tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25869259637613361642024-03-06T04:08:53.621-05:00Short stories, Poems and Random MusingsTales by the Phantom of the PastLloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.comBlogger256125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-91266799149320842542021-02-07T16:36:00.003-05:002021-02-07T16:36:53.750-05:00...And All the Pieces MatterA Defense of BHMChildhood memories are fleeting, ephemeral, sometimes painfully intangible things. You realize that as you slowly get older, and your memories turn on you like disloyal foot soldiers on a despotic autocrat. Certain memories are so vivid, it feels like you could relive them at a moment’s notice, and some are so paper-thin, you wonder if you ever lived them at all.A vivid memory I Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-15884067217713250742020-06-22T22:29:00.000-04:002020-06-22T22:29:38.501-04:00An Ostrich-Horse With No Name: A Short Story
An Ostrich-Horse with No Name
The tumbleweeds blew in the late afternoon
breeze, a small respite from the scorching desert sun. In 1879, in a world very
much like ours, but just a little off-kilter, a young woman, barely more than a
slip of a girl, rode into town on the back of an ostrich-horse.
The ostrich-horse had a gait like the waves of
an ocean. The woman swayed up and down in time Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-55785939736273589852020-06-19T22:11:00.001-04:002020-06-19T22:11:10.560-04:00We Were 12 Years in Africa: An EssayOn February 5, 2002, I stepped off a plane and into a new world. It was snowing. A cold wind blew white flakes that swirled around me as I barrelled forward into a dark winter night. The metaphor would become apparent in due time. Thus ended 12 years in Africa. Thus, began an odyssey 20 years and counting. Out in the wilderness trying to return to who I once was, to who I really am. Along the wayLloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-49167252869665871102016-08-25T20:47:00.002-04:002016-08-25T20:47:12.924-04:00Story Time
The Keeper of the Light
We all want something –
More than mere satisfaction.
So, won’t you spill out your heart,
Will you show me your passion?
– The Grand Guignol
Terra Nova, 3552
In
the year 3552, the sun on Terra Nova had long since stopped shining.
Nobody
really noticed it happen. After all, it scarcely seemed possible and certainly
not the way it did; not with a bang, but Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-35354751691144702632016-03-20T21:43:00.000-04:002016-03-20T21:43:20.355-04:00The Hard Road
I think, therefore I am.
It seems so straightforward. Most people don’t even think
twice about it: of course we think; of course we are. But do we really? Are we
really? Or have we come to mistake action for thought?
How many people stop to question their every day actions,
the little things they do every day? How may stop to ask themselves: why am I
doing this? Do I want to be doing this? Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-29242403106805615532015-04-24T22:48:00.001-04:002015-04-24T22:58:19.981-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Eyes Wide Open
Real or Fantasea
She appeared to me.
A dream, vague and indistinct,
Borne of deepest fantasy.
Her love - incorporeal,
Like flashing lights.
...She let me in -
The place only her
thoughts had been.
I saw her true visage,
A dying man's mirage.
We played a cruel game,
of musical hearts.
She stole my heart -
While keeping hers...
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-74322601486492897922015-04-17T18:11:00.003-04:002015-04-17T18:11:48.161-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Hands in Frame
Tick Tock
Once upon a day
In a land far away
On a bleak Thursday in November
Came the darkest evening of the year
A child was born
Naked as the morn
Then tick tock
Began the clock
His beginning had come too early
Its start would prove so dreary
Pitiful wails filled the air
All looked on in despair
His end may come, his end may not
But fate is a foe that cannot be fought
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-41002420658102785192015-03-31T18:54:00.000-04:002015-03-31T18:54:00.878-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered: Curvilinear
Perchance to Dream
The world does not wait
for us, in between our dreams.
While we sleep, it plots and schemes
To lead us to a place of unholy fate
While the world sleeps, I dream.In between my dreams, I sleep
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-60941127910029955852015-03-24T21:35:00.003-04:002015-03-24T21:35:40.512-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Camera Obscura
The Camera Has Eyes...
I've never been a visually talented person. Like everything else, it has come with practice. Growing up, I was a wordsmith, I could take words, stretch and bend them like taffy, mould them to my will, make them do unspeakable and unnatural things, give them strange meanings, spin my way out of trouble with a tidal wave of words.
The written word was perhaps my Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-88029871599260271162015-03-24T16:37:00.001-04:002015-03-24T16:37:15.097-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Trek
Curse of Man
From the underground,
We venture forth.
Not into the light,
But a darkness
Of another kind
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-11425684696978045652015-03-24T16:35:00.001-04:002015-03-24T16:35:13.866-04:002015: 365Unfiltered - Dust to Dust
Faith and Fear
Venture forth into the unknown.
Embrace that which is unseen.
For our time here is short.
Mankind is but ash to ash, dust to dust.
The streets are ash to ash and rust to rust
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-37054044130234061772015-03-24T16:25:00.001-04:002015-03-24T16:26:04.721-04:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Gulliver
Castle in the Sky
How weary the climb we all must make.
How lonely the trek we all must take.
Till we each reach Laputa up high.
Our very own castle in the sky.
Forever keep climbing...
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-79290683944370676982015-01-29T10:43:00.001-05:002015-01-29T10:43:17.532-05:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Heart on a Sleeve
Traveler on Hard Road
Follow me –
Until we find,
The world as we want it to be –
Somewhere beyond a rainbow,
Where worries and cares –
Disappear.
