I’m Alone

I’m Alone

With only my memories… 

I sit alone on the hill

and watch the sunset…

Faces float by in surreal silence

And, In words

only I can hear,

each tells a story of My life,

unadorned with gratuitous Words

of praise and solicitude…

With each face, 

  With each story,

I know where I have failed and

Corrupted my own existence.

On the still sultry air,

I hear ‘could have been’ echoes

Through the lonely caverns

Of my soul.

I sit alone

as the Sun hastens

The night

and the demons 

Of regret and remorse.

A Life so frivolously wasted

On Wanderlust and Longing.

So it must be

that a life be lived

In such disarray

no matterThe Cause…

For it is fodder

for theFools to come.

*

@Billy Ray Chitwood – April 29, 2016-RW

butterfly

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Rapture (A Cinquain)

Rapture

Exalted Joy

Ecstatic Denouement

Blissful Euphoric Enchantment

Delight

 

sunset-473604__180

Beauty

Spectacular

Aesthetic  True Colors

Contoured Splendidly in its Shape

Sunset

Hope you enjoy my first attempts at Cinquain poetry. Blame the beautiful Sisters of the Fey!

These various forms of poetry are fun formulae for words. (2-4-6-8=2) – vowels, that is.

Billy Ray Chitwood – May 19, 201

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The Old Red Barn

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The Old Red Barn

Years ago, driving on a two-lane highway from Decatur, Illinois to Springfield, Illinois, I found myself stuck behind a semi-truck. After several attempts to pass the truck failed, my patience was on the thin side. (So, I’m a ‘mover’ in life! Not necessarily a ‘shaker’.)

Impatience can lead to bad decisions!

On a long inclined straight-away I decided to make my pass, jammed the accelerator to the floor and went into the oncoming lane. Abreast of the Semi, I saw a fast-moving car coming into view over the distant rise. It was coming straight at me. The semi-truck seemed to pick up speed, and I remember thinking at the time the driver was being spiteful. I slammed on the brake, screeched, got back behind the Semi but going too fast to slow down. So, I was either to hit the truck’s rear-end or go off the road…I took the latter choice, went off onto a grassy knoll and slid sideways past the Semi, looked into the shocked driver’s eyes, and came to a stop by an old barbwire/wood post fence.

I turned off the ignition and sat stupefied, my whole body quaking from within my sweaty skin. Nerves scrambled, I looked across a green field of daisies and saw an old red barn…

Suddenly, déj vu moments came: “My God! I’ve been here before!” Aloud, I mumbled to myself. That red barn, this land, has something to do with my life, not in its current human form, but, maybe, as a cow grazing in this green field of daisies…

These bits of thought brought deeper cognition: was it God’s plan that we entities were to keep incarnating until we reached some quintessential level of growth? Live our lives in other  forms, perhaps, a bird, barn owl, cat, coyote, dog, rabbit, squirrel, an ape, a bear, different human forms? Was it God’s plan that, at some point in these incarnations, we would reach a level of purity at which point we would become part of the great light and glow with happiness forever?

I sat there and wondered how scientists would assess such thoughts? Surely, they would laugh and dismiss such notions as nonsense, silly aberrations of the mind that go against fundamental scientific inquiry. But, there, at that rotting fence post and barbwire, I sat and argued within myself: Wait, God gave me a mind to think my thoughts! Can I not be rational in an irrational world? Or, is it that I am irrational in a rational world? ‘Cogito ergo sum’! I think, therefore I am! Certainly, in this body I’m allowed to follow the course of my linking thoughts to the limited ability of my intelligence quotient.

I even remember laughing at myself as my body and mind came back more to the ‘real world’ in which I was living: cars passing on a hightway; business meeting to attend; a banquet to attend, et al.

Of course, I knew this near-death interruption of normalcy was likely a factor in this instance of mind skittering, but it was all so very real to me at that time, the strong sense of some force pulling me back in time. Those moments of neuronic madness spread before me my early life of family displacement, mobility, and emotional confusion, and I sat, only peripherily noticing the passing cars and its occupants staring at the strange car and driver. I’m sure it was but a momentary distraction for the passing cars and occupants, likely thinking someone just pulled off the highway for a nap.

For me, though, the incident brought so many questions and metaphysical thoughts. I sat there behind the wheel for thirty minutes feeling relief from what could have been a highway ‘death pass’ accident, trying to equate my near death to moments that spoke to me so clearly.

