Step by small step, tiny prints in the sand,
The waves they creep, clearing them off the land.
Your purpose is lost in the early dawn mist.
You already know the pain of the lost unknown.
Smells stir memories bitter sweet.
Graphite, paper, dried paint. History.
is like falling up.
If we only could,
we would learn to fly.
Rather we fall forever,
never finding the ground.
He is the man in the waterfall,
Playing the music of the world.
Give him your heart and soul.
Give him your true self.
Deception is your only enemy.
Bravery is your greatest weapon.
Do not fear him,
He will not judge.
There is no good
And no evil there,
Beneath the waterfall.
He is forever young.
He is the majesty of nature.
He is the gift of imagination.
He is Fossegrimen.
He is art.
Here we are, then. Poetry Writing Month. In classic fashion, I am a day late and have no idea if I will make it to the end of the month.
Fossegrimen is a character in Scandinavian folklore. A youthful, handsome man who plays the fiddle while sitting under a waterfall. In the stories, if you bring him a fine meal he will teach you how to play as well as he, but bring him something less than fine and all he will do is teach you how to tune your fiddle.
There was a ring in his teacup. Being a reserved and sensible man, he complained politely, but became distressed when the waiter would not take the ring. The manager had to be brought forth to question all of the staff. No one would admit to being the owner of the ring.
“Take it home,” suggested the manager. “It might be worth something.”
Tarnished silver with a delicate twist to the band. He didn’t believe it had a worth beyond sentimentality and it was certainly not his sentiment. Still, a polite man, he took it without comment or argument.
Had he not also been a lonely man he may have thought it fortunate. A pretty trinket to offer a girlfriend. A wife. He had neither, though he knew men who had both. Ginger, his cat, might enjoy it for a moment by chasing it round the floor. Then it would be knocked under the dresser and gone to dwell with dust bunnies and ticket stubs.
The ring wound up sitting in the little bowl where he dropped his keys and loose change. For months it sat there, largely unnoticed except when he would absently wonder if he should put it somewhere else. He never did.
A rushing policeman knocked the bowl over and the ring rolled along the hall. It bumped against the arm of the man who had found it in his teacup. He did not pick it up.
I wrote this some months ago. A cross between flash fiction and a vignette. It has it’s own meanings to me, but I would like to know, what does it mean to you?