Dancing with Pens

Ten Days

2012-02-08T21:42:00.000-06:00

Ten days ago everything was perfect. In ten minutes, she would be gone. In ten hours, the authorities would have the letter – but what could I say now to get her back in the car.

So here I am, ten miles from nowhere, sitting alongside the I-10 indicator sign, in a broken down convertible in 100 degree weather watching dust devils dance around her boot heels as she stalks down the gravel road. Nothing ahead and nothing behind but sun-washed blue sky and fields that one spark would set ablaze. How did I get from perfect to here? Beats the hell out of me.

Ten days ago we were happy and looking forward to the future. Both of us were working, saving our money and looking forward to the fall semester of college. It was just supposed to be a road trip. You know, let off a little steam, kick up our heels, cut loose a little before going back to school. But somehow, it all went to hell.

I guess I should begin my story at the beginning . . .

(Just a little something - not sure where, or if it's going anywhere.)

Quote for Today

2012-02-02T16:45:00.000-06:00

"The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are." ~Joseph Campbell

"Life is pure adventure, and the sooner we realize that, the sooner we will be able to treat life as art." ~Maya Angelou

"Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work." ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Hanging On

2012-01-26T21:57:00.000-06:00

Days pass in scurrying,
            hurrying moments,

consolidating time
            into packets composed
            of frantic nothingness –

get to work on time,
            do the job, pay the bills,
            keep on keeping up.

                        Just hanging on –

gouging out minutes
            to refresh the mind

with artful words, visiting
            worlds in images rent
            from artists’ dreams and nightmares,

accompanied by lyrical notes birthed
            from musicians’ hands,
            played in counterpoint

                        to my own ink bled onto a page.

Quote for Today

2011-09-28T17:14:00.000-05:00

"The true measure of an individual is how he treats a person who can do him absolutely no good."
~Ann Landers

"Ethics is knowing the difference between what you have a right to do and what is right to do."
~ Potter Stewart

"Before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience.
~ Harper Lee

Quotes for Today

2011-09-22T17:44:00.000-05:00

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed." ~Albert Einstein

"Trust that little voice in your head that says "Wouldn't it be interesting if..." And then do it." ~Duane Michals, "More Joy of Photography"

"The hardest thing about reality is returning to it after an hour inside your child's mind." ~Robert Brault, www.robertbrault.com

Lost Song: an elegy

2011-07-25T18:39:00.000-05:00

How do we say goodbye

to one teetering on the brink of life,

childhood behind, striding towards adulthood,

with unseen tears closeted behind a façade

that excluded everyone, hiding his pain, his fears,

his belief that solace would be found

by departing this world?

Now that pain is riven, shattered

like the souls he left behind, shared

amongst the survivors of the war within him,

who trudge through each day wondering

what they could have done, why didn’t they see,

why didn’t they hear his voice wailing

in the silence of his lonely fortress?

His toddling steps still echo in his parents’ ears,

the smile that once illuminated their life

now extinguished, his laughter, a memory

to be replayed in the night, his name quivering

upon friends’ lips who look, then realize there’s

no one there, just remnants of a lost soul,

an unfulfilled promise who’s time is past.

How do we say goodbye? We sing

a song of love and loss, share memories of a life

too soon ended, give thanks for the joy his presence

bestowed, embrace him within our hearts, love him

as he was, so human and frail; light a candle to guide

his way onward, remind ourselves that we can’t

control the hand of fate, and say,

“Until we meet again.”

Quote for Today:

2011-06-16T16:30:00.000-05:00

The Quote for Today is about imagination - inspiration - creativity; wonderful words from a range of individuals. I hope you enjoy them as much as I.

"They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."
~Edgar Allan Poe, "Eleonora"

"Trust that little voice in your head that says "Wouldn't it be interesting if..." And then do it."
~Duane Michals, "More Joy of Photography"

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed." ~Albert Einstein

A Shadorma

2011-06-06T18:39:00.000-05:00

(Image courtesy of: http://peperonity.com/go/sites/mview/glitter.fashion/29561429/29601695 )

Lady Moon
watching over night
protector
of secrets
whispered from darkened rooms of
solitary heart

Something new I tried during April's Poetry Month - a form poem called shadorma. A shadorma is a Spanish syllabic poem consisting of 6 lines in the format 3/5/3/3/7/5. I hope you like it!

Quotes for Today

2011-04-18T17:50:00.003-05:00

"There is a vitality, a life-force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost." ~Martha Graham

“Write what should not be forgotten.” ~ Isabele Allende

"To create one's own world, in any of the arts, takes courage." ~ Georgia O’Keeffe

Greetings from Creek County, OK

2011-04-11T20:09:00.001-05:00

If it's April, it's National Poetry Month again. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing again. So, here's a little poem dashed off for one of the prompts - a postcard poem.

Smoke-filled cerulean skies rain ash down
onto wind-swept plains, summer heats the spring,
dry days crinkle skin and earth, garden hoses soak
winter’s leavings, a small protection from raging
wildfires, and each drizzle is greeted with joyful
dance and a heartfelt prayer for just a little more.

A bit of Memoir

2011-03-28T18:59:00.000-05:00

I guess I should have missed my father since he was dead. He’d been dead for several years then, but as I recall I was more concerned with the damp chill, the spitting rain that covered the day like a soggy blanket so that I wasn’t sure if it was day or night.

I remember the puddle of cold, cold water at my feet, my black patent leather Mary Janes mud-spattered, my once-white Buster-Brown socks soaked, clinging and iced against my feet, the trickle of water from the umbrella overhead that always seemed to drain down the back of my neck – icy fingers against my spine. The only warm spot was the hand my mother held tightly in hers.

Taller than my head, a dark grey stone marked where my father lay. I remember wondering why anyone wanted to spend eternity in the dank ground suffocated by soil and covered with bugs and things. But like most young children, my attention soon wandered away from the stone to the churchyard. The cemetery was attached to a church dating from long, long before even my parent’s births. The rain-drenched trees lining the outside of the cemetery morphed into unnamed monsters from nightmare worlds when seen from the corner of my eye – when I looked directly, they once more became innocent trees draped with sodden leaves that faded into that misty time.

My brother stood on the other side of my mom and when I peaked around her crinoline dress skirt, he would scowl and stick his tongue out at me. At nearly five years older than I, he was as he continually reminded everyone, the man of the family now that daddy had died.

It’s hard to miss someone you never really knew at least, until someone else tells you, shows you, you’re somehow less for not having one.

(Just a bit of memoir - not sure what, if anything, I'm going to do with it.)

Quotes for Today

2011-03-28T18:46:00.000-05:00

"I believe that the act of writing is itself the muse."
~Bret Anthony Johnston

"I don't know what inspiration is. But when it comes I hope it finds me working."
~ Pablo Picasso

"This is where I place myself when I write. I am the Fool about to set off the edge of the world, unafraid of the fall."
~ Susan Power

Quotes for Today:

2011-03-22T11:08:00.000-05:00

"A writer stays alive because he or she is writing, or may write: the elusive divine exists."
~Jayne Anne Phillips

"There are two kinds of writer: those who make you think, and those who make you wonder."
~Brian Aldiss

"I often think of a poem as a door that opens into a room where I want to go."
~Minnie Bruce Pratt

Detritus

2011-03-18T15:54:00.000-05:00

Abandoned,
only the ghosts
of long ago remain
within the battered board and tin
now fallen to ruin;

staggering,
hunched downward,
encompassed by leaf flotsam,
returning to wilderness,
primeval.

Gaia encircles this detritus
of human habitation with loving arms,
lonely sentinels standing guard
against the march of populace,

wild grasses weave
a tattered refrain
within the broken walls, tufting
through the windows, waltzing
in the breeze that flows

around and about, whispering
and singing songs
of the departed . . .

from whence we came
so we return . . .

A Season

2010-12-02T09:49:00.000-06:00

As many of you know, my step-dad had been having health difficulties for the last year. Although he fought hard and long, he was lost to us on November 28, 2010. We're having services on December 3, 2010. Currently, the best words I have are from the King James version of the Holy Bible, those attributed to King Solomon. I hope you bear with me for this posting, but I find great wisdom and comfort these words, and I thank all of you for your prayers and understanding over the last year.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and
a time to die;
a time to plant, and
a time to pluck up
that which is planted;

A time to kill, and
a time to heal;
a time to break down, and
a time to build up;

A time to weep, and
a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and
a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and
a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and
a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and
a time to lose;
a time to keep, and
a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and
a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and
a time to speak;

A time to love, and
a time to hate;
a time of war; and
a time of peace.

Quote for the Day:

2010-10-27T16:16:00.000-05:00

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“Dreams are like stars...you may never touch them, but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny.” ~ unknown

“Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you.” ~ Marsha Norman

Little Red Shoes

2010-10-25T16:16:00.010-05:00

Perched upon the yard

like a rusty skeleton,

a swing-set with empty seats

swaying

Fallen near the walk

once-proud possession

a bike with both tires

deflated

Abandoned in the silent room

a one-eyed owl

with love-tattered wings

deserted

Clothing the narrow bed

a pretty pink comforter

with party-dress frills

smoothed

and these little red shoes

with no one left

to greet

(Photo courtesy of nonsense_dreamer (Amelie) at DeviantArt; http://nonsense-dreamer.deviantart.com/gallery/?1441026#/dzdfn2)

An Unfinished Life

2010-10-14T13:41:00.000-05:00

Should life cease, will I be ready to pass
into that other place, through dark doors
landing in glorious light? Or, shall I ponder
on an unfinished life?

Comprised of words unspoken
silenced by correctness,
of dreams unimagined, nebulous, amorphous,
seeds yet unbirthed,
of love horded miserly, never expressed,
retained until there’s no one left,

still gazing across one-day vistas waiting
for a time that never occurs,
will echoes of unheard, undiscovered family
haunt me always?
No, I think I shall be contrary and decline
the passage into unknown horizons;

after all, I’m still a work under construction
struggling to release self-imposed exiles, create
a new world within the boundaries,
the confines, of my incomplete soul.

The Hand of God

2010-09-27T16:29:00.000-05:00

There are times
when the wind whispers
secrets to the trees, softly caressing
each leaf, dancing over the grasslands
and kissing across the skin;
a pleasant interlude, a time
for kites, cloud-watching,
laying in a hammock, lulled
by the sway of the breeze.