Billy Ray Chitwood – April 23, 2018

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Where the Dreams Are

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Where The Dreams Are

Where The Dreams Are
There on the horizon
Where the clouds
Where the Sun
Where the winds 
Bring shimmering shadows
On the placid surface
Of the cobalt sea…

 
Dreams live in all
These converging elements
From the melodious music
Of hungry souls…

 
Those who somehow
Know that the thief of night
Cannot for long defy the
Precious treasures that
Await us in that dazzling
Merger of colors…

Out there
On the horizon
Where the dreams are.

Billy Ray Chitwood – April 19, 2018 (ARCHIVES)

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The Light Must Be On

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The Light Must Be On

After all the years it’s still with me,

That fear that clutches in the night

The vulnerable spots of my Soul –

And there must be constant Light.

*

There even into the morning’s sunrise

The room which is my only world

A table light must continue its glow

To feed ravenous thoughts unfurled.

*

Whence came this awful curse of mind?

What mockery didst I make of Life

To cause thought demons to visit me thus?

To bring such monsters of strife?

*

Was it a childhood devoid of care and love?

A child’s witness to life’s vulgar showing?

The vagaries of unbridled behavior?

The bleak, lonely child’s unknowing?

*

Didst come with nature’s random imprint?

This ugly mistake with no remedy?

Whatever its symptoms my life goes on

And I fear that I still wish to be!

 

@Billy Ray Chitwood – April 15, 2018

*

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Phoenix Fire

      

A Phoenix, Arizona entrepreneur and an ad agency director fall in love in a most unusual way. Their relationship is interrupted by sibling clashes, a gambling addiction, a murder, and a matriarch’s secret that ultimately causes emotional chaos and disorientation. This is a book that will draw the reader into the story and compel them to stay glued until the end. The gripping climax to PHOENIX FIRE is powerful, and tissues are recommended. Treat yourself to a marvelous romance, mixed with some suspense and a desert odyssey to save one’s soul. A truly great read.

Questions:

Do you like a love story with suspense?

Do you like characters with complex issues?

Do you like a smooth flow of narrative?

Do you like vivid description with your narrative?

Do you like dramatic and tense situations?

Do you enjoy plots and sub-plots that link coherently?

Do you prefer ‘Happy Endings’?

Do you like authors with a clear, lucid, style?

If you answered ‘yes’ to all of these questions, you will enjoy PHOENIX FIRE! And, you will like it enough to leave a Review on Amazon.

Now, enjoy a few excerpts from the novel… My wish is to give you a sense of my writing style, to introduce you to some of the characters. My promise: you will enjoy PHOENIX FIRE, a love story with some tense moments. Now, the excerpts:

*****

Chapter One

[Part of Chapter One]

She was lost in the brightness, a magnificent static whiteness, alluring and warm. It was an easy place to be, if, it was a place. Perhaps it was a state, a bright and new awareness, a safe and final destination.

She only knew that her essence was etched in the great luminous energy and she did not wish to leave it. The light seemed to be transporting her outward, expanding some awesome truth, recently possessed, and she wanted only to remain and to become whatever the promising ecstasy.

Then, there came a shimmer of interference, vaguely emanating from the mystic fringes, slowly fragmenting the weightless pool of white. There was a rippling which nudged her new awareness, gently precluding her anticipated oneness with the expanding light.

Then came sound, soft and beckoning, like a bird chirping in slow motion, becoming stronger and more strident. She resisted the sound and the fragmenting but she could not pull herself onward into the radiant void. Like a swimmer urgently breast stroking against a strong noiseless tide, she felt herself dipping, sinking, then free-falling from the disintegrating brilliance.

She became conscious of her head shaking in sidelong negation of the interference, her lips silently murmuring, ‘no, no, let me stay! Please let me stay!’

Then she acknowledged the inevitable full immersion back to a solid, contoured reality. The bird chirps became loud concerned voices. The ripples became caring and caressing hands.

The hard ground was cold.  She began to shiver, felt the urge to rise, but was somehow constricted. Her mind made some adjustments and she suddenly knew where she was, how she had gotten there.

Finally, she slowly opened her eyes with a fluttery acceptance of her immediate environment. A man’s face came into focus, hovering two feet above her own. She felt pinned down and quickly discovered that the man was astride her. There was a momentary sense of panic but something about the man’s face made her relax.

