I love Joe Pye Weed,but it is a sign that summer is on the wane.
Yesterday I heard a bagger at the grocery store talking about having to register for school and buy books.
That's really when it hit me...this summer really is coming to an end.
I mentioned this to my husband this morning as I inspected the garden for storm damage,
as it had rained so hard all night,lightening and thunder included.
"Oh summer is almost over," I lamented to him.
...He looked at me like I was a dumb blonde.
"There's August, that's summer,duh?" he said sipping his coffee that I had made him this morning.
...Some people are not poets or writers, they don't see things through the eyes of agony.
"No, it's almost over, the bagger at the Jewel is buying school books, it's over."
...This man will never understand my delicate nature.
But it is true, no matter how hard I wish it, the season is gearing up to move on.
...Maybe throwing a few parties before it skips town so we can have a few more hot dogs on the grill
and dip our pinkies in the pool or pick a few last flowers for the vase on the kitchen table,
but she has given notice...signs...she's leaving soon.
"Besides," he says, "Fall is nice... cooler weather, colorful leaves,bonfires,apple pie,migrating birds...."
FALL! He dared to say it.
FALL is just a temptress tricking us
into not noticing that WINTER is just under her skirt!
The man knows how to ruin my morning.
I have found that I like to write in first person...it is intimate ..it is immediate
...it draws you into the story like nothing else.
I started writing after the age of 50. I will be 60 in December. Not long. But it seems like my whole life.
I started with a little poetry group and soon found poetry as a way of purging all the gunk that had my pistons stuck. They were confessional but poorly crafted. Craft. I never knew that writing had craft until I began taking workshops and joined a few writing groups. Boy, is that a hard lesson for a new writer to learn. There are rules. And you must learn the rules in order to be skilled enough to break the rules, otherwise your work reads like so much dribble...that only your good friends and family adoring says is wonderful.
But I have also learned that you must write that way to get to good writing. Because writers write.
The first writing workshop I attended, the must immediate question asked by almost the entire group was..How will I know that I am a writer? Write.
Poetry taught me how to condense language and to think in images. An image is powerful, enabling you to tuck it into the reader's mind where it takes a leap. A good poem to me is when it happens inside the reader's mind,when they connect with something universal. No tears in the writer no tears in the reader..as they say. But it can't just be confessional or an emotional dumping..it must take a leap..turn into something more.
At another writing workshop I tried my hand at short, short, story...beginning, middle, and end...kind of writing. A story that must also take a leap of some kind at the end. Oh boy, this is hard, I said. And it is.
It took this old lady a long time to see what is good writing. Only then was I able to get anywhere near to writing something that was passable. Not sure I have yet. I have had stories published in small presses and poems published in various venues and I've won third place for a poem in an anthology and an honorable mention for a postcard poem's submission. Not bad. But that has no influence on why I write. When I write I go somewhere known only to me..a place of pleasure...sort of a masturbation of the soul. This kind of masturbation will not make me go blind, quite the contrary, it opens my eyes.
I have learned to listen for found language.....things like bits of conversation overheard at a restaurant.
At the last workshop I attended in Door County, at the end of the week, we had a one on one with the teacher. Tell me, he asked, what have you learned this week that you didn't know before?
I learned about story. Look for the story in everything. It doesn't have to be something that actually happened. Search for the universal in the story.
So when I write a Magpie or Microfiction Monday, or a Wednesday Poem
and people think I am writing about myself.....I guess that it is a good thing. I have moved them.
And that is what a good story or poem does.
Thanks readers...I guess I am doing something right...or is it write?
melancholy sits beside me an unwelcomed guest who has nailed me to this spot doesn't care that I have things to do and places to go she has placed blue lead around my heart Tomorrow,she says she will go tomorrow then takes my hand locks it into hers and gives it a squeeze
One week...gone so fast...too quickly...I closed the door as grandpa took them to the airport, the trunk of the car stuffed to the gills with new toys to brings home...the rest grandpa will send out this week...I closed the door and cried. cried for the missing of them cried for the missing of my son as a little boy cried because I can't go with cried because it's going to take me a week to get this house back in order.
In case you want to read the story I came up with for J.Reid's challenge here it is. I wasn't even in the running. But it did give me a chance to learn a bit about what she likes.
With only using 100 words or less tell a story using these words- Fenske,Bacon,Reed,Resistance & Simpson and to guess the theme...which I did not do...don't know much about Oregon I guess.
Last year at this time he had taken her to Fenske Lake Cabins, and there in the isolation of the deep woods of Minnesota he told her he was filing for divorce. "So,when a certified letter comes from my attorneys,Bacon and Reed,you better sign for it." That night she offered no resistance to the man who had broken her nose and blackened her eyes,the sex more violent than before. But now...in Caifornia at Simpson Grove, she tries to put her arms around a giant sequoia,her husband still missing in the deep woods of Minnesota. 100w/c
That's it. I got all the words in and I think I got a story going here...oh well.
This is my 13 year old cat named Webster. He is aging fast and this has got me down a bit. He is a special cat...I know every cat is a special cat. But I mean he is special in that he has a deformity. When he was little we thought it was cute..his question mark tail. But as he aged we noticed that he couldn't wave it, or raise it straight in the air or bottlebrush it when he was frightened. Hisa back is curved a little too.All this if you have a cat means he lacked the ability to talk with his tail...body language. He also can't fluff up when he's angry or frightened. And to go along with this he has remained a kitten at heart...sweet but dependant...not so nice for a cat...they are independant by nature. He is the cat who hunts stuffed animals packed away in the basement at night bringing them up to our room at night and dropping them by or on the bed as gifts for us...who love him. He is a big cat, in his prime he weighed 25 lbs...now he is getting thin. But he maintains his sweet disposition. He does not like Mr. Darcy...our new little waif of a kitten. He hisses at him when he passes by. It's getting better, I think he has resigned himself that the little guy is staying. But no one will ever replace Webster... he is special to me.
