4622 Castle Crest Drive

Photo Credit: jeunited.com
I found an actual photo of the house my grandfather built on Google! I lived there till age 7.

4622 Castle Crest Drive–dVerse Open Link Night and Meeting the Bar

She rules—pristine white, glorious
as a crown on the skull of the hill.
Alone, inviolate. The stuff of which
childhood myths are made.

And I wove those stories, weave them still,
envisioning dry days of California summer,
days steeped, like my first glass of iced tea,
in sunshine, scrub brush, and scents of citrus.

Geranium blooms, red and slightly pungent
grow wild among yuccas that, most years, burst
into white blossoms on March 19th, St. Joseph’s day.
Predictable as the swallows coming home.

Eucalyptus trees surround my fortress,
stanchions holding the house and our lives
erect, until the day the fires trundle up
the ridge, and they erupt in rapture.

The room where I wake—beneath the crest—
Is the home of an almost-stranger—a man
who wears a sheet each year on Halloween as
Grandpa takes me door-to-door in his neighborhood

that cradles the base of my princess-world.
It’s different now, sixty-some years later. They’re
dead, the ghost and my dreams of royalty.
And someone painted my castle black.

I’m linking this to both dVerse Open Link Night and the Meeting the Bar I will be hosting this Thursday, February 7th. While dealing with computer issues and upgrades, I’ve made the difficult decision to cut back on the number of posts I do each week, as my priority right now is to get my second novel and a book of poetry out to agents. I will continue to be hanging around the Pub, but will post any prompt I respond to on OLN.

Here’s a hint for Thursday…dig back into those childhood memories and savor the details.

Craving

This poem is a response to two previous prompts at dVerse: Anna Montgromery’s Meeting the Bar on experimental poetry and Claudia Schonfeld’s Poetics on food. I wrote it a while back, using a technique I turn to occasionally when in a writing drought. The idea is to take a dictionary and choose 10-20 words at random, words that appeal to you based on both sound and meaning, then use as many as you can, adding the fewest number of other words possible.

Image: Kamil Honisch via Google Images

Craving

Mangoes dance adagio
on slivers of dreams that float
solitary
in the periwinkle wilderness.

Flushed mussels nest
beside curling wisps of smoke
where tongues pluck nectar.

Writhing slices of apple pie
burn urgency.
Remember to wink,
mulling fantasies,
while you knit.

Linking today at dVerse Open Link Night, hosted by Joe Hesch. Please join us for some amazing poetic talent. For a while, I’m having to limit my time at the computer because of some (inconvenient, not serious) health issues…so please understand if my comments are sparse. I will read as many as possible, however…always those who visit me. Thanks, fellow poets.

Perfect Family

Photo Credit: Benjamin Kinsland via Google Images

A Perfect Family lived next door—perfect mother and father—three perfect children—two boys and a girl.
They went to church every Sunday as we slept in—Bible Study on Thursday evenings while we drank beer and watched football.
They didn’t yell or curse like we did—like the couple on the other side of us—Their lawn was perfectly manicured.
The oldest son went off to college and was an honor student—my son went to work after high school at an auto repair shop.
The middle daughter was the star of the soccer team—she played the violin and practiced for hours in the evening and on Saturday.
The mother didn’t work because she cared for the toddler—and began home schooling when he was five years old.
On summer evenings the father would come home from work and change into his Ralph Lauren polo shirt and barbecue steaks or ribs.
The aroma invaded the neighborhood as the rest of us sat on our porches eating hot dogs with potato salad and baked beans.
One such evening my son was smoking a Marlboro and drinking a Bud—my daughter was pregnant and I wasn’t sure where my husband had gone.
Fireflies danced in the dusk before the shots rang out – five of them.
My dogs skittered into the house through the dog door as I grabbed the phone to call 911.
They called it a murder-suicide—the weight of perfection—too heavy to bear I guess. Everybody said so.

Today, over at dVerse Poets’ Pub, I have the honor of hosting Meeting the Bar. I’m discussing an important aspect of fiction/non-fiction writing with an eye to how it can be applied to poetry–that is, characterization.

In this poem, written years ago, I’m including snapshots of two families with the hope that the brief descriptions paint a picture of the tenor of both. Please bear in mind that I have the mind of a fiction writer and much of my poetry is fiction, as this one is. Sometimes people in my past (or present), newspaper articles and other snippets of news serve as a source of inspiration, so that something factual may be borrowed and embroidered.

I hope you will join us at the pub to read some incredible poetry and, hopefully, to offer up something of your own.  The doors open in forty-five minutes (1500 EDT). I look forward to reading your work.

Two Twenty-Six

Photo Credit: Google Images/www.last.fm

Two twenty-six
(a new moon night)
I stumble to the kitchen.

My flashlight plays
on unfamiliar surfaces,
creates images,

suggests invasion
by artifacts
unknown to me.

I fumble for the kettle.
Blue flames explode,
lick seductively.

Steeping chamomile
shares soothing
sleep-inducing scents

while I peek through
the blinds.
On the cul-de-sac

behind us
a street light spills
across the pavement.

Aside from that
the world lolls
in darkest stillness.

Alone, I sip my tea.
I sip solitude.

Thank you Claudia, at dVerse Meeting the Bar, for the prompt to write a poem in the manner of the Impressionistic Artists. Quick brush strokes, the play of light, and mood…move over Monet.  I hope you will join us at the Poetry Pub and bring along your own masterpiece.

