Words Well Arranged

Pondering Possibility

2009-07-17T08:11:00.008-04:00

Equipped

Color, seemingly misplaced,
set on saline sands
breaks into the solitary gray
to mention something discouraging —
often,
we arrive on the shore of our dreams
to meet the monochromatic mist of hindrance.
Consequently,
our reference becomes the Almanac of Doubt,
which carefully illustrates the forecasted faults, antagonizing our destination.
So our souls sink
as our soles sink
by the impatient pulls of white capped waves belonging to Purpose.

Until…

Color, seemingly misplaced,
set on saline sands
breaks into the solitary gray
to mention something apparent—
today,
we arrive on the shore of our dreams
to meet the monochromatic mist of hindrance.
Consequently,
our reference becomes the Almanac of Hope
which carefully illustrates our forecasted future, equipping us for our destination.
So our souls sail,
As our soles sail, atop the vessel of Possibility,
pulled by outward by white capped waves belonging to Purpose.

~Rhonda Faye Adorno 6/08
Photography by Rhonda Faye Adorno

Character Series: Snapshot 1

2009-07-06T08:18:00.012-04:00

(snapshots from a series I've been writing.)

...When the plane crashed, I was ten, visiting my uncle. He became my guardian. When others fell into cries and shook with sobs, burying their wet faces in stronger relative’s chests, my uncle stood with his hands tucked in his denim pockets, concentrating on something else invisible.

I was a frail, timid boy with no stamina for the rustic life he cultivated on his farm. He looked at me eventually from under his stiff-rimmed hat, but in stern custody of his words and emotions. Hard lines wormed into his leather like skin at the tight corners of his eyes and emotive places of his face. His locked jaws restricted any testament of emotion.

That day, he took me by the shoulder and we walked out of the building in parallel silence. The weightless witness of falling leaves had announced October. A week passed and then I was sent to school.

My uncle drove his steel-blue truck down what seemed like a bewitching tunnel. Acorns popped under the tires while skittish squirrels darted in warning for the other side. Trees with serpentine arms and malevolent postures shadowed the already cryptic morning.

They were the towering sentinels canopying the academy’s entrance. Their protruding branches swayed; their tremulous leaves snapped free and floated to the ground like a gypsy dancing.

Although I sat shielded behind a fogged window, I imagined every kind of witless creature stealthily spying from behind the massive trunks, gleefully greedy about their imminent catch. When I told my uncle I was scared, his gruff, guttural, throat reply came, “You’re old enough not be.”

I wished I could call them back, but I wanted to cry. I felt swallowed, halfway, like a vitamin taken without water— stuck.

My academy blazer lay across the space between us like a pain-contorted cadaver. When we eventually arrived at the great clearing that lead up to the building, my uncle instructed me to put it on. It became a python and began to tighten around my entire body. It took my breath and choked me until I felt limp and the slurped oatmeal from earlier flipped in my stomach like clothes flopping dumbly in a spinning dryer….

(stay tuned for more)

2009 Rhonda Faye Adorno

Sanctuary

2009-06-04T05:40:00.004-04:00

I am awake at an hour when the noise of caffeinated life is dispossessed of volume and subdued by a black-blanketed sky. Every thought can be heard here in its purest pitch, uncontaminated by the debris and pollution released at dawn’s early rising. Stillness, at this hour, is a terry cloth robe.

I am acquitted of all debts here. Faults have trouble arresting me because I’m fused into an impressionistic painting.

Sanctuary allows my troubled head to lay on its bosom to rise and fall in unison with its peaceful breaths.

I am no longer yanked by a marionette’s strings.

At best, El-Shadaai visits me here.

True Colors

2009-06-03T21:08:00.005-04:00

I think I may have plummeted too far into the well of other people’s emotions with my last blog. Didn’t mean to do that. But there you have it—the bald-faced look at my interior courts.

Everyone at some point in their life struggles and needs to ask for help. And lately, I’ve come to the realization it’s better to show my true colors, especially among friends.

I have felt like the most of my days on this phenomenal earth have been too guarded and restricting. Umm, like a trapeze act. Carefully I’ve walked, back and forth, from one end to the other, performing to please my surrounding audience below. I’ve practiced and worked arduously on a routine to prove I have the skill and dexterity to perfect the walk and edit the talk.

But I’m no circus act. I’m not meant for a show neatly presented in a candy-striped tent. I am ready to do flips in the middle of a green lush field and so what if you watch me tumble from a hill in the pattern of Jack and Jill. I also wish to run barefoot in the rain with a burst of child-inspired twirling and then land somewhere on Prince Edward Island with Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott.

So if I can outlast the demands of this practiced blogging society, be certain that you will be with me through it all like Dickens’ iconic quote, “it was best of times, it was the worst of times.”

(P.S. Thank you to all who extended your hearts)
~RFA