Then, there are times
when the wind rages, crying
through the night, a wailing lament,
the sound of ten thousand lost souls
searching for solace as yet unfound,
a banshee’s symphony of thunderous
crescendos, blue-white lightening strikes,
rampaging through the countryside
leaving only destruction in its wake.

A time, when surely we see
the hand of God at work, the power
and awe-inspiring force of nature
that bound across the landscape,
helter-skelter, skipping over this
house and leveling that barn,
uprooting trees that have stood
for a century, leaving only
tears and broken dreams behind.

And yet, the sun still rises
blessing each day with a new
beginning; some filled with hardship
and sorrow, others overflowing with joy
of a life still lived. The secret is determining
how to find the joy within
the hardship. That must also be
the hand of God delivering
us out of the darkness into the light.

(Life on the plains always includes the wind; it is a presence that lives and breathes, surrounding the inhabitants with both pleasure and fear. It becomes a tornado, a force so powerful that those at the high end of the scale, EF5, are sometimes referred to as “the hand of God”. ~ lgb, 2010)

Rules of Sevenling

2010-07-19T18:38:00.000-05:00

What is a sevenling? A very good question and one which I should have addressed before posting my attempt. A sevenling is a poetic form composed of seven lines with certain specific rules. I just found this description which is much better than the definition I followed in my attempt. As you can see below, I didn't follow the rules exactly ----- oh, well, maybe I'll try again someday.

"Sevenlings by RODDY LUMSDEN

The rules of the sevenling are thus:

The first three lines should contain an element of three - three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Then, lines four to six should similarly contain an element of three, connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition. There are no set metrical rules, but being such as short form, some rhythm, metre or rhyme is desirable. To give the form a recognisable shape, it should be set out in two stanzas of three lines, with a solitary seventh, last line. Titles are not required. A sevenling should be titled Sevenling followed by the first few words in parentheses The tone of the sevenling should be mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told. The poem should have a certain ambience which invites guesswork from the reader. "

http://home.comcast.net/~jpdancingbear/apj_sevenling.html

Too Much Information

2010-07-12T20:10:00.000-05:00

Feminine products, erectile dysfunction, overactive bladders.
Subjects of endless commercials about things
that really shouldn’t be discussed in public.

Religion, politics, familial dirty laundry.
More topics that always seem to be the subject
of never-ending reality programming.

Don’t you wonder whatever happened to reading?

(This is my first attempt at the sevenling form.)

Update

2010-07-12T20:07:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the long hiatus - I had to take some time to help my family. My stepfather had surgery and some problems and is still recovering. He's finally home - but it's been a long road with a great distance yet to go to recovery.

Hope everyone is still doing well, and I thank everyone for their wonderful comments. I also hope you will continue to read and enjoy my efforts.

Thank you again, LisaB.

Sixteen

2010-05-27T16:18:00.000-05:00

Sixteen, sweet sixteen
by then she’d learned more than she ever wanted to know
more than any child-woman should

of words hard as fists leaving blotches
where only the heart can see

of eyes blinded by compromise, overlooking
bruises polka-dotting flesh

of male bonding rituals, fathers and sons ogling
budding breasts

of painted appearance being more important
that substance and knowledge

of gropes and grabs, hands slid under skirts,
of lost dreams and broken hearts,
of self-worth residing
in peer acceptance that never came

and little red pills that ease the pain
and fog the mind,

the knowledge that she can never escape
her own eyes looking back
from the mirror hanging on the wall
while she still exists,

and the realization that self-respect
predicates all respect
and nothing, and no one
is more important than that;

and while she breathes, life goes on
another day, another year - -
now sixteen is just a lingering nightmare.

Morning Coffee

2010-05-18T11:13:00.000-05:00

Alarm clock blared, didn’t hear it,
running late,
rushing, rushing,
shower and dress,
running, rushing
no time, no time –
I’m late, I’m late -
white rabbit has nothing on me.

To work I go
traffic caging inside
near-death duel,
vehicle sputters, nearly stalling,
idiot drivers texting as they go,
hit the parking lot sprinting,
at the time clock
punching in – barely made it.

Scowling, growling,
traipsing toward the coffee pot.
oh. my. god.
THERE’S NO COFFEE.

Place the paper,
dump the grind,
tapping feet, dancing
in place until brew
is complete,
pour the cup,
mouth watering,
brain awakening,
ahhhh, saturating cells,
widening eyes, calming temper,
almost human - got my morning caffeine fix.

Finding Poetry Within

2010-05-03T16:13:00.000-05:00

Each word struggles
to be discovered,
birthed into a world
sometimes harsh,
sometimes lost.

Pieces of my soul
courtesy of the muse
within, searching for acceptance
beyond the fences of my heart,
the constraints of the internal critics.

Fledglings taking wing
on the thermals
of uncertainty and reality,
shyly exposing themselves
to all the world.

Springtime on the Plains

2010-05-01T20:41:00.001-05:00

Each spring we put away our winter
woolens, unearth our cottons and shorts,
begin the time-honored tradition
of sky-watching; a regional past-time,

searching the skies for approaching
grey and black clouds, towering
anvils above the grassy seas
flowing across the plains;

listening for the bulletins blaring
“seek shelter NOW”, hoping, praying
the National Weather Service is wrong,
this time, please, God, let them be wrong;

imploring the deity that the fifteen
minute advance notice is enough,
that you don’t hear that freight-train roar,
nor gaze into the eye of the abyss;

that time elapses and the tornado
skips your house, that those icy fingers
of fear are not a premonition of what’s
to come, that the ‘all-clear’ is heard soon;

that your friends and loved-ones are safe,
and you tell yourself, over and over
that it will never happen to you . . .
until it does.

(NOTE: Although I've lived in Oklahoma for the majority of my life, I have never suffered the loss of a loved one or even property to a tornado - I've been very fortunate in that respect. I remember many times in my childhood that someone would tuck me into a closet or bathtub covered with blankets and pillows to wait out a storm. There's nothing you can do but shelter, wait, and pray.)

Wedding Blessing

2010-04-30T13:47:00.000-05:00

Where once there were solitary people,
now, today these two have come together –
to walk side-by-side in partnership;

their lives entwined,
rooted like the trees;
stronger together than apart;

to hold each other,
support each other,

to blossom as individuals
who choose to grow together,

to cherish being a couple by encouraging
and honoring those special traits each
bring to this marriage.

Their joined hands represent the union
of mind and body, heart and soul.

The ring symbolizes the unbroken continuity
of life, flowing, infinite.

The candle flame represents your love
burning warm and bright;

the flowers symbolize the blossoming of your relationship;
and the food represents the nourishment
of bodies and spirits.

May our Creator bless you
with wisdom, patience, humility and courage;

grace you with joy and love;
may your spirits bloom

and happiness crown your union
today, tomorrow
and always.

The Mirror

2010-04-27T11:15:00.000-05:00

Before I knew him,
he was gone,
lost to this world.
No knowledge exists
of my own,
only stories told
to me by someone else.
Stories of love
and laughter,
of resemblance found
in this face of mine.
So I search
each mirror hoping
to see the ghost
I loved and lost
before I realized
what it meant
to have a father,
and seek to fulfill
the dreams once
had by the one
I never knew.

Portrait Complete

2010-04-21T16:15:00.000-05:00

The hand, usually bold and precise
when drawing other subjects
while sketching its owner, stutters
in fretful stops and starts as if only
now learning the skill of drawing.

The eyes, normally clear-sighted and keen
while seeking the truth within others,
gazes at the mirrored reflection noticing
only the doppelganger instead
of the soul laid bare to vision.

The heart, normally compassionate
and giving to those of its acquaintance,
hardens when considering its own behavior,
no immediate benefit of doubt nor
thoughtful self-consideration given.

The portrait complete, merely a rude draft,
a tintype of the artist’s psyche, shadowed
by self-doubt and recriminations, a hazy
outline in hues faded by the internal censor,
a shadowy afterimage of the soul’s truth.

Quote for Today

2010-04-07T22:21:00.000-05:00

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."
~Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

"Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door." ~Emily Dickenson

Sea Glass

2010-04-05T18:45:00.000-05:00

Remnants
of some forgotten thing
shards tumbled by turbulence
colored
in shades of sea and sky
washed upon the shore.

Reborn
in oceanic waters
sharp edges smoothed through struggle
fragility
strengthened to stone
patterned by lapse of time.

Plucked
from the sands and rolled
like dice within my hands
prickly
remembrance of who I once was
before finding myself a round peg.

Update

2010-04-05T18:27:00.000-05:00

Spring's first day was covered with six inches of very wet snow. Less than two weeks later, Easter Sunday was crowned with 80 degree temperatures. Welcome to spring-time in Oklahoma.

April is National Poetry Month - so read and share your favorite poetry and poets. Poets and Writers is a good place to start, http://www.pw.org/.

If you like to write, check out Poetic Asides, http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/, where there will be a prompt for each day of this month.

I've been catching up on my reading, looking back through some fiction pieces and working on some poetry. I hope everyone made it through the winter and is beginning to enjoy some spring - a time of rebirth, renewal, and fresh starts.

An Honor and an Anniversary

2010-03-24T11:18:00.000-05:00

Recently I was informed that Dancing with Pens has been named to the 100 Best Poetry Blogs by Accredited Colleges Online. It's a wonderful honor, and a great anniversary present as March 2010 is the one year anniversay of my blog! I'm listed at #84 under Emotional and Inspirational poetry. Woohoo!

If you are interested, you may find the article, here:
http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/

I also wanted to take this time to express my gratitude and appreciation to everyone who has visited over the last year. Your support and comments mean the world to me. Whenever I have a down day, or feel that my writing is working, I read the wonderful words you have left and am inspired all over again. Thank you for a fabulous year, and here's hoping that 2010 is even better.

As Least As Much

2010-03-22T16:42:00.000-05:00

When my life counts down
to that final time – that final hour,
what will I wonder; what will I wish
I had not left yet undone?

I would wonder why
my “someday” never came,
why I left so late (was it too late),
the dreams of my heart -
to visit the birthplaces of my ancestors,
to create beauty wherever I could;

I will wonder for what
I shall be remembered -
a good friend,
a beloved child
a loving heart?