A light rain fell, and she was conscious of wet hair matted to her face and forehead. The sky was a dull gray, and skinny treetops came to her peripherally as some surreal apparitions. The man’s concerned face gave her a final focus. She remembered what happened.

The lightning! She recalled an awful clap of thunder, so jarring and harsh, so totally upon her, instantaneously enveloping her in its loud and splintered brightness. She remembered the searing, exquisite pain that so consummately wracked her body and mind.

She was jogging and she must have been struck by lightning. As she blinked from the raindrops and the accounting of the lightning strike, she felt lethargic and without purpose. She was struck by lightning, yet there was no panic, no real sense of urgency.

The man’s hands left her chest and he studied her with a tender and squinted concern. She felt the weight of his body leaving her, felt a great rush of air fill her chest. The man lifted himself from her but his soft blue eyes remained upon her face.

They were beautiful eyes, shrouded by dark cavernous brows. Wisps of his black hair was pasted about his forehead, and he made odd movements with his lips as though making an adjustment.

Her own lips felt strangely tender to the touch of her tongue, and, in a moment of clarity, she understood: the man had given her mouth to mouth resuscitation.

The man then spoke, softly, his voice conveying a cultured refinement and pleasant resonance. “Can you move your arms and legs?”

She understood the question and lifted her head tentatively, feeling her hands, arms, and legs slowly move to her inner commands. She nodded to the handsome stranger who knelt above and to her side. She managed a small, sad smile of gratitude.

“And can you speak?” He returned her smile.

“Yes, I think so,” came her weak reply.

She noticed for the first time a small group of people standing off to her right, near a park utility shed. She heard a siren off in the distance, its sound increasing in volume. She attempted to rise from the ground.

“Maybe you should stay where you are until you’ve been medically checked. Are you feeling much pain?” The man lightly touched her shoulder.

*****

[Part of Chapter Three]

Chapter Three

Without religious fervor or zeal, Jason Prince believed in fate and serendipity. He felt simply there were fateful events in every life.

At age thirty-three he was the recipient of some good genetic tailoring: a strong Roman angularity to his attractive face and full black hair, minus the imperious and defiant set; a well-built body without flab; intelligent, solid business acumen, with a penchant for fairness and mild aggressiveness. Jason suffered no swollen and insufferable ego problems in his stable environment. He was lucky, and, not so lucky. He carried with him a pleasant humility, no doubt the result of his grandmother, whose doting was subtle but pure. There was also no doubt that the death of his parents when Jason was eleven years old factored into whatever essence was uniquely his.

Although he was shielded by his grandmother, Jason remembered the details of his father’s and mother’s deaths. His parents died in an ill-fated traffic accident. A tractor-trailer semi, its driver asleep at the wheel, crossed a center line on Carefree Highway near Cave Creek, Arizona, and plowed head-on into his parents’ car. The truck was going seventy-five miles per hour at the time of the crash, so death for his parents was reported as instantaneous. His father and mother, weary and anxious to be home, were returning from a dinner party in Oak Creek Canyon.

Grandma Myrena Wimsley was home with Jason and his older brother, Carlton, when the call came from the authorities. There were tears and there was anguish, but Grandma Wimsley was not one to dwell too long in emotional crises. Her strong will prevailed as she sheltered the boys as much as possible from the devastating news.

Carlton Prince was the difficult son to soothe. He somehow internalized his parents’ deaths as his own personal tragedy, intermingling his tears of loss with aberrant fits of selfish tirade. Grandma Wimsley found it necessary at times to forcibly control Carlton’s behavior.

For Jason, the death of his parents brought a period of dull apathy. He seemed for some time lost in a foggy nether world, unable to accept the tragic event yet powerless to deny it. He moved in awkward limbo and was ultimately sustained by his grandmother’s stoic acceptance and patient nudging which brought him to a final certainty and reluctant peace. Grandmother Wimsley became for Jason an anchor and a symbol of stability and safe harbor. In a very real sense Jason adopted his grandmother’s calm and unflinching personality, an alluring stoicism with a slight edge of inner doubt. His tinge of humility and resolve was not an unpleasant anomaly.

It was Carlton who could not resolve his seemingly vindictive grief. He vented anger and hostility. His mood shifts were uncomfortable and unreasonable. Grandmother Wimsley came to an uneasy and wary acceptance of Carlton’s moods, hoping that eventually he would grow out of the negative self-absorption. It was Carlton who inevitably and unknowingly brought a tight bond of love between Grandmother Wimsley and Jason. There was also a decidedly open favoritism shown to Jason by his grandmother. Grandfather Wimsley stayed lovingly neutral in the background, busy in his work, leaving the rigors of child nurturing to his capable wife.

