Tag: FMF writers

More than one way to go forward

Little Anish, a tiny 9 year old autistic boy I met in the art room of his school…. well he’d walk backwards to go forward.

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What the idea was I’ll never know but Anish did well to keep his eyes on us, and back into the sun. What lessons are in this one I can only try imagine; I remembered him today with this Story Prompt from FMF Writers. There was another thing Anish did: he never cried. When it hurt he sang, that was his crying- a high wordless tune that was rich and sweet.

I never got over him, his cherubic face and wide dark eyes that did not look worried. His world seemed locked in somewhere deep within, he was independent and did not talk much except in monosyllables to his mother.

My thoughts go to Anish now, wondering what he is doing these days: does he still back into the next step,

still sing in that unusual voice that makes me think of angels?

FMF WRITERS

Ar-Rest-ed by Love

He pauses between keys… his fingers tender o’er the notes that write my life….they rest/ arrest me;

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my black-white days, the touch that sustains…. I’m listening and every breath mine, every sigh is the song he sings as if he is the rhythm/ the beat of my rhyme

no he refrains from letting me go/ go to my own translations of words/ of lyrics and life

his chord unbreaks wakes pursues like a Linger, it repeats/repeats his lines…

He pauses between keys… his fingers tender o’er the notes that write my life….they rest/ arrest me, just in time.

For FMF Writers

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Perspective

The ones looking at the painting, they are the Work of Art.

The Window turns about looking at Us. 👇
PiCredits Unsplash
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We are the Clay, our hands made by Hands that made the clay we do not originate.
Who are we? The little girl asks her mother in The New York Times: existential questions that needed to be asked long ago.
We are best when looking within, looking with some amount of discomfort. When Humans ever did something of value to the personal or global community, was when we bowed deep.
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