Besties

My best friend and me
We don't like it when mom calls,
"Time to come in now!"

Time

It drinks down my life in huge gulping drags and when I look in the fridge, the milk is always just about empty.
It rolls down the road at super high speeds and when I check the tank, the gas is always just about gone.
It climbs the stairs two-by-two to the very top and when I stop, my heart is racing and I can't catch my breath.
When I get to the bottom again, doubled over, hands on knees, gasping--its back in the fridge.

Then, just when I think I've reached the edge of the edge--the milk, the gas, and my breath gone--I realize
It sure tastes good, the speed is exhilirating and the view is simply and heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Something Speaks

Quiet birdsong and breeze
Sliding soft through the trees
The perfection of tranquil solitude

Here in this misty hollow
My mind slows to the shallow
Pulse of the forest's reflex energy

Something speaks
Not with words
A perception
I know inside.

Something speaks
To my soul
In abstract
Avoiding focus.

Something speaks
That is not
For me to understand
But to accept.

Something speaks
And I know
That alone here
I am not alone.

The fog is deepening.
Times makes no effort to move.
Roan Mountain folds itself around me.

God is here, peace is here
Seeping through every sense.
When I depart I will carry it with me.

Something speaks
Not with words
A perception
I know inside.

Something speaks
To my soul
In abstract
Avoiding focus.

Something speaks
That is not
For me to understand
But to accept.

Something speaks
And I know
That alone here
I am not alone.

Peer Pressure

Mama said, "Careful!"
"Girl, keep them dress and shoes clean
For supper tonight."

Broad Street Busker

Seven years and seven days
He played the street called Broad each day
And waited for the tinkling sound
Of change the passers threw his way.
He sang until his throat was sore.
He played until his fingers bled
Then went back to his alley home
Laid down his head and said this prayer.

"Lord, thank you for my day of song
And thank you for the change I won.
Please be with those who could not hear
Embarrassed by the clothes I wear.
They do not have the heart to see
The joy I find in being me.
And even in this alley way
Beside the refuse of the day
I know with my guitar at hand
I'll never be a lonely man.
But they who walk my street undone
By bosses, meetings, money lost and won
They fight as I did in Vietnam
But don't know the toll its taking.
Please keep my alley safe and dry.
Please keep my throat and fingers spry.
Be with the wife I left behind
I love her still, you know my mind."

Today the busker's raspy song
Is missing here on 4th and Broad.
The police have not discovered yet
But I know that he must be dead.
He knew his place and role to play.
He never missed a single day.
He chose life dirty, loud and free.
He was the happiest man in Tennessee.

They did not have the heart to see
The joy he found in being free.
I know with his guitar at hand
He never was a lonely man.

A Poem I Love

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

By Elizabeth Bishop, 1922

Of her work, Robert Lowell remarked, "Elizabeth Bishop is the contemporary poet that I admire most ... There's a beautiful completeness to all of Bishop's poetry. I don't think anyone alive has a better eye than she had: The eye that sees things and the mind behind the eye that remembers."

A Sevenling for My Mom

She loves three things the best:
The beach, the palm,
A calm sea on which to snorkle.

She hates navy blue,
the taste and smell of popcorn,
And muscle aches.

...And she gave birth to me.


The sevenling is a poem of seven lines inspired by the form of
this much-translated short verse by Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966).

He loved three things alone:
White peacocks, evensong,
Old maps of America.

He hated children crying,
And raspberry jam with his tea,
And womanish hysteria.

... And he married me.

Favorite Last Lines

Looking at great first lines made me want to research great last lines. Here are some classics. What are youre favorites?

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
"Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardoned, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

Stan's Decision

Celia loved the feeling of the weightless heat all around her, but she didn't know how she had ended up in the tub. She heard footsteps on the wood floor in the bedroom and turned to see Stan walk through the bathroom door in his undershirt and suspenders. She loved the way he looked in his undershirt and suspenders, his hair slick and black with gel.

"Did I drink too much again?" She cringed up at him from the tub.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

She looked at her bright red toenails sticking up from the suds at the other end of the tub. She wiggled them to be sure they were hers.

"Did I make a scene?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Mary Mother... I'm sorry."

Stan shrugged and headed back out the door.

Celia scrambled to her feet.

"Stan."

He turned. Water ran in rivulets down her body. She didn't speak right away. He waited, looking down. He knew she wanted him to look at her naked, to feel desire.

She cocked a hip.

"Could you be a doll and get a girl a night cap?"

Stan's sad eyes flashed to Celia's face. Only then did Celia see the open suitcase on the bed behind him. Her languid smile turned to a grimace of disbelief.

"You're leaving me?!"