So, fate and serendipity were accepted and important acknowledgments for Jason Prince, and his unusual encounter with Jenny Mason aroused a dormant emotion. He found her image kept superimposing itself in his thoughts. He knew that this woman was somehow meant to be a part of his life. His acceptance of fate negated the fleeting feeling of impetuousness.

*****  

[Part of Chapter Eleven]

“But he is my grandson. Now stop your fretting. You did the right thing in telling me.” The pain was easing. “The medicine is working. Don’t worry about me. I’m a strong old girl. Just got an aging ailment, that’s all. You get old, the old body starts breaking down a bit. I’m feeling better now.”

“What is it, Grandmother Wimsley?” Sheila’s voice was tender and genuine in its caring. It was the first time she had addressed Myrena in that way. Sheila’s face wore the knowledge that this was not just an ‘aging ailment’ for Myrena.

Myrena was touched and beckoned Sheila to her small but strong arms. They comforted each other for some long moments.

It was Myrena who spoke. “Child, I’m going to be sorry not seeing you with Carlton anymore. But you’re not to worry. I’m going to work on the problem you’ve talked about. I want you to stay in touch with me. You are like family.”

Sheila soon left. Wardley came to the day room to assist Myrena, but she waved him away. He smiled with affection at her indomitable spirit. With the tray of uneaten finger sandwiches and lemonade in his hands, Wardley left her alone, a painful knot in his gut. She would not be with them too much longer. The trusted employee and friend felt a deep sadness with the thought and would wait until he was in his quarters before shedding the tears welling up inside of him.

Myrena went to the parlor and stood a long time in front of the portrait that she loved so much. Then she reclined on the long sofa, placing herself so that her view of the portrait was unimpaired. She was there staring at the portrait for a long time, her mind playing themes from the long ago past. She pulled the misty old memories from the deep rich tones on the portrait’s canvas. The scenes passed swiftly and poignantly before her clouding eyes.

She and John standing at the doorway to the boys’ bedroom, watching them sleep…

The daughter who bore the boys in her cap and gown at graduation exercises …

A wedding reception so gala, so full of hope and possibilities …

A funeral …

A past and present merging into a wistful place in the heart …

Dusty, rutted roads in Mexico, the smell of frijoles, mariachis strumming their plaintive, discordant guitars …

A flower garden by the sea, the boys skipping along the surf …

A camp site in the high desert …

Carlton, Jason, smiling, joyfully playing cowboy games …

A plot of land, scenes of family gatherings, loving scenes, faces, merging, flowing into a profusion of color …

Tears slowly flowed down the tanned and weathered furrows on either side of her stoic face, and she slept.

[End of Excerpts… – It truly is a great story… – Do hope you read it!]

The excerpts were randomly selected. Again, just giving a sense of style and short shots of some characters. Please enjoy the entire book.

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Remembering Arnold Palmer – ‘The King’

 

2016-PGA-Arnold-Palmer-Invitational-Free-Golf-PicksRemembering Arnold Palmer -The ‘King’

This is the first day of the rest of your life!

Actually, quite a phrase if you really parse it…regarding what the words convey.

Okay, it’s 5:30 in the AM. I’m up early, chomping on the proverbial bit, with something to say, and, just not sure what’s going to roll out here.

You see, when I can’t sleep, I lie in bed and think, along with other trifling habits – like, finding a comfort zone for Arthur and me…you know Arthur, he’s the ‘itis’ in my bane of existence. Arthur’s been with me since I was a relatively young man, taking me through some painful gout attacks, joint swelling, just plain pain and misery.

However, I don’t wish to make this 5:30 AM post about Arthritis, and, I feel fine – joint-wise! So, you ask, what am I going to ramble about? Well, first of all, it’s not very nice of me to be you, to put words in your mouth and show my latent and presumptuous nature.

My! My! The ramble is off and running…

May I remind you? WRITE, if you are a writer…people, particularly, avid readers, will read anything. So, just get on a ‘kick’ to ramble. You’ll be surprised what you’ve written when you’re all finished and reading over the Pulitzer words.

Actually, someone I revered died recently, and it was my good fortune to spend some time with him – which encompassed all of three meetings and two days. You all know him, and, I hope, love him…well, if you are a golfer, you love him.