A world where stars and skies collide.
Where heartbeats and dreams live.
Forever –
Crystallized.
A wise man once said, "Creativity is Intelligence having fun."
I've realized that it's easy to be creative when you are Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-66547760567540797212015-01-28T23:15:00.001-05:002015-01-28T23:15:37.434-05:002015: 365 Unfiltered - Atlas
On the Shoulder of Giants
A glorious burden
It
sometimes seems that as a society, we are enamoured with the myth if you want
to call it that, the archetype, if you will, of the entrepreneur. That myth
often has a very singular form. The sole entrepreneur against the world; the
start up created in a basement or garage. Think of Facebook, Snapchat, Google
and how they started, or at least, Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-30582844898624235132015-01-14T19:34:00.001-05:002015-01-14T19:35:28.026-05:002015: 365 Unfiltered - The Reality of Being
Nomenclature
What
are we? Who are you? Who am I?
Most
often, the answer to that question will begin with a name. When someone says
“tell me about yourself”, we often start with our name. It seems trite to say,
but it ought to be said: there’s power in names. The need to have the ability to self-identify is a powerful
driving force for all of us. Take away a person’s name or their Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-53292834775819276362014-12-20T15:02:00.002-05:002014-12-20T22:20:34.076-05:00Deluxe
No strings
The only thing that motivates me is the desire to share a bit of myself with the world. So, I have and I will continue to do so. At the link below is a collection of every bit of poetry I have ever written, and a bit of prose to liven it up. It may not be the greatest thing the world has ever seen, but it doesn't have to be. I'm satisfied that it's the best thing I have done.
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-86777774689274220082014-12-20T08:18:00.001-05:002014-12-20T08:18:27.259-05:00Houdini
Nocturna
Find me in the dead of night,
knock on the door.
I’ll say, you were right.
I wish I had never lied.
I wish I had surrendered to light
Are you there? I wish you would remain
Out of my mind and just out of sight.
Love, out of reach
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-10507409632503765132014-11-29T16:12:00.001-05:002014-11-30T17:33:16.390-05:00Synchronicity
Crystallized
Amid frozen
dreams and falling skies,
A rush
of blood flows to the heart -
Till
its walls fall – leaving us alone.
Follow
me –
Your
heart beats like mine.
Synchronous.
Around us lies a world,
Loud
and incoherent –
With its clinging and clanging,
Drowned
out by hearts
Beating
as one.
Free
from the chains
Of
this world and its ties –
That
bind.
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-16643564174382862472014-11-08T16:46:00.002-05:002014-11-09T11:58:33.708-05:00Once Upon a Dream
ICARUS
A Man did Fly
Oceans pull us down.
If we fall in love with the sun -
We fall from the sky.
But - in these dark days,
There is nothing left to learn
Except how to fly.
So - teach me to fly,
Or cushion my fall below -
To hell’s dark fire.
Writer's Note
I've never understood the Myth of Icarus, or maybe as a young boy, reading the story of Icarus and Daedarus, I Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-11559600741593460782014-11-05T16:59:00.002-05:002014-11-05T17:41:51.034-05:00What Dreams are Made of
The Mythology of
Creation and the Creation of Mythology
“The Mythology of
Creation and The Creation of Mythology: The very act of creation (and is that
not what myth making is), is a shared act. When I write "the sky is
blue", there is a world of meaning behind it, but more importantly, there
is a world of meaning still to be created by those that read such simple words”
All dream...but notLloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-38473416234192180552014-10-24T21:50:00.000-04:002014-10-25T16:29:29.043-04:00Myths and Legends
Duality
“We are all
of us, built on a foundation of myths that contain their opposites, both
logical and lived. What does it mean to be called good, if evil and the
potential for evil do not live in the world and in you?”
Myth come true
Humanity has always been interested in myths. It’s
borne out of our desire to understand the world. Myths are how humanity
makes sense of Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-52945026644302674372014-10-23T16:57:00.003-04:002014-10-23T16:58:50.106-04:00Of Strings and Broken Things
The Marionette
A world of puppets -
tangled in strings.
Trapped with ties that bind -
to a cruel unflinching world.
But we close our eyes.
Pretend to be free.
Pretend we do not see -
The strings that bind you and me.
There are no strings on me
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-65022500742637562282014-10-17T18:59:00.002-04:002014-10-19T20:14:32.329-04:00Shooting Holes
The Siren
Sing a simple song
A siren that guides mankind
on its way back home
You and me...
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-58465880608140872292014-10-13T19:32:00.001-04:002014-10-13T19:34:38.299-04:00There's something about Haiku
5-7-5
A haiku a day
keeps the good doctor away
So I always say
Left, to inner peace
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586925963761336164.post-27008108650537828132014-10-10T18:12:00.002-04:002014-10-10T18:16:31.649-04:00Love in the Time of Science Fiction
The Void
Beyond a dark and silent yonder,
A distant sun hides a star that burns -
incandescent and all consuming.
Leaving faint dust and monochrome
supernova trailing its wake.
A distant light - a kind of foghorn,
calling out in blackest night,
Evaporates nightmares -
Leaving daydreams behind,
Of love - borne of first sight.
Traps us all night
Lloyd Webberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105108248042935207noreply@blogger.com0