She stepped angrily out of the tub toward him. Her foot touched the ground for only a second before it slid on the wet floor unbalanced by the alcohol. She fell in a heap back into the tub, splashing water over the sides, drenching the walls and floor. She sputtered up, gasping for breath. She rubbed her eyes and looked for Stan. He was still standing motionless as water spread toward his wingtips.

Celia slapped the water with both hands in frustration.

"You're such a coward...," She began, but Stan turned, left the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He'd heard that speech before.

Favorite First Lines

REALSIMPLE magazine asked "What is your favorite first line of a novel" and here are some of the responses they received. What is your favorite first line?

Charlotte's Web by E.B. White
"'Where's Papa going with that ax?,' said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast."

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

The Secret Garden by Hodgson Burnett
"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too."

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta."

Curfew

Pete hid behind the broken fence, breathing in the darkness. Fear made his nerves sing and every sensation on his skin was like an electric shock; the grass under his fingertips as he knelt, the material tight against his knees. He knew they had seen him. He couldn't hear them from where he hid. They would be searching, quietly, calmly. They would find him eventually, why rush? How had he let it get so late? Annie. Oh, Annie Maddox. He would never see her again. Good reason to go, he guessed. If he had pulled away from her arms when he ought, would he be on his cot dreaming of her now? Who can say. These days, he might have been charged for trespassing in her sector just as easily as for breaking curfew. These days, any reason was a good reason to "detain" a Peg. He tried to slow his breathing and think about escape but his thoughts settled on Annie. Annie didn't care that he was Peg. When they met none of that mattered. It wasn't so long ago. Back then their sector schools had still co-mingled. Annie helped him up after the Lander bullies beat him. She brushed his leg. He could still feel her fingers knock the gravel from his bloodied knees. He heard soft male voices and a shuffle through the weeds. They would have dogs. It was only a matter of time. Barking. The dogs had smelled him. Barking, getting louder. He couldn't fight it, he stood and ran. Shouting. SHOUTING. One more breathe of darkness.

Back in Blog!

10 Totally Random Haikus to Celebrate My Return to the Blogosphere

ONE
It seemed like a good
Idea at the time,
Now its just itchy.

TWO
Twenty nine again?
You have a way of aging
Backwards, patent it.

THREE
I ate it but then
After chewing and swallowing
I regretted it.

FOUR
Days in Hawaii
Feel like mere minutes in time
Here a mere minute
Feels like an eternity.

FIVE
Ahh, the subtle sound
Of my ukulele song,
A bit out of tune.
(The girl in 12E hates me.)

SIX
Chocolate icing
On chocolate chip cupcakes
Chocouphoria.

SEVEN
Bright yellow pollen
On my car, in my nose, and
on my clothes. AahChoo!

EIGHT
Black sky rolls creeping
Across my 8th story view.
Forboding, silent.

NINE
Ben Franklin tells me
"Oh, stop your belly-aching."
And, of course, he's right.

TEN
Already its May.
Where have the days gone down the
Endless stream of time?

Deep Blue

Deep blue; the water and sky
The distance white where the waves break over the reef
Sunlight giving way to starlight
I look north to where the pivot centers
The horizon in endless slow motion, almost imperceivable.

Stay and witness infinity with me.
So long since the first axis spin.
So long since the first crashing wave.
So long since my atoms and these were one;
Still one in the recognition of the whole.
Great beauty around and within.
Water and sky and we are a part
Of the deep, deep blue.

Sea Glass Beach

Kauai

Each morning she walks
the sea glass beach, collecting
blue, green and turquoise
glass to sell to the lady
in the big pink pearls
who uses them to steal from
the silly tourists

Unconditional

(Photocredit: Silence by Jason Theikle)



What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the cliffs I might have jumped from.
Oh, the relationships I might have destroyed.
He is distant. He surely hates me.
No. He’s a man. Chill, the heck, out.
Talk to me, my love. He needs a break.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the self I have despised for so many unforgiven sins.
Oh, the love I have denied for so many unforgiven wrongs.
I am ugly. My mother said so.
No. She didn't. She loves you more than you love yourself.
Unconditionally.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the blood that might have made me tremble.
Oh, the lack of blood that scares the more.
I might have lost her. I might have created her.
No. You are fine. All is as it was meant to be.
Be calm. Patience and faith, my love.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the desperation and the joy of it.
Oh, the exhaustion and the pique of it.
Still. Sister. Still.
All is well.

Accountable

I know that I'm not supposed to...but I am posting today because I just uploaded my flash fiction piece to the NPR Three-Minute Fiction contest - Round 4. The challenge in Round 4 was not to write about a picture (like in Round 3, see previous entry below) but to write an original piece of fiction with less than 600 words containing the words: Plant, Trick, Fly and Button, in any tense, usage or conjugation. Here's my attempt!!

