Tuesday, February 22, 2022

A PRISM

 

If I were a prism,
Would a rainbow they see,
Does your spirit shine through me,
Enough to see thee.
When my heart has grown cold,
So no mercy I find,
Do they see only darkness
In me for mankind?
When I leave wounded birds
To lie on the street,
Do you cry for the needs
That I fail to meet?
How much can I give
Before feeling deplete…
And why broken wings
Always down at my feet?
If I were a prism
And your spirit the light,
Would a rainbow shine through me
To brighten the night?

Monday, December 6, 2021

WRITER OR IMPOSTOR

 

Webster’s Dictionary describes a writer as one who writes; usually in a creative way, an author. One article states that a real writer is actually anyone who puts words to paper and sends them out into the world. Some say that anyone can become a writer with enough practice. Others say that the ability to weave the written word is an innate talent.
Writing is generally considered a right brain activity, but writers also use their left. From the right we draw our artistic talent, our muse, inspiration, and creativity; feelings, emotions, spirituality, imagery, and intuitiveness. From the left our ability to think, to be logical and analytical; the left side also gives to us our words.
I have written thousands of poems, many of them not worth the space on my computer, a few songs, and two novels, and yet I still have difficulty referring to myself as a writer, or a poetess, without feeling like an imposter.
Albert Einstein once said that “IMAGINATION IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN KNOWLEDGE.” For those of us who write fiction, we know that statement to be true, for without imagination it’s impossible to write fiction.
Fiction writers wield power; we become mini gods of sort, creating life from nothing more than our muse. We create people who become real to us and to others, ones we come to love or hate. We decide the fate of our characters, whether they live or die, what their lives will be like, happy or sad, and whether they will be hero or villain. Those who write fantasy create whole new worlds, ones foreign to both themselves and to us, and then inhabit them with persons and creatures that are created through nothing more than the writer’s imagination.
It’s been said that a writer is a paradox of EGO AND SELF-DOUBT; perhaps the ego is fueled by the power in the writer’s pen, for reasons just mentioned, or perhaps from the shear knowledge of knowing he or she has accomplished what relatively few people do, the write of a novel. It isn’t easy, it’s painstakingly hard work. It’s frustrating and time-consuming. The self-doubt part I know well. It has become my steady companion since beginning my first novel; which I began, by the way, with the purpose of seeing if I could. The ego part of me is swelled one moment and limps away injured in the next. After joining my first writer’s group, and receiving my first critique, the first chapter of my first book, I came home in tears and deleted that first chapter; the leader had ripped my writing to shreds, doing major damage to my self-esteem as a writer. After a time, I quit that group, but I didn’t quit writing.
A long time later, I joined a second writers’ group. I would love to be able to say that by this time I had developed the skin of an alligator; that I had become less thin-skinned, but unfortunately I can’t. We had one member, who to my regret is no longer part of the group, who I dubbed Simon Cowell. When critiquing my work, he would say things like, “Head-hopping” or “Point of view change!” I didn’t want to hear those nasty words; I didn’t want to accept what he had to say. You see, by this time I had written my second novel, and both books, each exceeding 85,000 words, were filled with head-hopping and point of view changes. I tried to argue the point with this man. I tried to defend my writing. I wanted to believe that the head-hopping and abrupt point of view changes in my stories were okay. I didn’t get it, folks. This man was right, and I was wrong! Well, to a point. Once I saw the light, I began work on my umpteenth rewrite - of both books. UGH! If we’re to benefit from a critique group, we have to be willing to hear what the other members have to say. We won’t improve as writers if through pride we become defensive or overly sensitive to the comments given. We should listen, decide whether or not to take the suggestions of the group, and continue to write. I’m not sure which is more difficult at times, giving a critique or receiving one.
Do you think you have what it takes to be a writer? Do you think you have the heart for it? Can you learn to deal with rejection? I’ve received enough rejection slips to paper a large wall, and not a single Literary Agent has gotten further than my query letter. If you think you have what it takes, or would like to give writing a try, then take up the pen. Don’t give up on yourself. Writing is hard work, but it’s also rewarding. Writing, as well as most artistic endeavors, is not for sissies.
My own novels may never get published, in the traditional way, but at least I proved to myself that I could write one, and for that I feel proud.