I will wish
for someone special
to hold my hand and guide
my journey homeward;

and, I shall hope
the passing of my life has meant
at least as much
as the flutter
of a butterfly’s wings.

Spring 2010

2010-03-21T04:29:00.001-05:00

Spring arrived in Oklahoma with a flock of robins and a snowstorm. The robins took shelter under the carport, snuggling under the leaves next to the house and would fly out into the storm whenever anyone walked out the front door. You could see them take shelter under the cars parked in the drive, puffed up to about twice their normal size, looking for all the world like a bunch of grumpy old men in brown suits and red waistcoats. The expression on their faces looked so much like Walter Matthau in the movie, Grumpy Old Men, that I had to laugh every time I saw them.

Fortunately, the snowstorm only lasted about 30 hours. The last gasping breath of winter expired on Sunday. Everything started melting, and now I'm surrounded by a sodden marsh that once was yard. But, the robins were out in force, bouncing across the ground, scratching for food and looking much happier.

I guess even the birds get fooled by the weather sometimes!

Quote for the Day:

2010-03-01T16:48:00.000-06:00

To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. ~Mary Oliver

"Considering the ways in which so many of us waste our time, what would be wrong with a world in which everybody were writing poems? After all, there’s a significant service to humanity in spending time doing no harm. While you’re writing your poem, there’s one less scoundrel in the world. And I’d like a world, wouldn’t you, in which people actually took time to think about what they were saying? It would be, I’m certain, a more peaceful, more reasonable place. I don’t think there could ever be too many poets. By writing poetry, even those poems that fail and fail miserably, we honor and affirm life. We say ‘We loved the earth but could not stay." ~ Ted Kooser, The Poetry Home Repair Manual

The White Peony

2010-02-22T21:05:00.000-06:00

Most people say that peony bushes
are difficult, growing well only
for those special few.

My grandmother possessed
that special touch,
her peony bush was enormous,
nearly blocking the back door.

Its flowers rippling
like curtain-lace, contrasting
stark white splashed
against the aged ochre brick

of the old house, much higher than my childish head, waving
in the summer wind like an emerald banner
dotted with riotous blooms.

Grandmother would pick through
the blossoms selecting a few,
industriously searching
each for the rider inside.

When found, she plucked
it from its fragrant home, deposited
it upon an unfurled bud.

People complain about the ants, she said,
but without them, the flowers won’t bloom.
Just make certain you pick them out
before bringing the bouquet indoors.

Then she looked over at me
to see if I was listening,
understanding the wisdom she imparted.

Now whenever I smell the spicy-sweet scent
of peonies, I remember her smile,
then seek what’s special inside
that makes the world bloom.

Quote for Today: A Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime

2010-02-16T11:38:00.000-06:00

"People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which one it is, you will know what to do for each person.

When someone is in your life for a REASON . . . It is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend, and they are! They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrong doing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.

Sometimes they die.
Sometimes they walk away.
Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. The prayer you sent up has been answered. And now it is time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON . . . Because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. They bring you an experience of peace, or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it! It is real! But, only for a season.

LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons; things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant."

~ Author Unknown

(Recently, my family has had some difficulties - ill health of aging parents. That experience really started me to think about what's to come in the future, of a time of loss that may be closer than I think. Suddently, I came across this quote. I had discovered it about a year or so ago and loved it. So I copied it down and filed it away. Today, there it was. It brought me comfort, so I decided to share this with all of you in the hopes that it will strike the same cord. I hope you enjoy it.)

Linguistic Alchemy

2010-02-15T22:12:00.000-06:00

Each attempt
to write
is an effort
to understand
the multiplicity that resides
inside the mind

where images, phrases,
snatches of conversation
leap-frog
one over the other,
tumbling around
within a mental vortex

that can be likened,
sometimes,
to a summer squall,
and sometimes
to a tornadic storm.

Parsing the vestiges,
seeking translations
from vision to word
and back once more,
interpretations
of truth,

of each moment,
drawn from kissing frogs
or a murder of crows,
ink-blots and fingernail moons.

Alliterations of life
contained inside the jumble,
reaching out
to touch the world –
as words scratched
upon a page.

Quote for Today

2010-02-11T21:03:00.000-06:00

"Listen. There's a beat within you, and it is more than your heart. It's the sound of your personal rhythm, the words you shout in your bones, the leaps you dance in your dreams, the grief you hide behind your smiles. Embrace that beat and start creating to it. Let it become a beautiful symphony. Rise up and CREATE."

~ Journal Revolutions - Linda Woods and Karen Dinino

Quotes for Today

2010-02-10T20:38:00.002-06:00

"The deepest secret is that life is not a process of discovery, but a process of creation. YOU are not discovering yourself, but creating yourself anew. Seek, therefore, not to find out Who You Are, seek to determine Who You Want To Be."
~ Neale Donald Walsh

"Life is an illusion only a POET can shatter it. Poets are the creators of silence, holders of FAITH, and dreamers of REALITY." ~ Author Unknown

The Party Line

2010-02-03T21:11:00.000-06:00

Waiting for the light to change
from red to green, my eye was caught
by a covey of pigeons perching
on the telephone line overhead.

Thirty-five birds snuggled together
in a line watching all of us trapped
in our vehicles by the vagaries of traffic.

What murmured secrets do they share?
Or perhaps, they’re just
preparing to take aim?

Suddenly, I remember childhood telephone
calls when neighbor-women chattered
endlessly on party lines telling tales,
skewering those not present.

End Notes

2010-01-29T19:30:00.001-06:00

Our favorite world
is almost over –
clock counting down
until it’s gone.

Once,
we had rainy Sundays,
croissants and café au lait
savored over the New York Times,
snuggling together,
spooning so close moonlight
couldn’t slip between our skin.

Now,
we have knife-edged confrontations,
disconsolate tears,
locked doors delineating
the abyss between us,
your attorney meeting mine
during tee time at the club.

Soon,
the judgment shall be decreed,
every line read, finalized,
our signatures placed just so.

And then,
our world will be undone,
no more passage together,
just uncharted roads
we each must travel
alone.

Twitter Poetry (#poetwe)

2010-01-25T19:41:00.000-06:00

pearly winter blanket punctuated /
by cardinal’s vivid blaze /
black eyes snapping as he munches /
breakfast at my feeder #poetwe

blanketing fog encompasses surroundings /
night shadows blocking vision /
forcing back the day /
walking in a dreamscape #poetwe

blazing light rips wide the sky /
wind gossips with the trees /
dark night grumbles overhead /
heralding the arriving winter storm #poetwe

Twitter Poetry (#poetwe)

2010-01-20T22:48:00.000-06:00

1.
pre-dawn, gleaming fingernail moon hovers /
above the rainbow ribbons of twilight arch /
as indigo dreams fade in light of day #poetwe

2.
iridescent fog slithers across landscape /
tendrils capturing awakening sun /
shrouding morning within twilight #poetwe

3.
hurry, hurry, worry, wait /
deadline approaching, computer dying /
Tuesday becomes Monday #poetwe

Twitter Poetry (#poetwe)

2010-01-10T21:35:00.000-06:00

yesterday I spied a robin and a cardinal /
dancing together across the snow /
searching for birdly nibbles /
hope they like frozen food

Twitter Poetry (#poetwe)

2010-01-09T19:20:00.001-06:00

I'm attempting something new - Twitter poetry. Twitter allows for short, only 140 characters, which does include spaces, dashes, and all punctuation. So I'm attempting to use this format to write poetry. I'm finding it somewhat difficult. I tend to be wordy, so expressing the thought, the intent within this form takes some effort. Not as much as a 6 word story, but enough. So, here's my first Twitter Poem, or as I call it #poetwe.

This was to commemorate the blizzard most of Northeastern Oklahoma experienced on Christmas Eve of 2009. This was only the third blizzard in recorded weather statistics which is in the last 100 years. Sustained winds of 35 m.p.h. with gusts up to 60 m.p.h. Final total for Tulsa was 5.8 inches; I live about 35 - 40 miles south and east, and we received about 7 inches of snow. Needless to say, it was a very quiet Christmas. Stayed home, bundled up, and read or watched t.v. Hope your Christmas was warm and loving!

blizzard wind howls in the trees /
overwhelms land with icy flakes /
dancing like manic fireflies /
dangerous beauty full of frigid ire

Dawning

2010-01-06T00:01:00.003-06:00

Dawn sneaks across the sky
in painted beauty, prismatic gleams,

a soft kiss to bid the dark night farewell,
serenaded by the mourning dove

a dream awaited, anticipated –
a flame to enrapture the soul.

Time

2010-01-03T21:30:00.000-06:00

Does it slip ‘like sand through an hourglass’?
Or, merely get lost along the way, bogged
down with the day-to-day living, forgotten
amongst the rubbish of necessary?

One day, a child with nothing to worry
about except imaginary friends, then time
for school, must be on time, making the grade,
being in the right place, doing the right thing.

Finding yourself on the outside looking in,
lost, never belonging, missing something
you can’t even name. Rushing, chasing after
some dream someone told you that you should

want. Then out in the world you go – time
for work, punching a time clock, get your forty
hours in, make it count. Climb the ladder, always
seeking the dream, success. More money, more

bills, no time for the kids, no time for friends.
Until you wake up old, gray, all alone, wondering
how you lost forty years. Facing a reflection
you don’t recognize. Always wondering how

time got away from you. Wishing
for something you threw away
a long time ago.

Red Dirt Update

2009-12-21T16:37:00.000-06:00

Forgot to mention, but in the midst of working on my poetry chapbook for Poetic Asides, I also submitted a flash fiction story and a poem for consideration to the Red Dirt Anthology. Haven't heard anything yet, but keeping my fingers crossed.

Sacred Moments

2009-12-20T22:09:00.000-06:00

Thank you for the moments,
the life lived within a minute;
little snippets of time, holding
reflections, a world within each

stroke of time, within a grain
of sand upon the shore,
a life lived within the beat
of a bird’s wing, or a heart.

Holding each moment
close to the heart, warming,
sunlight illuminating water,
water whispering over stones,

telling secrets of eons past;
the secrets within each family;
A drop of rain refracting
the world, a world of dreams.

