Poetry has never been my forte. I like reading it, but it's not a desire like reading prose is for me. I've written some, all very bad, bizarre, and amateurish. Yet there are times when possessed by writing, that the way it bleeds out of me is hardly controlled, and at times can be a mixture between poetry and prose. Prosetry? Ack, I just call it "complicated prose."
So here is the "complicated prose" I wrote today while at Connemara. First, I must say that in my head, my sincere appreciation for the absolute beauty of the place kept tangling with my religious beliefs, and I couldn't stop feeling so gracious, thankful for this beautiful earth we were given to be a part of. So my "complicated prose" if given a name would most likely mix the two as well, but I can't think of name for it.
Nature, a religion--ecosystems harmonizing like an angel choir. Sunlight shining halos around us all, our sins forgiven. A lone duck baptizes himself in the egg of the waterfall while fish pray in the falls' omega. Everywhere around me is Christ's plan.
Another piece I wrote was also some "complicated prose" with a little bit of "self-righteous list" thrown in.
Muscles, taut. Pathways are winding, can be severe but lead out to breathtaking clearings. Industry interrupts majesty, injecting itself upon the serenity like a cold, steel knife. Blessings from God all around, small gifts given to me at every turn, like the birds' beautiful chorus. Stone shoulders emerge on all sides cradling the landscape. A brilliant metaphor for life, every bit.
Connemara is beautiful and this has been an amazing day. My muscles are reminding me of my journey now, too. A kind of pleasurable pain. Today was amazing. Thanks to all who planned and put effort into our experience. Lovely.
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