The Pen, My Sword

Death at a lighthouse

There stands a pretty lighthouse
Upon an Island small
The reefs around are dangerous
And the waters precarious

There was a lighthouse keeper
Who never missed a beat
He lived his life like clockwork
On-time his meals he’d eat

He never too far away would stray
For before setting sun
The lighthouse had to be aglow
For all the ships that run

The lighthouse keeper had a daughter
She was young and fair
But poor little girl, She had no mother
for both of them, she’d care

Her father taught her a lot in life
He taught her great and small
She learned That no matter what,
The lights must keep on burning

She learned that no matter how
Dim your light, You must keep it shining
No matter how big the troubles,
There’s no point in pining

She learned also, that
Darker the night, brighter the light.
And no matter how dark and cloudy,
The darkest night would end.

Such were the lessons that she learned,
And many more than these
They were happy, the two of them
Life was mostly peace.

One day the lighthouse keeper
Fell very very ill
On this Island there was no healer
Nor were there others living.

So His daughter tried to nurse him well.
She wound the clockwork,
And lit the fire
And as her father lay dying

She went to the top of the tower
And waved a flag before the light
But to the ships out there at sea,
She was out of sight.

Though they could see the light shining,
And it kept them out of harm,
No one knew the keeper was dying
Though seas were calm.

And so it was, the keeper died,
His daughter by his side.
She buried him near
And upon a plaque wrote:

Here lies my father
The lighthouse keeper
A selfless man was he,
No matter the hour, no matter the danger
His light was there to see

And there she lived,
All alone,
She never strayed too far,

For come what may,
He had taught her,
Before setting sun
The lighthouse had to be aglow,

And the lighthouse, how to run.

-Denver Jones

Somewhere in the darkness, there is light

The showers fall
The thunder roars
The waves rise and fall

We sometimes wish the lightning struck us
And that all would be still at last
But the storms rage on, and our vessels all battered, cling on with hope to that rope that draws us on...
Thethered to the ship in which there is no place for us. We are rightfully castaways, we own the sea, but the sea never swallows us. Though we drink of salty waters sore, and wish upon the pole star, there is no rest for us.

Wandering souls tugged at by the heart
Living in darkness, living in fear
Our lights out, and candles burnt out, we breathe.

Opposed by constant unlove, my love didn't stand a chance. How can you wage a war of love with a heart that does not love?
My heart, it grew cold like a stone, cold hard and dead.
If love is the essence of life, I'm not alive, I'm dead.

Diving in deep to the depths of darkness, I found a stillness that spoke of light.
Looking deeper into the darkness, I saw a brightness in the stillness.

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Little things

It's the little things in life that matter the most.
The difficult things cost your time, your energy, your life.

It's the little things in life that matter the most,
And these things come free.

Just like the sunshine and the rain, the air, the colorful flowers, the bird songs and perfume

It's the little things in life that matter the most, and these things come free.
Just like we are given all these little vital things for free,

Dont be selfish with the little things that you can give.
A smile, your ear, your hand to help, your time

Just as sunshine or water or air is important in life, though you know it not, the little things you share

May mean life to the dying, hope for the despairing, strength for the weak, and purpose for the wandering.

The little things in life, they come free, oh that we could be like the Creator, to give such gifts full and free.

And yet, we are not unlike the Creator, for we can give these gifts full and free. A little love, a little patience, a smile. These go on for many a mile.

A handshake, a nod, and embrace. Acknowledging somebody exists, somebody matters, someone is somebody.

And may all the little things you share go around the world, and find their way back to you,

Multiplied ten fold, a Hundredfold, a Zillion.. Like the rain brings more flowers, the sunshine, more life, may they find their way back to you, not little little things, but big little things in plenty, for they are that which matters.

- Little things for your big little ♥️

- Denver Jones

Perceptions Beyond the Apparent: Immersive short takes on life https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09Y2D7H17/ref=cm_sw_r_apan_i_BSGW8HA29ETX51N5TAKN

https://notionpress.com/read/perceptions-beyond-the-apparent

❤My first book of short stories and some poetry❤

A fire through a different glass....