Emotional outpouring, a single
blade of grass heralds the spring;
a sea of green rippling in the breeze,
washing the shore, sandstone

outcroppings reaching for sky,
a blue-fire sky searing the eyes,
eyes that seek the light, finding
the sacred in each moment.

Dreaming Down the Day

2009-12-15T22:03:00.000-06:00

It begins
as a spattering of red like prickling
blood across the fabric of sky

streaks, sometimes angry,
sometimes washed soft

continues
with purple-blue flares developing
into sheets that envelop the bowl above

as the sun traverses the ladder downward
passing night crawling up stealthily,

an assassin
that overtakes, swallowing
the light, until the world consists

only of shadows painted blue and black
punctuated by man-lights gleaming boldly,

a cry
against the night, a feeble attempt
to stave off the darkness, the nightmare unnamed,

until all fades
and dreaming down the day is done

(Photo courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hotair2112/255860717/in/set-72157594180977406/
Protected under Creative Commons 2.0 license)

Update: PoetryDances.ning.com

2009-11-30T18:29:00.002-06:00

Tooting my own horn, here - I was selected as a Favorite Writer for the Quarter on Poetry Dances. I really appreciate this as there are many, many excellant poets in this forum.

Thank you, Poetry Dances!

http://www.poetrydances.com/favoritewritersnovjan10.htm

For additional news, please check out the following link:

http://www.pr.com/press-release/196189

House of Fear

2009-11-23T22:36:00.000-06:00

Fear lives
inside each of us,
peering outward,
ancient eyes of hate and bias.
Bigotry, racism, sins of all mankind,
one against the other. It feeds
upon the darkness inside us,
insidious, sneaky, a failing of heart
and mind. It fights against truth,
the light of creation and life itself

an all-encompassing orifice through
which knife-edged words spill
spoilage and shame

Fear cocoons,
building walls, dividing,
defeating. It blinds the eyes
from sight and deafens the ears
from hearing. It spiderwebs
outward, geometric rays of captivity,
capturing the grains of truth.
It lives inside the prison
of our minds refusing
to embrace the sun

a cavern of abysmal dark, full of ice
shards that razor, slicing deep,
bloodied and unbowed

Fear resides
inside the grain of spirit,
within the crannies of the soul,
slithering around corners, hiding,
then striking like a snake
poisoning everything, biting
sharp teeth into the muscles,
creating paralysis, afraid to leave,
afraid to stay.

News: Poem featured on PoetryDances.com

2009-11-16T17:52:00.002-06:00

My poem, "Ancient Song", is a featured selection for this quarter at PoetryDances.com; http://poetrydances.com/poemsnov09jan10.htm I actually posted it in September, and you saw it first!

Rediscovery

2009-11-10T23:11:00.001-06:00

In the city, you forget about the stars
seeing only streetlight’s incandescence
instead of the illumination of nature.

The eye is blinded by imitation, coronas
blazing, fading out the sky, covering
night’s soft beauty, turning it into false day.

At work’s end, I travel home away from
the constant stimulation, the incessant
24-hour daylight, into the softness painted

midnight-blue, pierced only with crystal light,
glowing in the blanket overhead, and rediscover
the wondrous shapes above from tales told

and retold around campfires, and the endless
dreams flying through the sky.

Red Dirt Book Festival

2009-11-08T21:30:00.000-06:00

Spent Friday and Saturday at the Red Dirt Book Festival in Shawnee, OK. It is a biennial event put together by the library system that brings authors, poets, scholars together with book lovers and aspiring writers.

I really enjoyed it; learned a few things, got to see some of my favorite authors. Even spoke with some of them. Everyone was approachable, and more than willing to give of their time and experiences. I was privileged to hear Sharon Sala, Jordan Dane, Billie Letts, Mel Odem, Michele Bardsley, and several others speak. Got a chance to actually meet and hold a short coversation with Michele Bardsley who is very gracious and congenial.

All in all - a great experience which refreshed my commitment to writing. I also have an opportunity to submit a written work of up to 3,000 words to the Red Dirt anthology which is only open to which participants and registered attendees. Deadline is December 15, 2009. So, now I have to determine what to submit.

Update

2009-11-02T19:29:00.000-06:00

You might notice several post popping up with old dates. That's because I was away from my home computer and attempted to post via E-mail. Operative word - attempted. I obviously didn't have it set up the way I thought, so the posts were held. Until today! Yeh! Back with my own computer, although still having problems accessing some things.

November is the Poetic Asides Chapbook challenge. Each day, we're given a prompt to inspire a poem. The challenge is that we are to determine a theme and then use the prompt to illustrate that theme in some way. The idea is that at the end of November, we will all have 30 poems to polish, and then have enough of a themed collection to make up a chapbook of 10 - 20 pages. So that is what I will be working on this month in addition to some other projects already in the works.

Wish me luck!

Hopefully, I won't be away so long in the future. Thank you for all your wonderful comments and words of encouragement. You keep me going, inspired!

~LisaB.

These Four Walls

2009-10-30T19:14:00.003-05:00

A house is just four walls, a roof, some windows
and doors erected to shelter inhabitants. Just masonry
and mortar, wood, - rude materials these.

But, if these four walls could speak, what saga would
they tell? They would spin a tale of the hopes
and dreams of those who had walked between;

of the man who constructed each wall by hand anticipating
his bride’s arrival; of the young wife who gazed from
the kitchen window while her hand caressed the life within;

of the eagerly awaited additions that increased two
to three then four, and the love that expanded
with each new arrival. Of toddling steps, scraped knees,

bruises and bloody noises, ballerina and astronaut wishes,
puppy kisses; of first loves and broken hearts, and of graduations;
of a father’s pride and a mother’s tears

as their fledglings left the nest, and of the joy that bloomed
again and again when the next generation danced
across the threshold; of the quiet love that sustained

both man and woman through all the years and joined
them one to the other in life, and then in death. Now these
four walls are all alone with only memories to roam within.

Her Dreams

2009-10-20T19:06:00.000-05:00

As a child, things seem like they last forever
each day, a year between sunrise and sunset;
a minute is an eternity with no realization
of time passing until death comes to call

Her parents were forever, always relied upon
to slay the monsters under the bed,
no wondering, no worrying until her father died
and she learned the weight of sorrow.

When she walked down the aisle to join
her forever love, a vow made until death do
them part; death came calling two years later
with a judge’s decree in a courthouse

She worked hard attempting to be the best
only to be passed over because she was not a he;
still she gave her everything, living for the job,
until her fast-track success dream came crashing down

She realized she’d been trapped inside a false idea,
lost her way, lost herself. She floundered in the abyss
until reconnecting with the dreams hidden inside,
found the words there caged, loosed them on the page,

now she seeks within, realizing that death and life
are necessary just like sunrise and shadow,
that success and freedom are what you make of them
while travelling the road expressed within the heart.

The Box

2009-10-12T19:10:00.000-05:00

The day we met, I wasn’t looking for you,
but we found each other anyway at the fishpond
in the park, both looking for a quiet place to sit
out of the way of the carnival going on around us.

We bonded while feeding greedy Koi, over fuchsia lotus
blossoms and the cool, green water. We discovered
a mutual interest the blues and a dislike of loud,
noisy games that interrupted silent contemplation.

We built from that meeting, with long walks and discussions
of current events, books. You loved Sylvia Plath, hated
Thoreau while I found worlds inside his writing and
never quite understood her at all.

Still we became a couple, joined our lives together
in marriage. When the towers fell, you needed to defend,
to become a part of that. While we disagreed on the necessity
of the war, I supported your position.

We said farewell one rainy morning; I waved to you
as you boarded the plane that would take you far away
among people who hated us. I donned my brave face
and waited for you to come home to me.

Two became one, and life went on. Days passed with bills
being paid, friends calling, solitary dinners and sleeping beside
you only in my dreams. Until the tolling of the door bell. Until
the two men arrived upon our porch.

They said, with regret, that you had died, bravely, a hero defending
his country. I never expected to be alone, sitting in the dark
watching the sky rage wildly against the night. Wondering
how I can face you returning to me in a flag-draped box.

Shall I . . . ?

2009-10-05T18:30:00.000-05:00

You say that you can’t go on, that it all feels too much . . .

Shall I agree that this is the only way, that nothing will ever improve?

Shall I grant you permission, or solace, or your need for forgiveness?

Shall I give you leave to end your life upon this Earth?

No, that I will not do.

Shall I sing a song of tear-cried rivers from anguished souls left behind?

Shall I tell you of my angry heart that rages against allowing your light to die?

Or, shall I fight for you, and with you until the day you draw your last breath?

Oh, yes, THAT I will do.

You Must be This High to Ride

2009-09-29T22:01:00.001-05:00

The photo displayed a lovely
woman with hand held
up measuring the distance
between earth and sky.

Below were the words
“You must be this high
to ride.” Not so different
from the States, I thought.

Then a trumpeting roar
came calling upon my ears
and with it, the realization,
that pachyderm wasn’t

fiberglass, but living, breathing,
trumpeting, and possibly
very upset. It was ALIVE!

I think I’ll skip the ride,
but thank you all the same.

(http://poetrydances.ning.com/group/prompz/forum/topics/prompz-17?page=1&commentId=2834822%3AComment%3A30912&x=1#2834822Comment30912)

I Remember

2009-09-26T21:03:00.000-05:00

(For my Mom, Charlotte)

I remember
your voice singing, a lullaby perhaps,
the melody of you surrounded me
and I knew
everything would be all right

I remember
your hand clasping mine, guiding
me safely through life’s chaos
and I knew
everything would be all right

I remember
your touch soothing the tears
of youthful anguish
and I knew
everything would be all right

I remember
your glistening eyes meeting mine
as I walked toward marriage
and I knew
everything would be all right

I remember
your voice raised in righteous anger
when that marriage dissolved
and I knew
everything would be all right

And I know
when your time on Earth is nearly
finished, it will be your hand in mine
that reminds me someday
we will reunite in the ever-after,
and then, again,
everything will be all right.

Ancient Song

2009-09-22T16:30:00.000-05:00

As the last kiss of night waltzes
with dawn’s light across the melancholy
sky, shimmering fog hovers, masking
the forest eternal in blanketed silence.

A blur crosses visual periphery as one denizen
of this wild abode sneaks homeward from nightly
revel. No populace, no towering concrete nor steel.