Accountable

“Is this a trick? You can’t be serious!” I tried to chuckle but terror was growing in my stomach and sounded in my voice.

A man in a dark gray suit stepped between the goons looming on either side of me. I didn’t recognize his face or his voice as he said again, “Sir, you have to come with us.”

I planted my feet wide, crossing my arms. “I won’t be going anywhere with you,” I tried to sound firm, though it was quite clear that I wasn’t going to be given a choice.

The gray-suited man nodded and the goons’ hands were on me. I was forced roughly into the dull aluminum interior of the black van and shoved onto my knees. One of the thugs held my hands tightly behind my back. As we pulled away, I glimpsed my coffee mug standing ridiculously alone on the top of my white BMW.

The van flew out of the parking garage like an action film stunt, four wheels off the ground, heedless of traffic on all sides. I felt every excruciating bump hammer my kneecaps and reverberate up my skeleton. The pain only intensified the thoughts screaming in my head.

I’m not blindfolded. Shouldn’t I be blindfolded? As if this breach of kidnapping etiquette was somehow indicative of something.

Verboten

It is a sad, sad thing, but my newest writing class teacher has asked that her students not blog during the 6 weeks that we are in her class. She wants all of our writing effort to go into our coursework. So...I'll see you in 6 weeks with new inspiration and new material.

Thank you for reading!!!

A Wanted Ache

The depth is sore.
Once the not feeling --
An absence --
Now there and raw.

Motions fill the space
Around me.
They were the mechanics of days
And days on end,
Slowed now somehow.
No sense to the slowing.
Though no one seems to notice.

This depth I cannot fill with words,
Suddenly useless and
Insignificant.
What to do instead
To soothe an unfamiliar hurt?

Silence and the soreness
Becoming familiar.
An aching want.
A wanted ache.

Thug Life

Some poems and haikus for the baby boys; Baby Ronnie, Harris, Noah, Ben, Gage, Cole, Nicholas, William, Aydan and Keegan.

Shark in the Lake

They told me...
"There's a shark in the lake!"
They dared me...
"A quarter to dive in!"
It's dumb to be afraid.
My daddy read me a book about oceans
I know sharks don't live in lakes.
But I'm not telling.







Photo Credit: Paul Specht

Haiku: Sand Artist

My boy could play there
In the sand, for hours on end.
Imagination.

Photo credit: Beth Armsheimer

Haiku: Visit to Aunt Agnes

Not smiling for you.
My haircut, stupid toys and
New overalls suck.

Photo credit: Superbomba

Haiku: Thug Life

Pour out a little
Milk for the homies that I
Run with in the hood.

Photo credit: Fashion fever

Haiku: The Park

Aa-aa-ah-hh-hh!!!!
The most fun I've ever had
Don't let go of me!

Photo credit: Lightgatherer

Undercover

If I hold it like this
then flip it over my finger
and grab it on the back
with my other hand
and squint my eyes real hard
that makes me a police man.
Undercover of course.

Photo credit: Unknown

Butterfly Warrior

A silly poem for the baby girls: Mina, Brooke, Asa, Maggie, Lizzie, Ari, Olivia, Emily, Valentina and Bebe.

I may look small
I may look sweet
but don't mistake me
Don't underestimate me
I know who I am
and who I'm not
I love these goggles
I wear them alot
They laugh at me
but I don't care
They knock me down
and pull my hair
But I get back up
I always will
Mom and Daddy told me
I can rule the world
I'm a superhero
In flowers and curls
I'm a butterfly warrior
I'm a little girl

Inmost Cave

This week's homework, our sixth and last assignment, is to write our protagonist's "Approach to the Inmost Cave."
++++++++

Monday morning. Evie rolled over and buried her puffy eyes in her pillow. How could she possibly go through a normal workday after what had happened? Could she call in sick for smothering grief and violent waves of self-loathing?

She stood in the hot water of the shower for a long time trying to get control of her emotions. She rationalized that she wasn’t the one who chose the charges. She wasn’t responsible for those God chose not to save.

She made her way to work in a sorrowful daze. She stepped on her favorite red scarf at the top of the Metro escalator. It fell into the mud. She walked on.

Sitting at her desk, she sobbed. She rested her head on her tissue box as her computer hummed to life. She cried for the dead girl and she cried for herself. She’d never know if what she had done had added to the “greater good” she was supposedly working for. She questioned whether God was behind the stone’s power and whether he/she/it was “good” at all.

