Regel

AN excellent first post Belchfire. Welcome to the pen community.

Well done and since the question begs to be answered my answer is.....both. I have been both (some say I still am) and have looked at the glass from both sides. An interesting side note to people who have had more it seems half empty, but to people who have had less it definately looks half full.

My own apologies for taking so long to reply. It seems that a haunting is still going on inside my own head. The formative years of my life from ages 3-11 were spent there in the east end. I thank you for the kind words Wyvern and I am very flattered that you chose a segment of this and used it to transform the piece into many similiar but delightfully different pieces. The comment is noted and narrative story telling is certainly challenging. The tenses change as the mind wanders back and forth from past to present and sometimes ( almost always) my mind gets lost. The fragment of a longer story is seeded in the middle almost as an afterthought. Consider this an insert. The Old Woman The house was full of christmas visitors. People in every corner of my parents two story home. The upstairs had been converted into a seperate one bedroom apartment. It was explained and understood that the apartment was out of bound when leased but when it was empty the space was mine to play and run around in. That night with a house full of people and close to midnight I decided to go up to the top of the stairs and slide down the risers. (Please, I was six.) It seemed an extremely amusing activity to me at the time. I raced to the top of the first flight and stopped at the landing. The only light on was the one 60 watt bulb directly above me with the rest of the apartment dark, as it should be. Suddenly out of the darkened bathroom the door creaks open. I turned and saw the figure of an elderly lady in a flannel nightgown. I was so frightened. I did't realize the apartment was occupied. I realized the she would be coming downstairs to complain to my parents about the intrusion and there would be hell to pay. She walked out looking at me not speaking. I wanted desperately to bolt but my feet were too heavy to move. She inched closer, her hair and skin as pale as the moon. The old lady looked sick and was easily in her eighties. She moved like she was in pain slowly she kept creeping forward she raised an arm her hand reaching for me or so it seemed. That was when my feet finally took flight. I believe I took stairs two and three at a time rounded the corner at the bottom and went to the most populated part of the house the living room in all of 3 seconds flat. Then sitting there on the couch I waited for the fall out but nothing happened no knock and no phone call. My mind was still racing as was my heart beat. I thought to myself She was an old lady why was I so scared? Maybe she didn't see me. Maybe she was simply reaching for the wall to guild her way. Who was I kidding? You had looked right at me. I decided to say and do nothing to suggest I was up there. Alot of my cousins were in the house I could deny it was me. As I did damage control in my mind the adrenaline had begun to fade and in its wake sleep overtook me. The next day had come and gone with no complaint. I never thought to ask if the apartment had been rented. So for weeks I had stayed out of there. Later that same year the summer we moved in fact I asked my mother who the old lady was the we had rented the apartment to last christmas. "What old lady?" my mother asked. The apartment have been vacant for the past six months. "I saw her coming out of the bathroom the night of the CHristmas party" I explained The description I gave made me mother lose all the colour in her face. "Dio mio!" she exclaimed "That was the previous owners mother you just described. She had past away the christmas before we had moved in that bedroom upstairs." fin

Sounds like a chess game at first glance. As an avid chess player I have always seen the metaphors chess has with life. In a game of chess the players lock in a mental combat where preparation often does tip the balance in favour of one person or another. An exchange of pieces can lead to a win in chess, in conversation an exchange of ideas can often lead to a stalemate if both people are entrenched in their positions. When coversation turns into debate the words become pieces and the subject matter the chess board. The game is on! Rounded edges are tough to hold on too and debating is often about thrust and parry. Chess game or life to the player, the game is the thing, not the winning or losing. Interesting post.

Regel hugs Sorciere. Welcome back.

Symbolic that blank page.....all the potential in the world and nothing to show for it. It is as simply and yet elegant a poem as I have read in a while. Nicely done.

Very best wishes WrenWind. Hope that this day was a special one.

Personalities on a collision course. Careful Vlad the old saying is that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. This could be the prelude to a torrid affair or you could just hate her guts.