No overrun of vehicular smog, no noise, just still
surround. Above, a canopy of wild green dripping
condensate; below, leaf pack muffling this visitor’s
progress and behind, solitary footprints. Ahead,

a tunnel leads to a secret place. Glimmering light
guides this seeker through encompassing woods,
each step one closer to a singular miracle. Sudden

arrival stutters the breath into a duet with the soughing
breeze rippling all around. My sanctuary, nature's chapel,
a grove of old ones encircles a clearing, a woodland
garden ablaze, a firestorm in red, and a stream singing

an ancient song to guide this seeker home.

Shameless Promotion

2009-09-21T16:24:00.002-05:00

One of my poems, Tasting Truth, has been selected for inclusion in PoetryDances.com's selected poetry for this quarter. I'm very proud of this as I am in the company of very good poets. I hope you take time to check out the offerings on PoetryDances.com. If you like poetry, this is the place to come and read some of the best on the Web. (Of course, I might be just a tad prejudiced, hhhmmmm?)

http://www.poetrydances.com/Poemsaugoct09.htm

The Raging Sun

2009-09-15T17:29:00.000-05:00

Dreams slip blindly
into the raging sun
of mind and heart.

Pieces of hope,
wishes pierced
from memory past,
into the future,
heart’s desire,
love enraged,
hate disarmed.

Each night dreaming
into day’s dawning.

Entreating, hoping
no more leaving.

Fighting, hating,
partnership dissolving.
Love absconding,
aloneness stealing
around my door.

Dreams die hard
in the raging sun.

(Photo courtesy of stock.xchng: http://night-fate.deviantart.com/art/what-s-left-of-me-94162074)

Aftermath

2009-09-11T15:40:00.004-05:00

Conceived in hate, birthed in terror,
thousands died; everyday ordered lives
tumbled down, disintegrating
into corruption-tainted shards leaving
only sorrow-storms, hollowed hearts
and shattered trust

2 billion watched this Nation’s
innocence destroyed; bore witness
while our tattered dreams fell
amongst the smoke and rubble,
now haunted by the never-to-be forgotten;
co-joined survivors living the aftermath

9/11 - The Anniversary

2009-09-11T02:14:00.001-05:00

Here we are again, 9/11 - the anniversary of the day America lost her innocence.

For so long, we thought we were immune, or perhaps exempt from the tragedies that are felt around the world, sometimes every day. We thought terrorism was something that happened to someone else, that our borders were sovereign and inviolate. We, like most children, believed ourselves invincible, perhaps immortal.

We were wrong.

It was a very rude awakening and like most awakenings, it was full of pain and sorrow and loss. The loss of loved ones, the loss of innocence, the loss of faith in ourselves, in our government, in our world-view. Once lost, innocence can never be reclaimed. We have seen the shadow; we have felt the chill touch of mortality. We realize that we aren't invincible, untouchable.

Today is the day to remember those who have gone before us; those who have lived and died for every freedom, every privilege we experience and sometimes take for granted. Today is a day to mourn their loss, to celebrate their lives, and to rejoice in our wondrous freedom. Today is a day to remember just what those sacrifices have gained, and what we stand to lose should we ever forget.

When was the last time you actually read the Declaration of Independence, or the Constitution, or even the Bill of Rights? Do you even remember? Maybe it's time to renew your acquaintance with them.

That's one of the things I plan to do today. I'm going to re-read them, renew myself within those amazing words. Then, I'm going to light a candle before saying a prayer - one of thankfulness for those who have gone before and for those who still fight. For those still fighting, I hope my candle becomes one of many to shine against the darkness, a beacon to guide them safely home once more.

Just some thoughts . . .

2009-09-10T00:41:00.002-05:00

I hope everyone in the U.S. enjoyed a wonderful Labor Day holiday. I took some extra time in addition. So while I've been on vacation this week, I have spent a lot ot time working on family history. Several of the family members have been working on tracing our common ancestry. It's very easy to get lost in it . It's also amazing what is available online much of which is courtesy of the LDS Family Center. With so many records now available on the Internet, most of the time you no longer have to travel just to find something. It's still time-consuming to dig through everything, but it's very gratifying to find each piece. Like filling in a giant puzzle or solving a mystery.

For anyone who would like to read the short story "For the Love of Lily" as a single, revised posting, check out A Cup of Words - The Journal. The Journal is the blog site for our writer's group, so you will see postings from several members of our group. For those of you who enjoy poetry, you might also check out Timeless Lyrical Ephemera which features poetry from different members.

Snippet, now titled: For the Love of Lily

2009-09-04T17:00:00.002-05:00

“We were in a boat accident.”

Caro found it suddenly very hard to swallow. “We?”

He closed his eyes, then jerked his head downward. “My wife and son, and I.”

“What happened?”

“We were on vacation, taking the boat out. Some kids lost control of their boat and rammed us. They had been hot-dogging, just being kids, you know.”

“Your wife and son?”

“They didn’t make it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. “I hit my head on something, don’t really know what. When I woke in the hospital, everything was dark. It stayed that way until about six months ago.”

“What happened then?”

“Lily.”

“Lily?”

His lips twisted into a smile. Not a happy one, but a smile none-the-less. “My sister decided that I needed a companion and tricked me into taking her. She told me that she was the runt of the litter and if no one took her, she would be sent to the pound.”

“She didn’t?”

“Oh, yes she did. My sister’s ruthless when she want to be, and she’d decided that it was time for me to face the living.”

“So what did you do?”

The smile this time was a true one, reflected in the clear blue of his eyes. “I have Lily don’t I? Or, perhaps, she has me.”

She joined his laughter. “Oh, the latter, I’m sure. Seems like she has you exactly where she wants you.”

“Well, she’s entitled. When she first arrived, I wasn’t very happy about it. I mean, I couldn’t see, so how could I take care of a puppy. But, Kathleen, that’s my sister, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Truthfully, once she put Lily in my arms, I was a goner. She put her paws on my shoulders and reached up to touch her nose to mine and something inside me just melted.”

She smiled with him, but said nothing.

“The first six months were hard. I was trying to adapt, to take care of myself, then I had the responsibility for another being.”

When he didn’t say continue, she prompted him. “Well, what did you do?”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I was lost in darkness again.” He shook his head, straightened his shoulders, and went on with the story. “Well, I had to accept help and stop wallowing which is what my sister intended. I couldn’t very well let something happen to Lily because I couldn’t take care of her. So, my sister hired a person to help me. Strangely enough, about three months after I did that, my sight began to return. It was just a lightening of the darkness at first. Then flashes, and then one day, I could see. It was hazy, but as the doctor said, that was to be expected since it had been nearly two years since my eyes had worked.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What was the first thing you did once you could see again? Did you read a book, go to the movies, meet with your sister?”

“Oh, okay. No, none of that.” He just smiled and looked down at Lily.

“Well, what was it?”

“I went outside and let Lily show me around the backyard.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh.” She clasped her hands over her heart and looked down at Lily as well, then said, “Well, Lily, what did you do?”

Lily cocked her head to one side, seemed to think about it, then grumbled out her answer. The both laughed at the dog who seemed to be trying to speak to the humans.

Caro turned back to Kieren and asked, “How long until it was back to normal?”

“My vision, or my life?” he laughed. “’Cause with Lily, I’m certain my life will never be normal again.” Lily grinned and slurped a kiss across his hand. “My vision’s still a little wonky at times. I’m very light sensitive, hence the sunglasses at dawn. I have to stay out of the full sun yet, but the doctor says that will probably change with the seasons.”

“For everything there is a season.”

He nodded, “Yes, and now my season of darkness is at an end. All because of a sister who wouldn’t give up, even though I nearly had.”

“And, Lily. Her love showed you the way.”

“Oh, yes. But for the love of Lily, I’d still be there fumbling around in the dark, or else I’d have given up completely.”

Lily crooned. When they looked down at her, they saw her eyes looking out over the bay. They both turned just in time to see the sun crown the horizon and cast off the lingering darkness.

Snippet: Part 4

2009-08-31T16:34:00.004-05:00

“Lily, mind your manners.”

“Oh, she’s okay. She’s just a very affectionate girl, aren’t you, Lily? Are you going to introduce yourself?”

He held out his hand saying, “Kieran Hunter.”

Reaching up to shake his hand, she replied, ”Caroline Irving, but my friends call me Caro.” Lily squirmed under Caro’s hand, whined and leaned against her chest. Caro’s breath wheezed out as she said, “Okay, Lily. I get it. You don’t want to be left out, do you?”

Lily grinned, and whoofed her agreement.

Kieren groaned, “Lily, behave.” Then he realized that Caro was giggling. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard an adult laugh like that, so exuberant. Most of the people he knew would never giggle. Laughter, like everything else was controlled and very, very proper. Of course, they also wouldn’t get down in the sand and play with his dog. Usually, they just ignored her.

When Lily toppled Caro onto her back and began licking every inch of exposed skin, he flinched. The giggling continued, then burst into full-blown laughter. He shook his head. She wasn’t like anyone he knew.

After a few minutes, she looked up, pushed Lily’s head away and said, “You might give me a hand, you know.” He stretched out his hand, she grasped it and pulled herself into a standing position.

“So Kieran, what brings you and your very visible Lily out today? I’m here every morning and don’t remember seeing the two of you before. And, believe me, I would remember meeting Lily. Oh, and you too, of course.”

His lips twitched at being an afterthought. “We just moved into a house down the beach. So, now we’re exploring, right Lily?”

Lily grinned and whoofed.

“Well then, welcome to both of you. I live there.” She swung around and indicated the lighthouse on the point.

“You live in a lighthouse?”

“Yeh, isn’t it great? Which one’s yours?”

“It’s the gray and white Shingle style at the end of the beach.”

“Oh, I thought . . .” her voice trailed off.

“You thought what?”

“Well, I must have been misinformed. I was told that a blind man had moved in there with his . . . dog. Um, huh.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s just you are wearing sunglasses and it’s not very bright out here. You’re not blind, are you? I mean you couldn’t be. You helped me up, shook my hand.” She stopped talking at his heavy sigh.

“No, I’m not blind now.”

“Now?”

“I was in an accident about a two years ago. When I purchased the house, I was the blind man with his dog.”