She looked up from the tissue box and wiped her eyes. In the corner of her desk, in the place where the tissue box had been, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it in elegant script. Hastily, she grabbed and unfolded the page and read:

Evie, you will not be surprised, I think, to find my letter now, in your moment of need. I must say that my hiding place is enlightened. I am certain that it will not be long before you return from a journey in crisis, as I did. In my estimation one doesn’t move the box of tissue until they are shedding true and continuous tears. (I, of course, use a linen handkerchief, so am no expert, but I feel certain it is so).

I’m sorry to boast as you sit on the brink, but please believe me when I say that every Intercessor has been where you are. Here, my dear, in this letter, I must reveal what I can not tell in person today, at our first meeting. Only now, as you cry, will you be able to understand. (Won’t I feel silly if you are simply suffering from hayfever.)

Most Dreaded Scene

For our fifth assignment, our writing teacher asked us to write the scene we are dreading the most. He said, with a chuckle, that it is usually the sex scene that every writer dreads most, but as we were going to be talking about each other's work in class, we ought to be careful which scene we choose. I have chosen to write my opening scenes, not necessarily because I am most afraid to write them, but because they are what will draw in a reader. I want the first scenes to be appetite-whetting. I'm talking "this-book-is-worth-$22-bucks-for-the-hardcover-cause-it-sounds-that-awesome" good.
++++++++

Chapter One

I’m getting too old for this, Alistair thought to himself as he ran through the dark, close streets of Florence.

One hundred and sixty-seven is far too old.

His red velvet cap had long since flown from his head. His red velvet mantel, all the rage only hours before, now trailed behind him like a superhero’s cape as he attempted to outrun the Medici guards.

His cane caught on a cobblestone and wrenched his arm backwards. Over his shoulder he saw that his pursuers were catching up quickly.

He ducked down an alley and hid in a doorway to rest, feeling sure that it couldn’t be much longer until sundown.

Doubled over, hands on his thighs, he sucked air in deep huffs. He tried to control the sound of his breathing but, at his age, and after a half-mile sprint, it was a biological imperative he could not control.

He knew the men who were chasing him would find him at any minute. His only hope was that minute would be one minute too late.

With profound relief he felt the familiar sinking sensation that signaled safety and was falling back into his living room.

“That is the last time!” he shouted to the empty room, one hand holding his heaving chest and the other groping for his armchair. “I’m finished! I can not run anymore!”

Instantly he was engulfed by the sensation of contracting into himself and then expanding like an exploding star. His racing heart quieted, his muscles slackened and he felt a physical lightness he didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t the first time he had, in a moment of frustration, said that he was through, but it was the first time that he had ever really meant it.

With a twinge of regret tempered with acceptance he knew instinctively that he was finally free and that he had, in fact, been free all along. He only had to choose it. Somehow he hadn’t expected it to be so sudden.

He remembered the Mentor’s words. Soon the stone would call him to journey to visit his successor; the person to whom he would become the Mentor. When this final journey was complete, he could die.

The thought brought him such incredible relief that he got up, suddenly lighter on his feet, and poured himself a celebratory scotch.

Sea Monsters

(Joseph Mallord William Turner: Sunrise with Sea Monsters - detail (c. 1845; Oil on canvas)

To battle all the monsters in the sea
To weather the storm and the cold
Ask these first of me, please
But do not ask me to love you.

Weapons I can wield against monsters
Shelter I can build against storm
But I have no defense against you
Exposed, without armor or sword

You could cut me down with a single blow
Or devour me whole, and yet…
It sounds so inviting
See your sorcery, what you’ve done to me?
Oh, please, just come to me.

Cleansing

Water weeping slowly down
In smooth, translucent, quiet lines
Pale skin that drips like a melting wax
Beneath the flame; the head, the mind.

Clean and yet not clean enough
Naked and not open, bare
Hopes like waves of heat arise
Water, dirt and soap descend.

Corner Office

I submitted this piece to NPR today for their contest "Three Minute Fiction." The contest required submissions to be 600 words or less, and written about this picture. Fingerscrossed!

I passed Kiko’s Koffee every morning when I worked at the bank. Some days I came in for a cappuccino, but I usually fixed my coffee at the office. I didn’t want to spend our money on coffee. Shelley and I were saving for a second home in Durango.

Now you can find me here every weekday morning. I get up at 6:30, like I did when life made sense. I stand in line for drip coffee and a paper. I take my seat at this corner table by the window and watch the passersby. They look rushed and stressed, in suits, lugging briefcases. They look exactly like I looked when I was one of them.