Moving at the speed of thought! The style and the pace of this piece was deliberate. It gave me a window into the authors thought process as if written to keep pace with your own stream of thought. As I read this I thought to myself this exchange could have taken place in but a brief moment. Perhaps only a minute or two tops. What an interesting snippet you caught Peredhil. It was almost like your eye was a camera freezing moments and thoughts as they happened. Wow.

Depression: The feeling that makes neutral sound good. Why is it that we deny this emotion? We deny its importance, deny its merits, deny its necessity and deny that it is part of a healing process. Pain is a way of preventing further damage to an area that has received damage. This is an important tool for survival. If it hurts we rest it, examine it, establish the cause, try to remedy the problem and allow the damaged area the time and conditions to promote healing. Sometimes we can't self examine or diagnose the problem ourselves and we seek medical help. Depression is emotional pain. It does indeed hurt. Sometimes it's supposed to hurt (i.e. Death of a love one) but sometimes there appears to be no cause just the effect. It still hurts and sometimes it retreats on it's own like Quincunx post suggested but sometimes it deepens and spirals into despair. SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION! They say that time heals all wounds. Yes unless you die first. Some people have no choice but to seek out professional help. It doesn't always lead to a cure but sometimes disease (mental or physical) can't be helped or cured. We still seek out medical professionals and specialists. Hope is a powerful weapon against depression. Sometimes that's all a person has been them and the abyss. Tread gently folks it seems like this topic has turned into a minefield.

Happy Belated Birthday Greetings Salinye!

Thank you. Promotions aside this has been a learning experience for me. I started by saying "...but I'm not a writer!" I still feel that way but it seems that from time to time I do have something to say. Not always for you the indidvidual reader here at The Pen but rather because I needed to say something. Once written it often takes on a life of it's own. Sometimes I even surprise myself. It's rare that I am left with little to say and it looks like today was no exception. Thanks again.

Vlad is there a lady that inspired this? The poem has a romantic's heart at it's core. Quite a nice peice.

White Rabbits Nervous twitches For danger looms The Bobcat hisses Heartbeat booms The race begins No time to swoon One misstep Is certain doom The race is over Almost as it began Red bleeds into white Death is soon at hand Wary are the wise Innocence torn away They’re the ones that survive To live another day Rabbit proverb: “Keen observations are made with eyes and ears open and mouth shut.”

Well for an evil vampire angel I would say that was an excellent description of beauty. Strengths of this piece for me are the strong visualizations. The imagery is very strong in the first two verses but feel you could have focused a little more on the rest. Maybe a little less to convey the same thoughts. (ie. Why did I believed beauty was painted mannequins and runway clothes? It's not a statement of wealth but something that can't be measure in money but perhaps only felt in your heart.) Very nice ideas.

Revisiting It has been quite a number of years since London was my home. A university town and center of commerce nestled in on the forks of the Thames River. It's know as the Forest City because of the number of mature Maples that lined the streets. Shame is that many of those trees have been removed as the city kept expanding. I was in the east end of my old hometown. The urge to drive past and visit my dad’s grave was strong but I decided against it. Besides I carried him in my thoughts anyway. Instead I swung down Quebec Street and soon found myself in familiar haunts. The kid that used to walk these streets in fear had grown up and moved away but some of this area still lingers in the dark corners of my mind. Survived is the only way to describe this part of my life because I never really felt connected to this part of London even though I called it home for many years. The CNR tracks where we used to hunt garder snakes in the tall grass, the Western Fairgrounds with it's winos living in and around the race track, the smells that eminated from the Kellogg’s and Dare Cookie factories (which always made you hungry) and of course the Pepsi Cola plant were we watched the line on hot summer days, these were the landmarks of the east end. Some remain and some are gone. It was the blue collar side of town and yet there were still some beautiful older homes in this neighborhood as well. Unfortunately they seemed to reflect the home owners themselves, older, tired and a bit run down. As I drove slowly through my old haunts the colours seemed to have drained away. Not just sun faded but somehow smaller than I remember. The old house was still there at 969 Princess Ave, as was the shack we called a garage. It was there where my dad had presented me with my very first bike. It was a blue CCM Raleigh that had cost him close to two weeks salary. I see the new owners have small children, their bikes and toys are scattered in the backyard. I hope that old lady still doesn’t haunt the upstairs apartment anymore. She scared the wits out of me as a child, even if she was harmless. The drunks have been replaced and the dregs of society have moved into this part of London with all manner of addictions. Dangerous it was to raise a family here and dangerous it remains. Where my old public school stood is now a community centre and the asphalt playground was mostly removed. Eighty percent of the fights I got into or witnessed occurred right there at the corner of Charlotte and Princess. Playground equipment that will soon been replaced because it was deemed unsafe still stands leaching its chemical preservatives into the sand and gravel. The saying is you can’t go home again. As I drove away I thought to myself "why would anybody want to?"

