Magically Musical – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 15:43 to 15:53. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Once the words are spoken they can never be unspoken. Once the words have been said out loud then they magically become possible. Not inevitable, but possible. The unthinkable becomes thinkable; no longer impossible. Words at once untrue become true.

But new words can be layered on the old. Can they take back what was spoken? Never, but they can add meaning to the old words. Mean becomes unmean. Gradually more words are added, more explanations and less is explained. Understanding into misunderstanding, requiring yet more words. A cacophony of words, sounds, meanings in which all sense is lost; a requiem for true intention.

Is this clear? Has what I’ve written made sense to you, the reader? Should I add yet more words, can I not leave space for interpretation? Must I keep on and on and on with this?

It seems, for now, i must.

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Nov 17th – Magically Musical

November 17th – Magically Musical

13.12-13.23

The ballad of Saoirse Reed

Saoirse Reed was a strange young girl,
Not one for ballet, or giving a twirl,
And not much for talking, or sharing a space,
Or taking much notice of anyone’s face.

But Saoirse was blessed with a talent or two,
Things that aren’t easy for me or for you,
For Saoirse could make, with a touch of her hand,
Music from anything, little or grand.

Nobody knew where her talent came from,
Her parents shook heads and first thought they’d gone wrong,
But Saoirse just got on and she just sat and played,
And people were stunned with the music she made.

A strum of guitar strings made older men cry
She’d weave in some melodies, not knowing why,
The people who listened placed hands on their hearts,
And dabbed at their eyes with soft handkerchief darts.

Piano keys danced at her lightness of touch,
And the music of oboes was sometimes too much,
And sometimes her mother found it too much to bear,
And often wished music was not always there.

Saoirse was six when she went on TV,
As thrilled as a six-year-old ever could be.
The presenter first asked if she knew any tunes:
She played him Rachmaninov on a pair of old spoons.

She then played a song on the harp (with her feet),
Her hands on a violin keeping the beat,
And when that was over, she sat on the floor;
Played a ten-minute drum solo as an encore.

Then she woke up one morning when she’d just turned ten,
And knew that she’d have to start over again.
At breakfast her mother asked was anything wrong,
And Saoirse just told her the music had gone.

For the rest of her life she played nothing again,
For a while people asked her again and again,
But the instruments stayed gathering dust in her room,
And people stopped asking for just one more tune.

Her life became normal, and people forgot
About the great talents young Saoirse had got.
And after a while no one remembered at all
That Saoirse was once magically musical.

inspired by a prompt from here

(Saoirse is pronounced Sor-sha. Roughly. Just in case you were struggling…)