I thumb through the employment classifieds, but bank jobs are rarely advertised in the newspaper. When I got laid off, right after Shelley’s second diagnosis, I thought it was a blessing in disguise. It would give me more time to help her get well. I truly believed that the “financial downturn” would prove to be a finite blip, largely the invention of a Chicken Little minority. I could get a job again as soon as Shelley was out of the woods. We had our Durango nest egg. I could spend every penny on her care. Everything was going to be okay.

I did spend every penny on Shelley’s care, but everything was not okay. Similarly, the downturn was not a blip but a bona fide crisis. I lost the house at the very end. After I buried my wife, I moved in with my parents, destitute and entirely reliant upon their charity. Without the use of a time machine, I have stepped back in time 25 years. I’m single again, penniless, jobless and living under my father’s roof. Unfortunately, when the clock rolled back, it didn’t take my memory.

I call this table my corner office. “I’m off to my corner office!” I say to my parents, so they won’t worry about me so much. They know my levity is forced and sarcastic, but they take comfort nonetheless. At least I am trying to pretend I’m okay. They give me coffee money. I think that they need me to have a plan just as much as I need a reason to get up in the morning.

After I finish the employment section, I inevitably turn to the obituaries. Guilt seeps in as I read the remembrances because they give me some relief. For each person listed, there is someone like me, grieving and feeling like their universe is a silently exploding star. I imagine that we are all mutely waiting for gravity to pull our pieces back together.

My eyes skim the pages, stopping at pictures of smiling faces. I remember when Shelley’s smile was among them. She looked so alive. The caption might have read, “Local teacher raises 2nd grade reading scores,” or even “Local teacher saves kindergarten class from fire,” but not “Local teacher loses battle with breast cancer.” Never that.

I leave Kiko’s at 9:00 and head for the library and the second installment of my “workday”online job searching. I leave my paper behind for someone who could use a little something for free. It feels good. It’s a small charity that I never showed to people like me when I was a hurried passerby.

I leave it open to the obituaries. I want the next person to look at the smiling faces too. In this way, I give the dead one more person to bear witness to their lives, which, I suppose, is another kind of small charity.

Return with the Elixir

When we were asked to write the Resurrection Scene for class, I accidently wrote my Return with Elixir Scene. So this time I wrote my Resurrection Scene and tacked it onto my edited Elixir Scene.

RESURRECTION

Evie stepped forward, wishing acutely that she knew something about homeopathic medicine in the US Northeast. She motioned to Eren to stay put. He, for once, did as he was told and sat cross-legged on the ground. There were still muskets trained on them, but the fervor behind them had lessened.

Evie approached the Indian leader, who looked at her with barely veiled hostility. She asked for water and was brought a water pouch. She poured a small amount over her hands and rubbed them together.

“May I touch his head?” She asked, keeping her gaze on the leader but expecting an answer from the interpreter.

The interpreter asked and the leader nodded.

Evie pressed her cool, wet hand to his forehead. He was clearly burning with fever.

“How long has he been ill?”

The interpreter shrugged. “7 or 8 days.”

Evie decided to check his chest and back for any sores or spots that would suggest measles, plague or another more obvious disease, since he had no marks on his face.

She mimicked removing her own outer layer and the leader, taking her meaning, took off his shirt. She saw immediately that, though he had no spots or sores, he had been bled.

Duckling

“I want you to audition for me.”

“Sure you do.” She sets a plate in front of him. ”Here's your hash browns. Sorry they were cold the first time.” She turns.

“Wait. I'm serious.” He pulls a silver card case from his jacket pocket and makes a flourish of pulling out a card and handing it to her between two fingers. “Alan Cooper.”

“Thanks.” She says insincerely as she takes the card and walks back to the kitchen.

“We got another one, Leo.” She flashes the card two-fingered, like they do, eyebrow raised copying the smarmy smile.

“Well tape it to the wall, baby girl, with the rest.”

She finds a spot on the wall of “entertainment” business cards and tucks the new one in. She's a little surprised to see that it says 'The Merradona', but that logo is everywhere. It wouldn't be hard to replicate.

“Order up!” Leonard's voice portrays a line cook's mixture of frenetic activity and monotonous ‘That's the seventy-third over-easy I've fried today’ boredom.

He sees Paulie scrutinizing the card and waves his spatula in her direction, “Don't you get any ideas, tart. I don't need to be bailing your skank ass out of jail after you turn “dancer” for one of those pimps in sheep's clothing and get a coke habit.”

Paulie smiles sweetly over her shoulder, “You mean you'd come bail me out? I didn't know I meant that much to you.” She smacks him on the butt with her free hand as she passes, grabs the plate and heads out of the kitchen.

She sees after she delivers the eggs that Mr. Cooper’s booth is now empty.

Shit. If he walked his tab I swear...