Best wishes to both celebrants.

Congratulations Salinye. It isn't easy buying a home. The moving is brutal and the collection of "stuff" (see George Carlin) we gather is always surprising. Best of luck in your move. May it be as painless as possible.

Style versus Content. That could also be the subject of another thread. I believe you could compare different styles of poetry to different styles of music. It is possible to enjoy all kinds of styles in both. Some songs (and poems) win me over by virtue of their content. The exercises that I have seen posted I have found to be excellent opportunities to explore different styles. Structure does help if the content is weak but I am sure that many of the works could have been polished and mulled over a little more before the get posted. That said this board encourages personal growth and development and does it gently. I would hate to see that change.

As with all things one needs to experience cold to understand hot. There is no sweet without sour and I truely believe that there can be no true happiness without a measure of sorrow. To what depths of despair do we have to fall to be able to understand great joy? The poem speaks to everyone that has ever walked in dull days. The dark stretches that seem like they will never end. Once inside them these depressions seem to obliterate the memories of any times where things were good. Then as suddenly as they began they end. A glimmer of light (hope) streaks across the brightening sky and slowly things begin to improve. Walk slowly and take the time to enjoy the light because the dark patches are often too long. I enjoyed your work Doomgaze.

Regel surveys the chaos all around him and smiles. It had been an interesting evening to say the least. He glanced around and finally located the hostess Ayshela. As he approached the intuitive Ayshela spoke "Your leaving?" Regel smiled embraced his hostess and kissed her on both cheeks "Yes, I am but not without a proper goodbye. I have had a wonderful time and thank you for the invitation. The hour grows late for me and I am sure that the younger ones here will be keeping you busy for quite a while longer" Ayshela smiled and rolled her eys at the chaos behind her. "Thank you for coming Regel." In a quiet and somber tone Regel replied " It has been entirely my pleasure." The stroll into the cool evening air was a striking contrast to ballroom. The moon's silver rays illuminated his path and the walk home began.

Salutations and birthday greetings!

At some level the child does understand. There are visual clues the child picks up off the parent that make them anxious. The questions are as much a struggle to try a make sense of the situation that this child feels but isn't able to verbalize. His anxiety is understood.Why else would he be asking questions like "Mommy why are we up already?" It isn’t just the hour it’s everything that has been going on previously that forces the never ending questions. Our minds are allowed to make the emotional brush strokes that fill in the missing auditory and visual clues. The dialogue invites us to imagine the characters emotional state. The boy’s last line confirms that he knew at a gut level that they were fleeing. That he was aware of the possible consequences. He knew that Daddy must have woken up.

Some very effective use of repeated themes. Some confusion sets in the mind of this particular reader about the perspective of the story told. Too many layers to sift through to comment quickly. I will reread this several more times and try to explain why I liked it so much. Several excellent lines in this like the one previously mentioned in Wren's post as well as this one: It resonates within me when I read it. Nice work.

Too many friends and relatives suffer from this condition. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. My ten year old son (my youngest) started getting them at 7 years of age. I have often spent many a sleepless night with him trying to help him through his migraine. The aspirins and alike only help on the onset. Once it hits he can only cry and wretch which believe it or not is ultimately his only relief. He will sleep another four hours after it passes. I don't think any of us can truely understand unless you have suffered through one yourself.