Collections

Today’s stream-of-consciousness Saturday prompt is “collect.”

Obviously, I thought of the verb “to collect” something, which led to the things that I used to collect, most notably stickers. I remember very proudly counting all of my stickers, one by one, and finding that I had over a thousand! I also used to collect stuffed animals (I still have a collection, but now my collection is down to a couple dozen and not a couple hundred!). I guess you could say that I collect books now, because I have many, many books on my bookshelf, which I may never read again, and despite the sheer number of books that I have yet to read, I still get tempted to buy more. So, I collect books, and they tend to collect dust. I think what I collect most is WORDS — my own and other people’s. Between all of my journals and notebooks, plus every book, I have probably collected millions of words. 😀

Also, every day we’re alive, we collect more memories, even as some memories are lost to the flow of time… I will stop my stream-of-consciousness before I get pulled into the whitewater rapids of melancholy.

collections:
varied memories
stickers, books
fluffy things
some of which has gone away
much collecting dust

Go Where?

Once again, it is Quadrille Monday , and we are Going… Going… Gone Poeming. This is also for FOWC: Particular.

Such a warm and sunny day,
Yet stuck at home
With nowhere in particular to go,
What to do with this time, but bide?
Where is life’s map
I was supposed to follow?
I dropped it long ago,
Now we’ve all walked farther away.

Also, I have really fallen off the wagon for Paula’s February Love Me challenge, but here is what I am loving today: the sun, especially getting to, finally, read outside again in my back  yard. It had been a while. 

Ghazal: Folly

After posting the paint-chip ghazal earlier today, I remembered this one, written about a month ago, on January 16, 2021.

clear wine glass on black table
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Forgive my folly, veritable wells of it!
Let it be written down, say not farewell to it!

Before its end, all pens would use their ink;
Were I given all time, I could not tell of it.

See how the heart makes passion come in waves —
Behold the ocean deep, the ebb and swell of it!

Even if you are not my Beatrice,
Could you not be my Virgil for the hell of it?

Now all that’s left are roses pressed in books:
One such sweet scent — this writer brings to life the smell of it.