But there on the table is a crisp $100 dollar bill with another business card with the words, “I wasn't kidding,” written on it.

She puts the card in her apron pocket and takes the Benjamin to the register. She calculates the bill and pulls a $93.50 tip out of the register drawer.

Call to Adventure

Evie’s eyes dilated as her gaze moved over the stone fragment and she shook her head to regain her focus. She picked up the stone and examined it closely. It was a triangular corner piece. She held it close to her eyes, feeling the smooth face and inexplicably wishing she could touch it without her gloves on.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Evie perceived a watery shimmer like heat off of pavement. She watched in shocked disbelief as a man in a long wool coat and bowler hat materialized amid the waves. His face was deeply lined with age; gray hair peaked out under the brim of his hat. He leaned with one hand on a cane. The other hand touched the brim of his hat in an old-fashioned salutation. He seemed perplexed but he looked at Evie and smiled.

Her mind reeled to explain his sudden appearance. She was frozen in place, shocked but not afraid. He didn’t seem dangerous, just simply and inexplicably there. He looked like a turn-of-the-century gentleman whose harebrained time travel machine had just unexpectedly worked.

“Who are you?” seemed the most pertinent question.

The Snow Witch

Yesterday I was watching the strange Dallas snowfall from my 3rd story window when a woman dressed all in black robes with an owl walked out onto the lawn. I'm not kidding. Narnia escapee? Goth hooker? Harry Potter wannabe? Who knows. Aaahhh...the strange occurrences of apartment living in Dallas, TX.

Black on white
The snow witch comes.
Awakened by the joy
In the hearts of the snow watchers.
She must stop the joy.
She must stop the snow.
Fly my owl!
Fly to the clouds!
Take my curse!
Texas shall not have such a snowfall
For another 50 years!

Evie's Journey

ACT I
Ordinary World
Evie Wells is an administrative assistant (PC term for secretary) at the Freer Gallery of Art - Smithsonian Institution. Her ordinary world involves being spoken down to and asked to conduct menial administrative tasks. However, we learn that she graduated top of her class from one of the best history programs in the country and possesses more historical and archaeological knowledge in her brilliant mind than the museum' curators combined. She knows this deep down, but she is still young and not especially confident. She's not asking for more than her lot and pretends, and sometimes even believes, that she's content.

Idea of Order at Key West

This is my favorite poem. It was written in 1934 by Wallace Stevens. I read it again this morning and decided I needed to post it. The way the words flow is enough to draw me back again and again, but I also love the message of human strength and potency. It lifts me up when I feel small and powerless.

A Few Matters of Form

Strunk and White's The Elements of Style, first published in the 1930's, is the Bible for writers when it comes to style, form and word usage. I am beginning to realize that I have some very bad habits. Here's a few points I found especially useful. I'm copying from Strunk and White's book directly because their intermittent sassy commentary cracks me up.

Colloquialisms. If you use a colloquialism or a slang word, simply use it; do not draw attention to it by enclosing it in quotations. To do so is the put on airs...inviting the reader to join you in a select society of those who know better.

At Least I'm Not That Girl

I hate her.
How could I help it.
She's gorgeous, the bitch,
In that way that they have.
You know the ones
With the hair extensions and the legs.
This is Dallas, they're not hard to find.

I can't stop looking at her.
She's laughing at his jokes.
He's so happy that she's amused.
He's thinking about how she tastes.
I know he doesn't care if she's there forever.
I know he doesn't care if she's there past Ahhhh.....

But silll, that companionshop looks nice.
The adoration,
So appealing as I walk to the door.
I hate her because I am hating myself.
I hate her because I need to focus elsewhere.
I hate her because when I get home to my bed
And I am alone,
I need to believe that her kind of companionship is empty.

Damn my feeling heart,
I hope that it's not.
I hope that they are forever.
I hope that he bought those boobs
And will love them like a '69 Camaro until the end.

Class 2: Character

Last night was my second writing class through the CAPE program at SMU. We spent the majority of the class discussing each others homework assignments from the last class, the resurrection scene. We found that very few of us actually wrote a resurrection scene, but instead wrote the either the supreme ordeal or the elixir scene. I am still unsure where my scene will fit into my ultimate story, but our homework this week should help me figure it out. It is to write a 1000 word synopsis of the Hero's Journey of our hero/heroine. I'm nervous about committing completely to Evie and her story, but for the sake of this class, I have to choose a character to build and develop. She was my first idea, I think she deserves to come with me on this journey.

Can We Begin Again?

It hurts deep
The missing
And aches sweet
The memories
We are yet
The leaving not clean
Jagged
Can we begin again?

When you left
There was fire
Drought
When you stayed away
There was rain
Landslide
I feel the sun yet
Beyond this troubled sky
Can we begin again?

