleeting moments of connection, I seek to infuse the lives of others with the warmth of my presence, knowing that our time together is but a fleeting vignette in the grand tapestry of life.

And so, I continue to roam, forever embracing the ebb and flow of impermanence. With an unyielding spirit and an open heart, I navigate the uncharted terrain that stretches before me. For within the transience of my being lies the essence of my journey—a pilgrimage through the fluid landscapes of the human experience, where every encounter, no matter how fleeting, becomes an indelible stroke on the canvas of my ever-evolving narrative.

This ebb and flow of friendships and romances have woven a tumultuous pattern, their threads intricately tied to my family's enduring connection to the military. The comings and goings, the hellos and goodbyes, have become an all too familiar refrain in the symphony of my life. And as the seasons of connection have passed, I have become somewhat numb to their transient nature, a casualty of circumstance and repetition.

In the wake of these constant comings and goings, I find myself standing on the precipice of adulthood, bearing the weight of an unyielding separation. A veneer of detachment and professionalism masks the turbulent sea of emotions that surge beneath the surface. The few friendships I do manage to form are delicate, like gossamer threads, easily frayed and dispersed by the winds of impermanence. It is not that I lack the capacity for presence or charm, but rather the ever-lingering expectation that these connections will be short-lived. I have learned, through bittersweet experience, that relationships, like the changing seasons, are ephemeral and transient. What begins as a radiant summer romance inevitably fades into the distance, like the distant memory of a winter's chill. And I bear the weight of this impermanence, not as a burden to be cast aside, but as an intrinsic part of my being.

I perceive the world through the lens of a fleeting observer, a witness to the beauty and fragility of existence. Like a breathtaking sunset, each encounter shines brightly in its own fleeting moment, bringing a tear to my eye as I cherish its transient glory. But as quickly as the sun sinks below the horizon, so too do these moments slip away, leaving only the treasured memory in their wake. It is not a fault to be placed upon the shoulders of those who share these moments with me, for their presence is a gift I hold dear. No, the fault lies within myself, in my unconscious acceptance of impermanence.

And yet, amidst the ephemerality that shapes my world, there is a profound wisdom that has taken root within my soul. I have learned to embrace the beauty of the present, to revel in the moments of connection while acknowledging their inherent temporality. Each encounter becomes a masterpiece in its own right, a brushstroke of color upon the canvas of my existence. And though friendships and romances may come and go like the tides, leaving imprints upon my heart that reverberate with both joy and sorrow, I have come to accept their transience as an integral part of the human experience.

In this dance of impermanence, I have discovered a resilience that allows me to move forward, ever open to the possibilities that lie ahead. Each goodbye, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, becomes an opportunity for growth and transformation. I am a wanderer in the realms of connection, forever seeking the fleeting sparks that illuminate the path of my journey.

And so, as the chapters of my life unfold, I walk the delicate tightrope between attachment and release. I embrace the bittersweet symphony of impermanence, knowing that every encounter, no matter how fleeting, leaves an indelible mark upon the tapestry of my existence. Like a precious gem, each memory is polished and treasured, while I carry forward, forever attuned to the ephemeral nature of the world around me.
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