A KID FOR A DAY


 This early morning in the south,

I awoke to the fallen snow,
Its whiteness covered barren trees
And glistened on the ground below.
The tall pine trees wore wedding gowns,
And dogwood trees gave off a glow,
And in my mind, a Northern home,
Which I had left so long ago.
Seldom is seen the winter snow,
While living down here in the south,
So, when I gazed upon the white,
I found I opened wide my mouth.
In bed asleep… my little elf,
I surely knew would jump for joy,
When she awoke and seen the snow,
And would recall her special toy.
A bright red sleigh that stood unused,
Awaited patiently the snow,
And she would rush for hat and gloves
And beg for grand to play, I know.
I peered upon the sparkling white,
A little girl came now in view,
And I saw me so long ago,
Playing until I had turned blue.
My little elf had now awoke,
And like predicted, jumped for joy,
She gazed upon the fallen snow,
And with eyes wide, she cried, “Oh boy!”
I layered her in mounds of clothes
While I dressed lightly like a fool,
We both ran out to play today,
She thought it hot… I thought it cool.
The big red sleigh was carried out,
And she, alone, slid down the hill,
But soon she wanted something more,
She wanted me to join the thrill.
I thought that I would slide alone,
But soon she climbed upon my lap,
And both together, down we went,
And ran into a tree, “Oh, Crap!”
A few more trips on down the hill,
Her face was red and I was cold,
We couldn’t yet go back inside,
A snowman, still, we had to mold.
We made him large with acorn eyes
And looked proud at the man so round
But grandma now had lost her touch,
For soon it toppled to the ground.
There still was one more thing to do,
And soon we lied down on our backs,
We spread our legs and arms so wide,
And left snow angels in our tracks.
Now, hot chocolate sounded good,
But my Heather still cried to play,
My feet were cold; I closed my ears,
Her pleading words, they held no sway.
This day was nice… a kid again,
But now the snow can go away,
It was a treat and I had fun,
But grandma’s grown too old to play.
*And ... now? FORGET IT!!!



WHEN CHRISTMAS LACKS’ MERRY

 

Christmas means the blues for many,
Instead of snow, they see the rain,
From resurrected memories,
Which years ago, brought inner pain.
Without free will, these thoughts occur,
And stimuli bring on the tears…
Like Christmas Carols’ sung with joy…
For some returns the gone by years.
Somehow, I feel the heaven’s cry
As even angels get the blues;
We see the newborn baby boy…
They see the cross and future bruise.
Rejoice amidst your earthly tears,
Allow your heart to feel His love,
A love so strong, He left His throne
And chose to come down from above.
Resolve to plant new thoughts within…
Create the joy this season brings,
Amidst the saddened memories…
Let new ones find a chance for wings.



MY LIFE

 

Regrets?
I don’t know…
For each road taken,
I had chosen…
And yet…
I wish more times I laughed
And fewer times I cried…
I didn’t choose the tears…
And yet…
More often than I did…
I could have chose to laugh…
And yet…
I did…
Many times I laughed…
Mixed with tears…I laughed…
And I danced…
Oh, how I danced,
With gales of laughter…I danced.
How short a time that was…
Like looking through a peephole.
Regrets?
Yes, I have regrets…
I regret the times I thought in gray,
When yellows were there for me,
And days I failed to call a friend,
When my heart was feeling low.
And yet…
I remember the times in which I did...
I remember the laughter,
And the tears I shed with them,
And yes,
I remember we danced…
Moved the sofa and jumped around,
We called it exercise…
And we laughed…
Oh, how we laughed.
I regret the moves…
The ones that took my friends away,
But wait…
It was I… I who moved away.
Regrets?
Why?
I’m not yet dead…
There are years to laugh…
And still to dance…
And yes…
Both can be done alone.
I’ll put a CD in the player…
Around the room, I’ll Polka dance,
I’ll dance alone…just me…
It will be fun…I’ll laugh…
I’ll think in yellows and chartreuse…
I’m not yet dead.
Regrets?
No…
Not a one.



THE CONNECTION

 

Poets connect in special ways,
Perhaps because of bygone days,
So many suffered pain and strife,
And know that heartache comes with life.
Their minds run on a wayward track,
And many know the color black,
But when they write in rainbow hues,
Magnificence comes through their muse.
Some poets' thoughts a little weird,
They pen with darkness that is feared,
Perhaps they bring out to the light,
What others think deep in the night?
They paint the world for all to see,
And with their words, don’t all agree,
But wake the mind, though, none the less,
For few of them, their thoughts suppress.
Poets connect in many ways,
And understand each one's malaise,
We travel down a poet’s road,
And seem programmed with common code.
And what is that you all may say,
Well enter here and read someday,
And you will find a common thread,
That runs within a poet’s head.
Are poet’s crazy… just plain nuts?
Some seen exposed with bleeding guts,
Or filled with love that overflows’
To cover page with gushy prose.
In metaphors, we often write,
Enter our minds, we here invite.
Once more I’ll say in this short phrase,
Poets connect in special ways.



Wednesday, November 3, 2021

HIDING PLACE

 

There is a lonely place ... where I go to hide,

Somewhere no one can find me, where I alone abide.

I’ve built a wall around my secret hiding place,

With barriers built to reinforce and solidly encased.


Each year the walls grow stronger as I spend more time in there,

No one knows where I am hiding, nor do they care.

Sometimes, a loving, caring friend will tear away a wall,

With love and compassion, our heartaches we will share.


I would love to come on out and never more go there,

But I go where I feel safe, alone there, I reside.

Coming out, when someone cares, is the only time I dare

to leave that place where I hide, that place so deep inside.