“That’s incredible. How did you, I mean, if you don’t mind my asking … ?”

“Get my sight back?”

“Yeh.”

“Well, the loss of vision was only partially due to the head trauma. Mostly, it was what they call psychological or hysterical blindness.” He reached up and removed the sunglasses.

She looked into his face, unveiled for the first time, noticing a scar that ran from the corner of his left eye back to his hairline at the temple. “If that’s from the accident, it looks like you took a solid hit to the head.”

The Wild Wood

2009-08-30T23:03:00.001-05:00

Once she ran through a wild wood
where trees had faces that gazed upon the sun
and voices that spoke in softly rustling wind.
Their arms lifted her as she climbed into the sky;
their bodies became her shelter from life’s sudden storms.

In the midst of that wild wood lived
the friends that joined her play. The dryads
wisped through the possum grapes, laughter
trilling and singing across the glades
as her child-self chased behind.

The fairies flitted among the leaves
dancing on the vines overhead, tickling
and teasing against her skin as she slid
down the creek bank then together skipping
hand-in-hand across the dappled water.

From the cavern near the creek slipped
the amethyst-eyed dragon that flew
the child across the sundown sky soaring
higher and higher to touch the clouds
before bringing her safely home once more,

then reappearing within her nightly dreams.

Snippet Title?

2009-08-24T21:04:00.001-05:00

Someone suggested to me to call the Snippet story, The Unnamed. That's one option although I am as yet undecided. As the ending is still uncertain, the name itself could lead to the conclusion.

So, my question is this - what do all of you think this story should be named? Give me some suggestions to consider. I'll post them here, and we will take a poll to determine a consensus. I'll use the title to develop the conclusion to the story.

Anyone have an idea? If so, leave me a comment to this post and we'll see what develops.

I look forward to hearing your ideas regarding the title and ultimate direction for the story.

Quotes for Today

2009-08-23T14:18:00.006-05:00

"And here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see clearly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." ~Antoine de St.-Exupery, The Little Prince

"With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things." ~William Wordsworth

(Photo: http://www.sxc.hu/photo/526194, protected under Creative Commons 2.0)

Just a little Note

2009-08-21T11:34:00.003-05:00

As you can see, I've been busy updating the look of this blog. As I'm new to the blogging world, there was somewhat of a learning curve. Fortunately, I have a very good friend TaunaLen who has been assisting me. I hope you like the new look. Let me know what you think about it.

I also have been working on a story for the Talent Trove Your Story and am just about ready to submit. I'll post a link once I have. I'm also working on another piece of the 'Snippet' story.

Well, that's all for this little note, but I will be back soon.

A Note of Interest

2009-08-14T16:02:00.003-05:00

I received a notice a short time ago about which I thought some of you might be interested.

It seems that Talent Trove, http://www.talenttrove.com/, is having a Your Story Contest. The story must be unpublished, 1,000 words maximum and may be in any of several genres. The winner of the contest earns $250.00 and their story will be the foundation for a movie produced by Talent Trove.

Details may be found on their site at http://www.talenttrove.com/whatsyourstory.

Although I have never had any personal dealings with them to date, I have been approached for a link exchange with the site. It seems that their mission is to provide an open forum for artists in multiple medias to showcase their talents and to allow people and firms looking for talent to see those artists.

I thought this sounded interesting and will be submitting a story to the contest as well. It can't hurt and at the very least I may reach additional readers and friends.

Snippet: Part 3

2009-08-12T17:19:00.013-05:00

As the animal crested the dune, she said, “Oh. My. God. What on earth is that?”

He glanced at her long enough for her to see the slight smile on his face, then said, “That’s my dog, Lilith. Lily for short.”

“There’s nothing short about that animal. Are you sure it’s a dog? ‘Cause it kind of looks like a miniature wooly mammoth. Or, maybe a small horse. A very hairy, small horse. Having a really, really bad hair day.”

“Shhhh. Don’t say that so loud. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

“Huh?”

“Lily is very sensitive. She was the runt of the litter and well, if I hadn’t taken her home, they would have gotten rid of her.”

“That’s barbaric!”

“Yeh, I know. Anyway, she was a little homely as a weanling pup.”

“I can see that.”

“Hey, now. That’s my dog you’re insulting.”

“I’m not being insulting, I’m being honest. She’s . . . really BIG.” The dog was only six feet away but didn’t appear to be slowing down. “Ummm. She will stop, won’t she?”

He turned back towards the dog and held one hand out palm forward, then slashed downward. The dog sat back on her haunches and slid the remaining distant showering both of them with sand. Tongue lolling, panting, Lily sat at their feet looking at them.

As he began brushing sand from his jeans, he said, “Sorry about that. She’s still a puppy so we haven’t quite mastered polite introductions.”

“A puppy?”

“Yes.” His eyes were crinkling at the corners.

“What type of dog is she?”

“Lily’s a mixed breed. Part Irish Wolfhound for sure, and the vet thinks maybe part Newfoundland as well.”

“She’s huge. And hairy.”

“Oh, she’s just a growing girl. She won’t reach her full potential until about three years of age. If she continues along the lines of her mother, she should weigh about one-hundred and thirty pounds and top out about a little under three feet in height.”

“Gawd. You mean to tell me she’ll weigh more than I do?”

He looked her over before saying, “Well, that’s not saying much, but she's probably nearly there now.”

“Hmmmm.” She looked down at the dog sitting between them. Lily looked up at her and stretched her mouth wide, happy with the attention of the two humans. “Did you see that? She smiled at me.”

He ruffled the fur at her head, and Lily leaned into him. “Dogs can’t smile, but she’s a very good-natured pup.”

Squatting down, she was eyeball-to-eyeball when she addressed the dog. “Just goes to show what he knows, doesn’t it Lily,” running her hands over Lily’s head then stroking her neck “By the way, Lily, everyone calls me Caro. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Lily rumbled and slurped her tongue across Caro’s cheek in acknowledgement.

Just a little note

2009-08-06T20:47:00.006-05:00

Everyone seemed to enjoy the snippet of story, so I have another installment for you. Still rough draft, untitled and uncertain as to where it's going. Sometimes that's the way it works, though. I just sit down and start typing, or writing and see what develops. Sometimes, I get a complete idea and then flesh it out.

So, see what you think, and I'll see where it leads us.

Thank you for all your wonderful comments and feedback. It's immensely gratifying to have readers to enjoy my work. Whenever I get bogged down, or discouraged, I look back at the wonderful words you have left me, and start again.

Enjoy!

Snippet Update: Part 2, Untitled Story

2009-08-06T20:41:00.007-05:00

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t sneak up behind someone? You might get socked, or something,” she said.

“I didn’t sneak anywhere. I was just walking my dog.”

She slowly turned in a circle before raising her eyebrows in question. “Your dog? Is he a ghost?”

“What is this fascination you have with ghosts? There are no such thing as ghosts.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Okay, if it makes you happy to believe that, go for it.”

“It does, because it’s fact.”

“Okaaay, then, where’s your dog?”

“Say what?”

“Your dog. The one you said you were walking. I don’t see any dog, so I just thought he must be a ghost. I guess he could be a figment of your imagination, but I don’t really know you well enough to declare you crazy.”

“Let me get this straight. If I said I had a ghost dog, I wouldn’t be crazy, but if I said that the dog was a figment of my imagination, I would?”

“Yeh.” When he made a noise that was somewhat of a cross between a growl and horribly-put-upon sigh, she laughed.

“Do you know my father?”

“WHAT?”

“If you had accompanied that noise with rolling eyes, you would have perfectly imitated him. I didn’t know anyone else actually made that kind of sound.”

“I understand his pain,” he mumbled.

“I heard that! Yeesh, clone-alert.” She turned back to check her equipment, examining the image captured on the LCD. “EEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“YOU MADE ME MISS MY SHOT!”

“Is that all? God, I thought something bit you, or stung you, or . . .”

“Is that all?”

“Well, there’s always another sunrise, isn’t there?”

“Now, I know you must be a long, lost relative on my father’s side of the family.”

“Huh?”

“There’s always another sunrise. It’s not like it’s a real job,” she responded. “Isn’t that what you mean?”

“Well, …”

“I’ll have you know, this is my job. I’m a professional photographer.”

“A professional? You mean you get paid to take photographs?”

“Yeh, that’s right. Don’t know what to say now, do you. It’s different when there’s money involved, isn’t it? Yes, I get paid to take photographs. I have a contract with a publisher for a book that I’m finishing, and I display at several galleries.”

“Galleries. You mean like an artist? Well, I guess that explains the ghost thing then.”

“Oh, because I’m an artist, I’m a flake?”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“Well, I’m not the one walking an invisible dog.”

“She’s not invisible.”

“Really, because I still don’t see any sign of her. Perhaps I was too hasty in deciding your mental faculties are intact.”

“She’s not invisible. She’s just exploring.” He placed two fingers in his mouth, and shrilled out a whistle.

“Well?”

He whistled again then turned toward what sounded like a horse at full gallop coming from the other side of the dune.

A Snippet

2009-08-03T16:53:00.007-05:00

Just a snippet, a prompted writing based on a line: "He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance." ~ Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Don't know where, or even if it's going somewhere yet.

============================================================
Perfect timing, she thought. The sun had just appeared above the horizon. It looked like a big, golden Chinese lantern arising from the dark waters to light the day. And the sky was dressed in multi-color stripes hovering over an ocean that looked like a sheet of midnight glass. “Yeh, nothing like a little purple prose to start the day,” she said.

She focused her camera, double-checking the settings and exposures.

“That should be a good one,” she mumbled.

“Excuse me?” a male voice asked.

“Jeezus! Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” The man had just popped in behind her like some ghost in a horror movie. “Hey, you are real, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

Well, he has a nice voice even if his timing sucks.

Update: Six Word Stories

2009-07-28T16:19:00.004-05:00

You know, it doesn't really take much to make a writer happy. Just someone to read and appreciate our work.

So as you might imagine, I'm very happy that one of my submissions to Six Word Stories, http://www.sixwordstories.net, was featured on July 24, 2009. If you're interested, check it out at the link below.

http://sixwordstories.net/2009/07/wall-cloud-f6-tor.

