Leaves

>> 3.27.2009

Autumn leaves fly
in the wind, blow
across the land, crumble
under foot, and color
soil in shades alive.

Pages flutter,
as books are read,
folio all, tapestry
of words, sprinkle
silently across sight.

People wisp away
from our life, littering
memory with faint
remnants, crumbling heart,
and stalling soul.


© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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Quote for the Day

>> 3.24.2009

"The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight. "

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Literati

>> 3.20.2009

Isn't it amazing the way words affect us? Just small marks on a page, or on a screen, yet they give life to imagery and emotion. They incite, invite, impassion and enrapture us. There are those among us with a special mastery of words, that have the ability to imbue the everyday minutia with magic. Billy Collins is one such master; it seems as though nothing escapes his notice, and he writes about everything.

If you live in the Tulsa, OK area, the University of Tulsa is hosting a presentation by Billy Collins in April. If you have read his work, you know what I mean about enrapturing. If you have never read his work, go now and get a book of his poetry from your nearest bookstore or library, and immerse yourself in an amazing world.

Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate 2001 - 2003
University of Tulsa - April 2, 2009 7:30 - 9:30 p.m.
http://www.utulsa.edu/en/about-TU/news-events-publications/UniversityNews/2009/March/FormerPoetLaureateBillyCollinsatTUApril%202.aspx
http://tulsacreativenetwork.ning.com/events/former-poet-laureate-billy

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Quote for the Day

>> 3.19.2009

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your dreams. Small people always do that, but the really great ones make you feel that you too, can become great."
- Mark Twain

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Before I Die

>> 3.16.2009

Before I die
I want
to live,
resurrect

dreams filed
away.

Find
my cottage in
the country, dig
my hands in
the dirt, create
gardens filled
with blossoms, colors
of dreams, shades
of life.

Find
my place, free
my hopes, scribble
pages, recall
memories, open
my soul, fly
high and free.

Collect
family and friends
before my hearth, hold

them safe within
my heart, shoot

for the moon, soar
among the stars,
if only

in dreams or
on the page.

© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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The View

>> 3.10.2009

Each weekday like many others I travel from my home to a job. For most of the year, it’s dark when I leave home and dark once more by the time I arrive back. My job is performed in an office located on the bottom floor of a building tucked back in a spot that most never see. While I spend the majority of my time glued to a computer screen, outside the world still turns. The sun rises then sets again, days flowing one into another while I, like most, scramble to get everything done.

I am fortunate to have a partial window wall. It allows light, provides a small view of the world beyond, and gives a much needed respite from the computer. I make a point to take a few minutes several times daily to relax and watch the view outside my windows.

The window wall stretches about fifteen feet across the east end of my office area and even though there is a half wall, they tower almost nine feet overhead. In the morning sun the glass shimmers and dances across the view. At noon, it appears you could stretch out your hand and touch the wind as it flows by. In the afternoon, it shadows across the sight like a memory. It becomes a frame, extra, extra large size, around the world outside.

In the forefront of my window on the world is a paved drive traversed by vehicles in all shapes, sizes, and intentions. Beyond the drive, the land humps into a hillside blanketed by spiky blades of grass, sleeping now but soon to erupt in vibrant emerald. On the crest of the hill are a sand volleyball court and a soccer field occasionally peopled but mostly forlorn and empty.

Today there was a man on the crest wandering through the sand court. Round and round, a circle within a circle, over and over, ever-expanding. I found myself glued to the picture outside. Soon my boss joined me, each speculating to the other on what he was doing out there.

Finally, we determined he had a metal detector. Was he searching for something lost? Hoping for something found? He circled around and around, further and further away until he was a speck against the sky that tumbles into the hillside. Then he vanished. Once again there was only a blazing blue sky caressing the crinkly brown hillside spiked with the angular lines of dormant trees.

Prompt: write about a view, 2009

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Notification

As the taxi slid up to the curb with its wheels chattering for traction, the driver switched off the “On-Duty” light. The vehicle rocked with the force of the wind and the snow tumbled down painting sky and ground white. He leaned his head back against the seat rolling it side to side to release some of the stiffness in his neck. This was his last fare of the night, a special fare, a favor called in.

As he looked out the window, he noticed the neighborhood appeared like a postcard or a Rockwell painting. No McMansions, just pretty houses. All nicely painted with neat shutters and landscaped yards. They were bathed in warmth from the lights spilling out in golden waves across the snow. Flipping on the overhead light, he reread the instructions he had received before starting this journey then turned to look at the passenger in the back seat.

The young man appeared to be in his late twenties. As he watched, the young man placed his hat on his head before brushing his hands over the faint creases in his military uniform. He smoothed the folds of the scarf that had remained snugly wrapped around his neck during the two hours it had taken to complete the trip from the airport. Then he buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves.

Although he had indicated that he was going home to see his father, the driver could see his hesitation in approaching the house. A former soldier himself, the driver knew the aftereffects of war, knew the difficulty the young man faced. The instructions were very detailed so he knew that finding the strength would be as hard as finding the words.

“Ready,” the driver asked.

The young man swiveled toward him, eyes shimmering in the filtered light inside the taxi. He swallowed slowly, flinched, and then nodded affirmatively. The driver switched off the ignition and the interior lights before moving around the vehicle to meet the young man at passenger side where he stood staring at the house. As the driver watched, the young man squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin before trudging toward the front door. The driver paced him. At the glossy red door, the young man reached out with a trembling hand to push the door bell.

From inside the house the faint trill of the chimes was heard, followed by the muffled shuffling of footsteps. An older version of the man beside him answered the summons of the door bell. He addressed the driver, saying “Yes, can I help you?”