Now, look, because you’re NOT a golfer, you will still love this short story, although the dynamics may be missing (no murders, no rapes, no romance, no thriller, no thunderous moments of peril and excitement, and so forth!).

I’m into parentheses this early morning! Here’s another: (Writing is important to me, and it MUST be my attempt to show this early morning, if you just release your mind and let it roll, you might be surprised what you come up with…and, later, you can always edit and polish it to your fancy – which I WILL NOT do with this bit of SOfC!)

Also, part of the job of a writer is to keep people waiting for some ‘punch lines’, that is, like, I was going to tell you about this chance meeting with one of my golf idols…

Now, you can also irritate the reader with the ‘stall moves’, so I’m going to hurry along here.

Some years ago, I lived in Phoenix, Arizona, the ‘Valley of the Sun’, one of the golf capitols of the world, and I was fortunate to belong to the Arizona Country Club. In those days, the PGA ‘Phoenix Open Golf Tournament’ was played on alternate years at the Phoenix Country Club and the Arizona Country Club. This particular year, the ‘Open’ was held at the ACC.

So, it’s a beautiful sunny day (what else could it be?), blue skies, and lots of ‘Birdie Putts’ which golfers know about. Some friends of mine, a buddy and a couple of airline ‘Stews’ were out on the course watching the golfers. One of the ladies wanted to see Arnold Palmer…she thought he was a handsome dude and the sport’s ‘King’. We didn’t see Arnie on the holes we walked, and I boasted: “Hey, we’ll go back to the clubhouse, have a few drinks, maybe we get lucky and meet ‘The King’.

The Clubhouse is crowded. I manage to get us a cluster of comfy chairs together, and we sat, drank, and, because the ladies with us were pretty, we had a pro golfer or two join us from time to time – good golfers, just not the ‘Poster Man’ and/or stature of Arnold Palmer!

At some point, because I was a businessman at the time, I excuse myself, go the bar and use the phone to call my office for messages. As I ended my phone business I turned to return to my group, and (drum-beat roll!), there, standing in front of me, was Arnie and a trio of guys chatting.

I boldly go up to the group, put my hand on Arnie’s shoulder, and, say: “Sorry, Arnie, to interrupt, but, I’m Bill Chitwood, and, if you have time, I have some gents and ladies who would love to meet you.”

Arnie smiled, looked at me kindly in the eyes, and asked: “Where are you sitting, Bill?”

WOW! I mean, WOW! Arnie called me, ‘Bill’! Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s my name, but it was my golf idol speaking it.

I turned and pointed to where our group was sitting, and Arnie says: “I’ll be over in a couple of minutes, Bill.”

WOW! Again! I just pulled off a ‘coup’ with my hero. I was bursting with pride as I went back to join my group. Rather nonchalantly, I announced: “Arnie will be joining us in a few minutes!” Eyes widened, and the ladies became a bit nervous. The anticipation was keen, and I could hardly contain myself.

We sat and drank for a few minutes when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, and, my heart jumped to my throat. There was the ‘handsome dude’, Arnie Palmer, smiling and grabbing my hand again as I stood and introduced my people. Arnie sat, ordered, if memory serves, a Vodka Tonic, and we sat, drank, and visited for the entire afternoon. Arnie kept us enrapt with his answers to our questions and stories of his ventures, and I shall never forget his kindness and fellowship that day.

Arnold Palmer was/is the ‘real deal’! How do you measure a person’s worth by golf statistics and hero-worship? This man was all, and, MORE, than were the publicity pieces written about him. I’ve followed and loved this man my entire life. I can personally speak to his humility and his warmth. He was, and, is a role-model Supreme!

The morning after our long afternoon gathering, I took my son, Steve, to the club for the Saturday round of the Phoenix Open. We wormed our way through the crowd to where Arnie was putting on the practice green.

Arnie looked up and saw Steve and me, smiled, came over to the roped-off area and asked: “Is this your son, Bill?”

WOW! Arnie remembered my name!

We chatted there at the putting green for some minutes…minutes I shall never forget!

There is no doubt in my mind that meeting Arnold Palmer was a singular event in my life… I would not trade that event for anything in the world!

The ‘King of Golf’ – Arnold Palmer’: I love this man!

Okay, the ‘Ramble’ is over!

Now, WRITE! If you really are a writer!

Here’s something to get you started:

‘The World is my oyster! Where did that come from’?

– BR Chitwood – March 30, 2018 –

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