Caine's Sister

2009-07-24T11:19:00.004-05:00

28-April-2040:

“Mrs. Donovan, you understand that changing time creates consequences that you’ll have to live with? You won’t be able to change it back.” The Time Group lawyer stared at her before continuing, “When you return, you need to bring back these documents signed by both you and your husband.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she said. Although her husband didn’t agree with her decision, she’d do whatever it took to make this happen. Even forge his signature. Every day since her son’s death, she had prayed, implored, and yes, screamed to the heavens. Today was the anniversary of Caine’s death, and finally, someone had listened.

His death had affected all of them, especially her daughter Caitlyn. She lost a twin brother and a mother that day. By changing this one event, both of them would become whole again.

Her arms ached to hold him. She still woke in the night thinking she heard his call, still missed that little boy smell of baby and sweat. Now she would be able to enjoy her life, her husband, and both her children. No more wondering what else she could have done.

“How soon can we begin?”

“We’ll be ready when you return the necessary paperwork. The trip itself will seem like you walked through a door into another room. When you come out, it will have never happened.”

“That quickly? Will I realize what’s happened?”

“Yes, but you’ll be the only one except for the Chronographers here at the Time Group.”

“Chronographers?”

“The Chronographers track the different aspects of time and reality. Someone has to know the variations of history created by the Conversion Chamber. So we have a group of scientists who audit the time trails.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll get these right back to you.”

“Mrs. Donovan, you must wait at least seventy-two hours. We feel that’s the minimum amount of time required to thoroughly discuss and consider the impact this decision will have on your lives.”

“I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard about this contest. When I won, I knew this was the answer to my prayers. I don’t need any more time. I’ll be here three days from now. “

01-May-2040:

“All right, Mrs. Donovan, everything seems to be in order,” the lawyer said, reviewing the signed releases. “Just step into the Conversion Chamber and we’ll begin.” As she entered he said, “Last chance to change your mind.”

Shaking her head, she replied, “I’ve been waiting years for this chance.”

The lawyer joined the white-coated scientists in front of a control panel. Slowly she became aware of a high-pitched whine that grew steadily louder until she felt the reverberations deep within. Then, nothing. She looked around and saw a technician opening the door.

“Is it done?”

The technician glanced at her then looked down as she replied, “Yes. It’s done. I hope you know . . .” She sighed, shook her head slightly then said, “Good luck, Mrs. Donovan.”

“Thank you so much.” As she departed from the Time Group headquarters, she laughed for the first time in years. She walked briskly toward home, looking around, but not noticing any differences. Entering her house, she stopped and called out, “I’m home.”

She heard the staccato sound of running footsteps heralding Caine’s appearance. Her husband trailed after him. Near tears, she swung him up in her arms, hugging him close. “Hi, sweetie. You two having a good day?”

“Not bad,” her husband replied. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, just out for a walk.” She looked around but didn’t see her daughter anywhere. “Where’s Caitlyn?”

Her husband flinched and looked down for a moment before saying, “Honey, did you remember to take your medicine today?”

She just stared at him. His shoulders rose and fell, then he said, “Don’t you remember the incident?”

Her throat tightened. “Wha-what incident?”

He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her. “Caitlyn’s dead, hon. The kids were playing when Caine grabbed hold of Caitlyn’s swing and . . . She was dead when we found her.”

“Nooooooo.“

Her son patted her on her cheek then said, “It’s all right, Mommy. You don’t need her, you have me.”

Staring down at her son, she noticed the electronic anklet for the first time. Her husband gestured, addressing the nurse standing across the room, “I think it’s time for another dose of their medicine, don’t you?”

(This story was originally submitted to Writer's Digest "Your Story #19" earlier this month - see posting on 07/08/2009. Unfortunately, it wasn't selected as one of the finalists. Maybe next time. I hope you enjoy it. )

A Million Dollar Tale

2009-07-22T11:18:00.006-05:00

I was recently asked what I would
do with a million dollars tax-free.
Well, it would have to be tax-free
wouldn’t it, or the IRS would abscond
with, oops, I mean, collect
at least fifty percent.

But, what would I do?
Pay it off and pay it down,
buy it outright, make it work,
build upon it.
Grab a piece
of the American Dream,
my house in the country,
a patchwork of sod, something
to call my own, to hold and keep,
to nurture and be nurtured by,
a haven.

Although,
I guess it would depend
on who presented
the check. If it
was Ed McMahon knocking
on my door, I might pause,
briefly.

After all, a deceased person
with a check would be
somewhat strange.
Then again, perhaps
more fool I, I’d reach out
(with surely trembling hands)
and grab that check, tear it from his
cold, dead hands
then take off like a proverbial
bat-out-of-hell.

Do you think the bank
would still deposit
a corpse’s check
with a torn corner?
Ah, but what a tale
to spin for the next
family reunion.

Etcetera

2009-07-17T16:03:00.007-05:00

Recently, I read
a magazine column entitled
“Etcetera”. Now I always
wonder, yet never know,
exactly how to interpret
etcetera.

Every time I see
or hear the word,
I visualize Yul Brynner
dancing, intoning,
“Etcetera, etcetera.”

Then I wonder
is it really miscellany?
Or, is it not knowing,
perhaps not caring
how to categorize?
Just lump it all, everything
and everyone, into
etcetera.

Are we part
of that unknown,
uncared about
group plopped into
etcetera?

Faceless, nameless,
just something extra,
no one understands
or attempts to understand.
No knowledge,
no thought;
just plain
etcetera.

Today, tomorrow, always.
Etcetera, etcetera.

Quotes for Today

2009-07-12T17:56:00.004-05:00

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. ~Dr. Seuss

At bottom every man knows well enough that he is a unique being, only once on this earth; and by no extraordinary chance will such a marvelously picturesque piece of diversity in unity as he is, ever be put together a second time. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Update:

2009-07-08T17:16:00.006-05:00

Well, I've spent the last week finalizing a flash fiction piece that I just submitted today. I have to admit, I'm more than a little nervous, since this is the first piece I've submitted anywhere other than on my blog.

The story was for the Writer's Digest Your Story competition which occurs every other month. A prompt is posted on the website and published in the magazine. Then you have a relatively short period of time to develop a 750 word or under piece and submit by a deadline. The editors then select the top five stories and post them in the Forum where they will be voted on for the winner. The winning story will be published an upcoming issue of the magazine.

For more details, see the website: http://www.writersdigest.com/yourstory

So everyone think good thoughts and if you're interested, you might stop by the WD site, sign up for the Forum and vote for the best story. I would love for it to be mine, but everyone should vote for the story they feel is the best written. The site is a wonderful resource for any writer or poet, so you might want to take a look anyway.

Wish me luck!

FYI: Writing the Life Poetic

2009-07-05T19:36:00.002-05:00

I love to books - all types of books, whether to read for entertainment, or to learn something new. I am constantly checking out new books on writing. Many times I just review them at the bookstore, or see if the library has a copy. Sometimes I shell out some cash and take a gem home.

My most recent is Writing the Life Poetic by Sage Cohen. It's an interesting book on writing poetry that is written in down-to-earth language - you don't have to possess an English degree to understand it. It does what it says and brings poetry to the people. I am currently working on some of the exercises to create some new poems.

If you're interested, you might check out her site: http://www.writingthelifepoetic.typepad.com/

Independence Day

2009-07-04T23:14:00.012-05:00

July 4th is our Independence Day and a holiday in the United States. We traditionally celebrate with fireworks, food, and friends. When I lived in town, I would go down to the River Parks with some friends, we would watch the fireworks, drink a few beers and generally just hang out. Now that I live out in the country, it's more a matter of hoping no one sets the woods on fire and that the volunteers that make up the fire department haven't imbibed too freely. To everyone in the U.S., Happy Independence Day! To those of you in other countries, well, I hope you have had a wonderful Saturday! (Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org )

Quote for the Day:

2009-07-01T16:51:00.008-05:00

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.
~Kurt Vonnegut

Love the moment. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Therefore, each moment is vital. It affects the whole. Life is a succession of such moments and to live each, is to succeed.
~Corita Kent

The Perfect Family

2009-06-26T16:26:00.007-05:00

Dazzling reflections of the perfect family hand-crafted
by dentist and surgeon, set like a fine jewel within a façade
planned to the nth degree, clothed in the latest, greatest
designer favored of the gossip-trade set, residing within

an Architectural Digest McMansion complete
with backyard pool for lounging, manicured
grounds well-groomed by the hard work of those
who later depart for their smaller, mean pie-piece;

helpers paid to scale as determined by those who never
knew, or don’t remember dining on ketchup soup
so that the electric remains on. A collection of plasticized
ornaments interacting via electronics, never connecting

face-to-face, striving to uphold the perfection; binging
and purging, nip and tuck, inject and buff, all to maintain
the body, highlight and weave, perfecting a flowing mane,
five-fingered discounting just because; lubricating, medicating

to make it through the day; money in, money gushing out,
got to have the best, the finest everything, keep on keeping up,
never realize, don’t comprehend, don't care that many people,
most people survive very well on their clothing budget alone.

Those outside peering in find only the façade, the charade, crafted
so carefully to impress, missing, overlooking the wormy interior,
the failing in the heart and soul that keeps them seeking, pursuing
sensation, excitement, anything to prove they’re still here, amongst

the living. Proof of life showing in the magazine covers and the news
headlines, extending the fascination of the not-so-rich with the fantasy
world of the ‘perfect family’. Enabled and enabler. And then, the cycle
begins again – News at Six.

Quotes for Today

2009-06-21T16:30:00.002-05:00

Birth, life, and death -- each took place on the hidden side of a leaf. ~ Toni Morrison

There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year's course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word 'happy' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. ~Carl Jung

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. ~Franz Kafka

Six Little Words

2009-06-18T11:31:00.021-05:00

In the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway’s colleagues bet him that he couldn’t write a complete story in just six words. Hemingway jotted down six little words. For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn. They paid up. Hemingway is said to have considered it his best work.

Think about it. Six words to tell a story. The words have to be evocative enough to imply the story to the reader. What story can you tell in 6 little words?

Here are a few to ponder, from http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.11/sixwords.html.