Your voice sad
Angry
Your voice hope
Desire
Your voice
Moves and swells yet
I want it back
Can we begin again?

I didn't mean it
The words came
From how dare you
Not I love you
But I love you yet
Can we begin again?

The Sand Dollar's Destiny

November 2007 - Autobiographical

There once was a girl, of somewhat questionable intelligence, who was walking along the beach in paradise. She noticed something round and orange in the waves and decided to catch it. She splashed and flailed and finally came up with her prize, a perfect sand dollar. Except it wasn't like any perfect sand dollar she'd ever seen. It was fuzzy and covered with little bitty spines. She wondered if it was still alive, saddened by the idea that she should give it up and save its life by throwing it back into the water. Her companions, however, argued that it would not wash up on the beach if it were not already dead or dying.

So the girl formulated a plan. It was a great plan. It was the best plan. It was a plan that would fulfill the poor dead or dying sand dollar's destiny. She would dry it out in the sun, cover it in golden glitter, write the year 2007 on it's lovely side and hang a satin ribbon from it - transforming it into the most beautiful Christmas ornament for her brother and sister-in-law who had been married that very year.

She left the dead or dying sand dollar out in the sun for days while at the beach and carefully, before her departure, folded it into paper for the journey home. A few days passed as the girl returned to her normal life. She left the sand dollar in the paper to continue to dry (for it smelled somewhat less than appealing in this stage of its destiny fulfillment).

Then, one fateful night, (which happens to have been yesterday night), the girl unwrapped the sand dollar to begin its momentous transformation. As the last fold of paper was unwrapped the girl realized the terrible, horrible truth. Not only had the sand dollar broken into many tiny furry pieces, but it was oozing black goo from the inside and smelled like a warm mixture of rotten egg salad and rotten tuna salad.

The poor, dejected girl of somewhat questionable intelligence learned two difficult lessons that night. She learned that somethings are too sacred to be transformed into adornments and, more importantly, she learned that when something smells like that - throw it back!
_______________________________________________________________
Sorry, Ben and Blythe - your present from St. John is fulfilling its destiny on the way to the Dallas City dump.

Overboard - Repost

Last week I submitted this poem to an online literary magazine for publication. I wanted to repost it here. I am sure I am one of thousands who submitted, but I will certainly let everyone know if I am lucky enough to get it published.

First toes, then knees, then chest, then head
The water closes over us
Here chained together, living dead
But now we will be free at last.

Three weeks we sat and starved and stank
Three weeks there shackled in the hold
But we have chosen death to this
And now are safely overboard.

My wife and child are dead as well
Murdered the day that I was chained
And I rejoiced his bloodstained knife
For now they are at home in heaven.

And if my soul can find that place
From this my placeless grave of sea
Yes, I will join them once again
And forever will be free.

Bumblefrog and Kittyroo

Bumblefrog and Kittyroo
do everything together.
They're never found at the zoo
cause fairytales are better.

Sevenling: Disappearance

She opened her world
She offered her heart
And gave him her hand.

But she forgot to hold back
The things that made her.
The edge, the intuition, the sprite.

They disappeared with the rest of her.

It's Not You, It's Me

What is it?

Downcast eyes raise, filled with salty tears.
A look that says, you know the answer to that question. Don't make me say it out loud.

Say it!
I don't love you anymore.

How long have you known?
Does it matter?
It does to me.
A while.

Are you cheating on me?
Yes. I'm sorry.
Don't say you're sorry.
But I am.

Tears overflow as eyes look again at the floor.

Are you leaving me?
Look, it's not you...
Don't you dare say it's not you, it's me. Just tell me, are you leaving me?
Yes.

The Hero's Journey

Last night was the first night of my new writing class at SMU. It was a great first class and I am so pleased because 11 of the 15 students were together in our last class with Suzanne Frank, Intro to Creative Writing. We are already familiar with each other and so there was no shyness to get over; we jumped right in.

Our professor, Daniel J. Hale, began the course by discussing the typical basic form of fiction, a form called the Hero's Journey, championed by Christopher Vogler. Below is an outline of the Hero's Journey. Compare it to your favorite fiction story/novel and see how it fits.

1) Hero/ine is introduced in the Ordinary World, where...
2) S/he receives the Call to Adventure.
3) S/he is reluctant at first or Refuses the Call, but...
4) S/he is encouraged by a Mentor to...
5) Cross the First Threshhold and enter the Special World, where...
6) S/he encounters Tests, Allies, and Enemies.
7) S/he then will approach the Inmost Cave, crossing a second threshold...
8) Where s/he endures the Supreme Ordeal.
9) S/he takes possession of the Reward and...
10) Is pursued on the Road Back to the Ordinary World.
11) S/he crosses the third threshold, experiences a Resurrection and is transformed by the experience.
12) S/he then returns with the Elixir, a boon, treasure or lesson to benefit the Ordinary World.