I sat for a moment there, just like one woken from sleep. Trying to collect my thoughts. There were none. Where did I come from, where am I going? No idea.
The smoothe black marble that I sat on caught my attention. Beautiful :)

Slowly turning around, I read my name and epitaph.
Who is that?
No idea.

Shout out !

You know, today I was thinking
Thinking yes, but briefly so
I was thinking of how we leave impressions behind.
How some piece of art, some song sung, some emotion expressed, some name carved, lives on, beyond us.

How perhaps, my YouTube videos may continue to garner views after I'm gone, having not helped me while I lived.
How perchance an artist's work is applauded, promoted, or made famous after he is gone, and forever still rests the easel where the brush held by that hand that struggled for daily bread touched in fine soft strokes and bold colors in expressions high and lowly, in cries to be seen and heard that were once valued for a pittance.

Why does something gain value only after it is gone, and pushed away, scoffed at, or mused while it did remain?

But all that is vanity, and a vain thought, for the dead know nothing. A person that bought a lottery in desperate times perchance won it all after he slit his wrists and the life blood flowed slowly in spurts and his head grew dizzy, and he couldn't clearly see that the lottery number that won was the one that was hidden in blotted red... Or perhaps ended his life some other way, equally sorry, equally tragic, with not of hope, a single ray.

And then some inscription, some message set adrift in the ocean of time may not die away, but may traverse the farthest shore, and kindle a fire, inspire hope, dread, courage, pain, love, grief, or other sentiments strong, and may shape a life, change ones destiny! Halt, cry I, though life be short, cry out, act loud, send out your message bold, for what is there to fear, if after your passing your thoughts live on, your name etched some place rare is there to show you were there, a little thing you did could someday move the world, heck, e'en though you be not there to see it

Friendship in a bottle

I kept our friendship in a bottle and one day, in the cellar amidst all those very many bottles, I found you. The bottle was so bright and shining, radiant with light.

I wonder, over the years, how, oh how, I'd not seen you. I dusted the bottle, and took it upstairs. There, as I took a long-drawn breath, and crushed out a cigarette; Poured me a glass, I gazed into the fire as upon the stone-heath it softly burned. I took my first sip.

There we meet, frozen in time. You're making your first order. You pen down your list on paper, and you head to the door: only, it's the wrong door!
You realize your mistake, we chat briefly, I show you the right way, you collect your wares, and head to the door: only, it's the wrong door!
And thus, we meet.

A drop still lingers on the edge of the glass. I lick at it with the tip of my tongue: we briefly meet again the same day. The same day, our paths did cross. Hey what a crossing. Two wrong doors, and again, a chance meeting: what have the fates in store?

The scene fades, and it's getting more chilling I settle deeper into my chair and take another sip: time's gone by, maybe a year? You call me. You're in trouble, and you need help. You keep your word. Two closed doors, and a promise kept. Friendship, it tastes sweeter.

I was getting high, and yet the bottle still full.

I poured me another glass, and softly took a sip.
Life was a blur of creativity and inspiration, radiant with mystery, joy, and care. So full, so complete! I wonder. Twice the wrong door, opened such a wonderful door of friendship! So full, so alive.

The voices die down, the faces thin away into the air like that last-drawn breath from my last cigarette.

The cold outside gets to my bones, despite me sitting there in my soft-stuffed chair, Before the fire upon the heath, and though the drink I drank filled me with light, with visions of our past, and joy; The cold, it got to me. It got also to my innermost bone.

And yet I smile, snuggled deep in my soft-stuffed chair, for the bottle before me is glowing still, though the fire in the heath is ebbing, the bottle is still full.

I have not the strength to pour me a glass, but if you happen upon this cabin in the woods, you'll not miss it.

For as I gaze, it's light gets brighter. You will not miss it.
Long friendship like old wine tastes better, for be it pain, be it sorrow, there's no fear about tomorrow.

Drink full of the bottle bright, and relive for me, our friendship aright, from that day you opened the door: the door of love and friendship

Through broken wall and window pane they fought, history and present being played out in parallel, and then through open window space they leapt, and galloped away into the sunset.