Use these words in a story of 100 words or less and to guess the theme. This challenge is posted on her blog in the comment section. So if you want to read mine you'll find it there as soon as she checks it over. The challenge closes tonight and she selects one she thinks is best. Remember last time I posted too late and had to post my story about the prostitute on my blog? Well this time I think I got it posted right...we'll see, if not I'll post it tomorrow..for those of you who are kind enough to want to read it.
Why all these writing challenges you may ask. It's the thrill of the hunt for me. ...finding the story within someone else's confines. Forcing myself to edit out unnecessary words..to figure out a beginning a middle and an end within the guidelines. And the thrilling thing for me is how this happens...I don't know.
But it does. Somehow my brain finds a story...often with my resistance..I don't want to write that..it's funny..or it's creepy..or it's horrifying or too sentimental...but the story writes itself...I am the scribe.
Ah, the July garden, so sweet with heat.
The flush of nests is past,everything slows to summer.
The skies are heartbreak blue with white clouds that hide shapes in their billows.
And sometimes thunderstorms light up the sky
reminding me,I'm not in charge.
oh, and the bugs at night
in still dark air
after the robin has soloed
I wrapped myself in July today,
and the promise of thunderstorms tonight
I enjoyed the company of robins,goldfinches,
wrens,purple finches,one blue jay
three squirrels and four rabbits
a few butterflies, bees
and one neighbor's kid
Going to a political event tonight at the Columbian Yacht club. We will get an awesome view of Chicago's skyline and of Navy Pier,where at dusk fireworks will be set off. I don't know about where you live, but Illinois is a sorry state. Spend and tax...and we are broke despite all the revenue enhancers they have come up with.
Why am I going then? An old friend's son has invited us. He's running..thinks he can change things..make a difference ..we used to think that too..forty years ago nothing's changed...and now Chicago politics has gone to Washington there...I said it. Tonight when the fireworks go off I think I will be the only one who will have a sense of sadness for it all.
There is something about still water...any water.
I wish I had a pond in my backyard. I am drawn to its life...herons,frogs,turtles,dragonflies,cattails. Yesterday while walking through the garden I stopped to enjoy this reflection in the birdbath.
I love reflections too, in water...especially the sky.
Sometimes I go outside when its drizzling a bit..just to look at the water in the birdbath..the ripples and circles. I remember throwing rocks into the lagoon at McKinley park in the City...watching the ripples and circles...sometimes getting a rock or two to skip across the water.
Always a fascination with water. ...still water. It stops me. I go within staring at it,my mind drifting off to unconnected thoughts that seek release. As I was looking into this water my nose caught the smell of some sweetness in the air that I can't identify, but it is the smell of a hot summer garden. The magic fragrance that transports me to places of the heart....of fun times in childhood. It whiffs and waffs through the air...floating over my memory....
This too, will be a memory, sweet summer memory,standing in my garden wishing for a pond,enjoying the reflection in the birdbath,catching the fragrance of summer,remembering my childhood..yes this too I will someday enjoy as a stirring of the heart
Things I gather everyday to have inside me. Life is for savoring...for dipping our days into joy and beauty and laughter...
and of course, M.Heart .....love.
an anniverary of the heart
about 7:30 in the morning that day the phone rang
my 24 yr. old brother was killed in a car accident
I was 8 months pregnant and 22 years old
He's been gone a long time..37 years..I know..how long..my daughter will be 37 next month
Sorrow goes to a quiet place thankfully
believe it or not..some years I forget
but not this year...I saw it on my phone
the date July 7th
and I remembered
and I don't know why I wanted to tell you this
except that he mattered and I want to say it again
A cloverleaf in the birdbath...a simple thing really, unless you wonder ..how did it get there..and then you stay for a while..who knows how long thinking..and one thought leads to another and the sun warms your skin and your heart is warm also because it was still and asked questions that didn't really matter to anyone else but your spirit..sometimes it is just the asking of questions that is found gold
Luck a thing floating in water by happenstance
how did it get there impossible from the ground maybe stuck to a bird's foot or dropped from above
but there it is in sunlight laying in still water and the lucky thing is I saw it and was still as it floating in thought and that was my pot of gold
Thought I'd try my hand at writing a poem....it's been a long time..but I dusted off my line breaks
and joined http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com for their weekly challenge to put one on the board...yes!
She devours Anne Sexton tries to crawl inside the page She's aware of the darkness within
But she's drawn by the tune Tries to whistle as she passes whistle as she passes the grave-yard
The last time I sketched was with the plein air group that met last summer.
I was invited this year to come along,but if you have read my blog within the last month
not much time to pencil anything in....no pun intended.
This was my first attempt at drawing buildings. ICK! I have always avoided buildings...give me a tree or flower.
Perspective...I never got it. But I remember just sitting across the street from this building in Riverside
on my little drawing stool and just starting...there is much that is way off, but I am happy that I was able to get anything down that resembled perspective. If you look closely and if you know me, you'll see what "drew" me to this scene to sketch.
...the sign in the window...."This place matters" Seems that the city wanted to tear this building down and the citizens rose up to save it. It was spared as of this drawing, but with the economy tanking I hope it is still there..
But the writer in me loves a good thought...This place matters....hm mm....yes
Yep, I drew the sign..the buildings were fill in