No shortlists for a whitterer

Two of three contests to which I sent whitters have made all their decisions. Me Explorer didn’t show up on either of the shortlists though. I just now visited the third; they’ve posted their winner and runners up. Me Explorer isn’t there either.

It goes to sort of affirm something I rather suspect. Ah well. More on that some other time. Or not.

One of them is quite lovely as if one is shortlisted one basically has the costs covered of one’s round-trip flights for attending the Festival of which the contest is sort of a centerpiece.

Sigh. There are many people writing very fine poetry in this world. And then there are whittery bits. I am working on making those available for people who like whittery bits and might want to read whittery bits when they aren’t having to sit and stare at a monitor.

Of course nary a whittery bit has made its way through my pen since yesterday afternoon when I checked at the websites of the above mentioned contests. But that is merely a temporary thing as whittering comes naturally to me. I think in short lines. Okay, sometimes I think in longer lines. Below is some bus thinking that occurred yesterday evening.

Oh, when I do put together that compendium of whittery bits so that people can look at them without having to be seated at their computers (okay, that’s silly as I know there are other ways for people to arrange that for themselves but anywho …) I do believe it shall have as its title something suggested by a good friend, something I once called a whittery bit. It will be:

A Vagabond Truth

Isn’t that a lovely idea? Of course, it might be called:

Whitters from the Bus and Laundry Room</center

as another astute and lovely diarist sort of person brought to mind in a note. I ramble a lot, don’t I? I mean, here I am rambling before I type in more ramblings from yesterday. There is a pile of author corrections in front of me awaiting my attention. So … I shall type and go, and may your days and nights be blessed. Spring is a blessing all in itself, isn’t it? Oh, yeah … one more thing: It’s day 25.

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Stilled by the absences so plainly underscoring what I already know. What I know.

There needs to be more to it, and less of it. When, some people ask so kindly, will a book of whitters appear? When, I suppose, I begin to have it printed.

Dark hair; gold earrings, two in each ear. She got up and moved as far away as possible without getting off the bus. Did my noticing her ears from my vantage point in the seat just behind her, just to the right, sideways, cause this move? I am that: sideways.

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My bones ache. My eyes sting.

I’ve no way to get there from here.

Easter colors don’t do renaissance any justice.

She knocked so harshly on the bus door. She is tired and underdressed for the next week or so. She is tough and hurt and inscrutable.

There is no point in sending flowers to people who have gardens.

Bare necessities. I like that phrase.

Distillation.

Up in smoke.

When you look hard, what do you see? Juxtaposition. Exactly. It’s all just a matter of puttiing one thing beside another.

It’s nothing, really. Nothing at all.