Longed for him. Got him. Shit. ~Margaret Atwood
From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings. ~Gregory Maguire
The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly. ~Orson Scott Card
Kirby had never eaten toes before. ~Kevin Smith
K.I.A. Baghdad, Aged 18 - Closed Casket ~Richard K. Morgan
Heaven falls. Details at eleven. ~Robert Jordan
Three to Iraq. One came back. ~Graeme Gibson
I saw, darling, but do lie. ~Orson Scott Card
In the beginning was the word. ~Gregory Maguire
Corpse parts missing. Doctor buys yacht. ~ Margaret Atwood
He read his obituary with confusion. ~Steven Meretzky

Additional 6 word stories may be found at: http://www.sixwordstories.net/ and
http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/.

I recently submitted several stories to both Narrative Online and to Six Word Stories website and am waiting to hear about them. And finally, for your reading pleasure (I hope), here are some of my own 6 word stories.

Final truth: Nobody wins at war.

One writer. Blank page. Undiscovered territory.

Childhood daydreamer finds niche, becomes author.

Lost myself. Began writing. Found myself.

Oh, God! My finger slipped. BOOM!

Patriot Act Passes! Shhhhhh, they’re listening.

Oops, condom broke. Meet the twins.

Oklahoma Spring

2009-06-15T16:21:00.005-05:00

Stark gray skies interrupted by strands of forsythia bursting
into streams of yellow herald winters end. Skies clear, shaded

cerulean, hazed with cottony billows of cloud-shaped dreams.
Nature’s budding, greening trees and grass, flowers erupting

from darkened soil, new spears knifing upward, flower faces basking
in the warm spring sun. Birds returning from winter vacations, now

building nests, raising their young, filling air with trilling
songs. Animal babes call to their mothers, gamboling in waving

emerald pastures. Morning creeps over the horizon earlier and earlier,
days lengthen, nights grow shorter, blaze with sparkling constellations

strewn across blue-black midnight. Gardens bursting alive, developing
into plump orange tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, spicy mache, burgundy

radishes, farm-fresh eating. Crisp mornings flow into soft evenings scented
sweetly, unmatchable by even the best perfumer. Purple twilights explode

with sparkling fireflies searching for another to make their own. Sudden
storms scud, drenching the land, overflowing ponds and creeks, creating

sodden earth, and muddy footprints tracked across just cleaned floors. Winds
wail, whipping cyclones create havoc. Just another Oklahoma springtime.

Question Follow-up: F6 Tornado

2009-06-11T14:08:00.001-05:00

Okay, so there is a F6 tornado headed my way and I only have 20 minutes to prepare. What would I do?

I live out in the country, about 20 minutes from anywhere. The last thing I would want is to be on a rural highway and caught by a tornado. I have elderly parents living on the property as well, so I would stay at home and take my chances there and use the time to prepare as best I could. I would gather blankets, pillows, battery-powered lighting, bottled water, power bars or packaged food, a battery-powered weather radio, and a cell phone. Once I had the parents and items tucked-in somewhere, under the stairs, in a hallway or bath, I would keep an eye out as long as possible. If the tornado approached, I'd head for the shelter and start praying, and keep it up until it was over. One way, or another.

Of course, you also have to understand that not only do I live on a rural property that's 20 minutes from the nearest town, but Oklahoma is not heavily populated. I think that on the last census there were about 3 million people in the entire state. As such, when you're out in the country, you rely on yourself for the most part.

If you're interested, you might check out this link. This shows you the destructive capacity of an F5 tornado. http://newsok.com/may3

The Gift You Gave to Me

2009-06-10T16:52:00.010-05:00

What is love, that we so easily speak, say so often?
We love pizza; we love to read; we love the lilac scent of summer-sweet air; we love the pit-patting of the rain on the roof. I must confess, I do enjoy all these things.

But none engender that twingey, semi-queasy feeling in my stomach, originating from the realization that you have touched something deep inside, changed me somehow; and that I would miss you, ache for you, if you were no longer here;

that wonder I feel at the slide of your hair-roughened skin against mine;
the comfortable, warm blanket feeling that cocoons me hearing your
sleep-snuffling breath as you lay beside me

the joy that suffuses me upon seeing your eyes lit with laughter;
the awe I feel when I notice the fire in your eyes, and recognize
the greed in your touch, the loving that flames and burns.

This, then, is what I love and the gift you gave to me.

Question:

2009-06-08T18:52:00.004-05:00

I was asked an interesting question today. The situation and question are as follows:

Situation: There is an F6 Tornado heading your way. You have 20 minutes to prepare or get somewhere. What do you do, stay or go? If you go, what would you take with you? What would you save since everything else would be gone forever?

For those of you who don't have tornadoes, an F6 tornado has been termed 'the hand of God' - it literally scrapes /destroys / wipes everything in its path from the face of the Earth leaving nothing behind. Its winds are worse than the worst hurricane. With tornadoes you may only have 15 - 20 minutes advance warning.

So there's the situation, what would you do? Thought-provoking, isn't it? If you had to decide what was most important in your life, knowing you would lose everything else?

Think about it; I'll give you my answer in another post.

Update: Blinders

2009-06-08T16:57:00.007-05:00

I reposted the poem "Blinders" today with a dedication. I just found out that my first friend here in the blogosphere was a survivor of abuse. It's not a secret - she has blogged about her experiences and her feelings. But, my heart hurts for her, and for everyone who has been subjected.

So, I would like to dedicate this poem to everyone who has survived, and for those of you who have never experienced it, please take the time to learn. Abuse happens much more than many people understand or believe. There are many types of abuse. It's more than physical, it's also emotional. The internal bruises and damage may last much, much longer than most of the surface damage. This is a very real problem and too many times people turn the other way and refuse to see, refuse to get involved.

I hope it never happens to you, or to anyone you know. But, if you do see it, or suspect abuse, do something about it. It doesn't just stop. And, many times people are seriously injured, or even killed.

So, I dedicate "Blinders" to all the survivors. And, especially to my friend Spirit (http://written-whispers.com/blog ) who writes so beautifully from her heart.

Quotes for Today

2009-06-08T16:14:00.005-05:00

And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out.
~ Oliver Wendall Holmes

Be not afraid of life. Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create the fact.
~ Henry James

Waiting

2009-06-06T20:59:00.005-05:00

As I walked up to the bus stop, I glanced at my watch. 4:43 p.m. I’d just made it; the Crosstown express should be arriving within the next five minutes. Forty-five minutes later, I’d be at home and could officially call this day at an end. Thank God!

The day had been horrible. My girlfriend and I had another fight. My car wouldn’t start; AAA said it would be at least four hours before they could get to me. When I called my boss, he had said, “you better be here by 9:00 a.m., or I’ll mail your check.” And that was the beginning of a downhill spiral.

Now, all I wanted was to get home, have a drink and relax. The last thing I wanted was conversation when the old guy next to me handed me a faded photograph he’d pulled from his wallet. It was cracked and faded, edges dog-eared, the once-white border now verging on gray. A dark haired girl wearing a long, blood-red skirt and a white blouse stood in front of a liquor store. The full skirt flounced and swayed around her slim shins. I knew by the way she stood, one hip thrust towards the camera that she had a Southern accent. As I handed the photo back, I asked, “Who is she?”

He ran his thumb slowly across the surface of her picture then placed it carefully back into his wallet before saying, “She’s my wife.”

“She’s pretty. Are you two still together?”

“No. She went to live in Hollywood. Said she wanted to be in films; that acting was in her genes. She said her Daddy had been a famous film star. She didn’t know his name, but she believed it to be true.

“Has she done any films?”

“I haven’t seen her in any.”

“Do you still talk?”

“It’s been twenty years since she left.”

“Twenty years? And you never remarried?”

“Nah.”

“But, she left you, and you haven’t spoken to her ….”

“Doesn’t matter. I still love her as much as the day we married.”

“That’s, that’s something. Hey, why’d she think that her Daddy was a famous film star?”

“Well, that’s what her Momma told her. What she told everyone. That she’d met him down in Dallas, they’d run off and got married, but her Daddy run him off and had the marriage annulled. Course that was before he knew she was carrying.”

“So, who was he?”

“Don’t know. Mary-Sue’s, that’s my wife, her Momma never would say. Just said that her little girl looked just like her Daddy and could follow is footsteps and be in the pictures.”

“That’s kind of …”

“Yeh, Mary-Sue’s Momma was a strange one.”

“So what brings you here?”

“I’m going to California. Going to look up Mary-Sue.”

“How are you going to find her after twenty years?”

“Well, I’ve got an address for her room-mate. We’ve kept in touch over the years.”

“Does she know where Mary-Sue is?”

“Yeh. She kept tabs on her and has been taking care of her for me.”

“Really. So what happens when you find her?”

“I’m going to join her.”

“Oh? Where’s she at?”

“Shady Acres in Sacremento.”

“Is that a retirement home?”

“You might say that. It’s where she was buried.”

“She’s dead?”

“Has been for nearly twenty years.”

“But, didn’t you say …”

“Yeh. She was killed in a car wreck with some actor about six months after she arrived. Never had a chance to find her Daddy. Never made a movie. Now it’s time for me to join her.”

“Join? You mean …?”

“The doctor told me I had six months left to live and that was five months ago. So, I sold everything and I’m going to California. I’m going to see what she left me for, and then when it’s time, well, we’ll be buried side-by-side. “

I stared at him wordlessly.

“Is that your bus?” he asked.

Looking around, I nodded affirmatively before turning back to him. “What’s your name?”

“David Miller.”

“David, I’m Dylan Kennedy. It was a pleasure to meet you. Good luck on your trip.”

“Thank you.”

I had started up the steps into the bus when he spoke once more.

“Son?”

I turned back to him, and he continued, “Pride’s a terrible thing. Don’t let it stand in the way of someone you love. Before you know it, you’re whole life’s over and you’ve spent it all alone.”

For a moment, I just looked at him. Then I smiled and said, “Yeh. Thank you, David Miller.”

“Good luck, son, and good-bye.”

“The same to you.” I boarded my bus, plopping into a seat and turned to look out the window as the bus lurched away. He was still sitting on the bench, and had pulled his wallet out again, his thumb stroking slowly over something. Her picture. I kept watching him, wondering at the woman who inspired such devotion even after twenty years that a man would journey that far just to be buried with her.

As the bus began to turn the corner, I saw a smile wreath his face. A smile for the dark-haired woman wearing a full red skirt and a trim white blouse who sat down beside him on the bench.