My Heroine's Journey (I hope...)

After a review of the Hero's Journey format we went around the table and were asked to divulge our book idea. I, of course, haven't got one quite so firm in my mind as most of my classmates. I have some trouble commiting to a single idea, a single character and a single plot. After I said as much to the class, Dan (the professor) responded, "You're going to hate me when I give you your homework." (Fabulous!)

He waited until the last 15 seconds of class to tell us the assignment and then ran out of the room before we could throw pens at him. We are charged by next Tuesday at noon to write the Resurrection Scene of our novel. Step 11 in the Hero's Journey. For some, this will be a piece of cake, they already have the idea developed. For me, not so much.

We are not to build our characters, we are not to explain back plot, we are not to focus on anything but the ressurection scene of our main character. We are to write it as if we had turned to the page 220 in a 300 page book and copied out the contents.

So...I've decided to share with you, if there is anyone out there, my own heroine's journey. Throughout this 6 week course, I am going to post my homework and hopefully, as the time and assignments pass, a book idea will form. Bear with me. I'm new at this.

Resurrection

The pain reached such a pitch that Evie felt her body contract in an effort to dim the throbbing. But her brain could not ignore the irate signals that her nerves were screaming across each synapse.

She knew that she had taken the bullet. She saw the eye behind the muzzle, the flash. She felt the musket ball pierce her skin with all the grace of a ragged boulder entering water. It blasted a hole through her rib cage and entered her chest lodging deep in her lung. She tasted blood immediately, then lost her breath. She fell to her knees. Not wanting to die on her face, she leaned to her left and landed on her side.

Then she died. She was sure of it. She felt the black close in on her. She felt the pain disappear and the peace come. But now, now the black behind her eyes was red with agony. She was either alive or in the infernal hell that fire and brimstone preachers rage against. Damn them for being right.

Very slowly the searing pain downgraded to a more bearable burn. She felt her other senses, previously overcome, returning. She smelled vanilla and cat food. She felt fabric and plush beneath her. She urged her eyelids to raise in several tries like coaxing obstinate mini blinds. In between failures, she caught glimpses of her surroundings. She was clearly back in her apartment and, though she couldn't feel his touch, she recognized Eren standing over her, shaking her, terror contorting his face.

Sevenling: Scrabble

She's mad because I'm beating her
She usually beats me,
But this time I'm the one who has the W, Y and Z.

Whey and Day and Zone
She can not get ahead
I've hit each triple word score tile...Hey!

She dumped them on my head.

Sevenling: January in Texas

Yesterday in Texas was warm, bright and clear
But sadly, still its January
and today the cold is here

Tomorrow we are to expect the rain,
the cloudy, chilly, drizzly rain.
But here we know it will not last.

The next day may again be spring.

Sevenling: Traffic

I used my blinker,
I pulled in slow and
Didn't brake at all.

She revved up, nearly touched my bumper
Then sped around me
Showing me the back of her hand.

Maybe her breakfast didn't agree with her.

What is a Sevenling?

I have found a new poetic form to try. It's called a sevenling and is described by Roddy Lumsden of the American Poetry Journal.

The sevenling is a poem of seven lines inspired by the form of this much translated short verse by Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966).

He loved three things alone:
White peacocks, evensong,
Old maps of America.

He hated children crying,
And raspberry jam with his tea,
And womanish hysteria.

... And he married me.

tr. D M Thomas From Selected Poems (Penguin)

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.

Ode to Donna's Sandy Feet

Written for my mother, who took this picture.
I am an infant in this place.
The sand between my toes -
Stone beaten into grain
By water relentlessly pounding -
Was born millions of years ago
Violently exuded through miles of deep ocean
To form this island.
My being, by comparison, is but an instant old.
My life, next to this ocean, is so small as to not exist.

What could trouble me here?
What human pain or folly could possibly alter
The ancient perfection of this landscape?


The wind that moves my hair
Flies across the waves unfettered.
The sun that warms my skin
Warms too each grain of sand, each palm frond.
I hear the movement, feel the light.
I am illuminated from without and within.
Alone, yet surrounded.
Small, yet part of the grand whole.

Hope and love are easy here,
Effortless as the lapping of the sea
Against my sandy feet.

What is a Haiku?

Haiku, according to Wikipedia, is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku. I think that they are alot of fun to write. Just open up your mind, let the words come and count on your fingers as you write them down.