The driver turned slightly to the right and gestured to the young man beside him hidden by the shadows on the front porch. Seeing the second visitor, the older man said, “Oh, my God! David. Son.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat before continuing, “Come in. Come in, both of you.” He grabbed his son, pulling him into a hug, then ushered the visitors inside.

“It’s so good to see you. How long can you stay? It’s too bad Dylan couldn’t make it home at the same time.” His voice trailed off as he saw his son clearly for the first time. His son’s face was pasty under his tan. His eyes were sunken and encircled with a shade reminiscent of bruised plums. His facial features were drawn and skeletal.

“You look . . .,” his voice faded as a tear slipped down his son’s cheek.

“Sir,” the driver said, then handed the older man the envelope that had been entrusted to him for delivery.

The young man’s father reached toward it as if it were a rabid dog that might strike at any moment. He opened the envelope and began to read the contents. “We regret to inform you, “ his voice choked into silence. The only movement was the twitching of his eyes as he continued reading. His face paled to a parchment shade and he appeared to age twenty years in the time it took him to complete the notification. When he looked at his remaining son, he said, “Oh, David.”

The young man nodded and unbuttoned his coat. Then he loosened the scarf revealing the stark white bandages covering his throat. A souvenir of the attack that had killed his brother had left him with no further words to speak.

© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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A Cup of Words - The Journal

>> 3.09.2009

I have just begun posting on a blog used by a writing group to which I am privileged to belong. It's called A Cup of Words - The Journal and is found at; http://acupofwords.blogspot.com/

We have a small group of very talented people with distinctly individual styles. Check it out, I think you will enjoy it.

My first post at The Journal is a short, short story called Notification.

Enjoy!

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The Sound of Silence

Silence,
a dark blanket, quiet,
full of words waiting
to be mined
like jewels
from the depths
if I can find
my way.

It waits,
filled with ticking
clocks, jeering
censors, chirruping
tree frogs, whispering
winds, wispy outlines
of people past,
and characters future.

Circling thoughts whir
loudly in the silence.

Clouds scudding
across the sky, grumbles
of thunder preceding
a storm, the crackles
of leaves trodden
in seasons past,
the cha-cha-chack
of coffee percolating,
the pa-ping
of raindrops drumming
on tin roofs,
the che-che-chedee
as birds greet
me when I fill
the feeder,
the could-I, should-I
as I attempt
something new,
melodious crescendo
of music, painted
against the season of time.

© 2008 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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Night on the Overlook

>> 3.05.2009

The bridge, once a rail crossing on the Arkansas River, was rejuvenated into a pedestrian bridge, although the old railway still exists on the top canopy. At the midway point on the river, an overlook platform juts outward. Standing on the overlook on a still night, as the mist reaches out with vaporous arms, it seems as if I can still hear the echoing clink-clank, clink-clank of metal wheels rattling the rails. In the background, there’s a thumping pulse of traffic and a rumbling hum of a motorcycle passing. Within the bridge’s confines, noises reverberate across the night as if within an echo chamber.

Golden coronas of light fight a losing battle against the dark. The fog slicks the surfaces of the bridge. The railing is damp and chill against my skin when I lean over to peer into the river below. The water laps at the pilings, grumbles across the rocks, each drop conversing sotto voice before rejoining the murmuring flow onward. In the distance, I hear a splash, and memories of every thriller and horror movie I have ever watched flood my mind.

Is it the sound of a body falling into the water? A jumper? Did someone toss a body off the bridge? Or, is it the slithering of some leviathan from the depths to terrorize the city? I search the murkiness in an attempt to determine where the noise originated. I feel the movement as each muscle tenses, creeping upwards until my neck aches. I see nothing but the denseness of a city night.

From somewhere behind me, shrouded by the fog, other sounds emanate. Something snuffling. Then a staccato clicking, a jangling of chain, and a thud, slide-shuffle, and another thud. Whipping around, I strain to see through fog-choked air, but shapes elude me as the mist ebbs and flows around skeleton of the bridge melting the stark wooden structure into a warped visage that would be at home in one of Dali’s paintings.

As a point of darkness intensifies, solidifies, blood thrums in my ears like the sonorous strum of a bass guitar. Nerves goose-pimple my arms, and my breathe wheezes between parted lips. Slowly reversing, my jacket whispers sibilantly against the solid upright as I pause to see whatever is coming my way. All I am able to think is “something wicked this way comes.”

Click-click. Click-click. Snuffle. Thud. Slide-shuffle. Like a snake shedding it’s skin. Thud. Snuffle, snuffle. Jangle. Closer now. Over and over. The shape waivers as the mist plays hide-and-seek with whoever, whatever is there. It blanks out the feeble light shed by the overhead lanterns. Thud. Click, click, snuffle. Slide-shuffle. Something dragging, or merely Quasimodo coming to visit? Or perhaps, I fell into an alternate universe designed by Stephen King?

The brume wafts away showcasing the visitor. Actually, visitors. I inhale deeply then nod my head at the man walking his Labrador retriever. He nods back. The Lab smiles a goofy grin before shaking his head, jangling his leash and snuffling out a sneeze. The man’s cane thuds on the floor boards supporting his limping progress down the bridge. The mist closes like a curtain falling, and I snort out a laugh at myself. Just a case of atmospheric conditions and an overactive imagination turning a wizened man and an aged dog with a cold into a scene worthy of Hitchcock.

© 2008 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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About This Blog

The name for this blog was inspired by a quote by Nietzsche, below.

"Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen?" ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

I plan on this being the start of an incredible journey of discovery and creativity. I invite you to bring your pen, and come dance with me!

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