Presents

i.
sometimes you strain to garner magic
that supposed-to-be-moment
of days set aside to remind
us of this or that but snug
within your core of pretend-this-is-special
simmers a memory, an understanding
that this frou-frou feeling
inauthentic grasping of what-used-to-be
stands for something more.

ii.
down the street at the end of the cul-de-sac
an old woman lives alone
a mostly dark house with tight-closed
shutters and peeling paint
shielded from neighbors’ bright-light-christmas
oh-so-white reindeer on the lawn
rearranged by kids one block over
humping.

iii.
wrapping paper
bows
presents
neglected now in disarray

iv.
in the kitchen an argument ensues
it’s too early to put the turkey
in the oven remember last year
how dry it was

v.
from the den loud snores
emanate
uncle jack drank too much again
same as always

vi.
in here
alone
my thoughts prowl meaning
sun pours through the half-moon
window above the door
that later in the day
will welcome others
we haven’t seen or spoken to
in months

vii.
my dogs relax
cuddled at my side
backlit by rays
content and cared-for
knowing we are present

viii.
i get it then
that’s what today is all about

This is not meant to be a downer, but rather to look beyond the fluff of holiday celebrations and get to the meaning behind them. I’m linking this to dVerse Poetics and to my own prompt on Presents vs. Presence. Also to Gooseberry Gardens where the prompt is Holiday Traditions. .

Merry Christmas, all. I hope you do get to taste the magic of the holidays.

Write2Day–Presents versus Presence

Many of us are preparing to celebrate the holidays, each in his or her own way. Winter Solstice is the 22nd (0530 U.T.), reminding us of the play of light and darkness, this being the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

The holiday I celebrate is Christmas, the birth of Christ, even though we have no evidence as to when Jesus was actually born. The early Church took the prevailing festival of Saturn and adopted December 25th, the date midpoint in the event, in an attempt to incorporate the cultural traditions in which it found itself into its liturgical calendar.

Our world view has evolved, in part, thanks to the interconnectedness created by our Internet communities. We have become so much more aware of other traditions and thus attempt to become more inclusive. For me, this underlines how much we are alike, rather than emphasizing differences. In my lifetime experience, Christmas has become more secularized/commercialized and, for many, has lost its spiritual significance. Yet common themes of light, love, and giving remain important.

This week I was struck by a poem written by fellow blogger, Charles Mashburn. Without going into the poem itself, (I hope you will check it out) the message that struck me was the idea of Presence vs. Presents. As my own faith has matured, I see Christmas as a celebration of God, however God shows up in our lives: Presence. At the same time, I enjoy the anticipation of a child as I eye the Presents waiting under the tree and as I try to choose things that will please those I love. It’s all about giving, and receiving Love.

So, for this week’s prompt, I invite you to share your point of view about the holidays. And don’t be surprised if we encounter one or more common denominators. 

To participate:

• Write an essay, short story or poem and post it to your blog.
• Copy the URL and your Name into the Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post.
• Take a few moments to read other bloggers and comment on their work.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanza, Diwali, Holidays!

Power of Love-A Haiku

Image by ezioman via Flickr

Power of Love

Love is above all
energy kindling a fire
in the core of life.

I am posting this brief poem in gratitude for the nomination I received for the Perfect Poet’s Award, and to bring a bit of light into our celebrations of the season.

thirteen ways of looking at rain

thirteen ways of looking at rain

i
rain
symbol of cleansing
dreamtime confession

ii
the touch of rain
on a withered cheek
reminder of long-ago kisses

iii
when rain and sun
make love
they spawn rainbows

iv
rain puddles on asphalt or cobblestone
luminescent pools of color
moody reflections

v
rain puddles on dirt make mud
child’s delight
mother’s misery

vi
when rain freezes
and winds blow
kisses sting
like a lover grown cold

vii
some people are like rain
you reach out to touch them
they slip through your fingers
they are gone
but you remember
they were there

viii
some people are like rain
you wait for them
but they don’t come
then they appear uninvited
and disrupt your life

ix
mingle rain
with tears
purify your heart

x
rain’s caress
on a child’s cheek
an invitation to play

xi
too much rain blinds
just like too much of anything
moderation, balance
give direction

xii
dance in the rain
sing in the shower
be not afraid
enjoy freedom

xiii
when it rains
go walking
without an umbrella

This week at dVerse Poetics, the incomparable Brian Miller offers a prompt based on the amazing art work of Tera Zajack ( olive hue designs) and the Gooseberry Garden invites us to consider, among other things, December. Usually, this month is blessed with some form of precipitation. Where I live, it most often takes the form of snow. But this year, the only thing we’ve had is cold and wind. So this poem, inspired by a form given to us by Wallace Stevens, is more of a wish than a reality. I hope to see you at one or both of these wonderful poetry communities.

My browser would not allow me to upload the images that inspired this poem, so now you HAVE TO check out the Pub. Have a drink and share a poem while you’re there!

Keeper of Memories

Image via Wikipedia

Keeper of Memories

In musty basement dark
of that old house upon the hill
an old man finds a tattered leather case
(dimpled faux-finish, I now see)
caresses it as though it were his lover,
while I stand by and watch.

Gnarled hands fumble
at a rusty clasp that keeps
the contents from intrusion.
In spite of trembling that I know so well,
unwanted company of his later years,
he eases the lid open on its wobbly hinges.

Pungent aromas escape to fan
familiar once-upon-a-time remembrances
of when I was a child.

Images flash forward,
rape my ears, my eyes–
and cold smooth surfaces, my touch,
so that a melding of sensations
hurls me back in time
to when I sat in expectation,
and listened to the quiet.

He brings the contents now to view.
No longer does she gleam,
yet there beneath patina tinged with tarnish
I smell music.

Clutching her now against his concave chest
he shuffles rhythmically across the room,
remembering, no doubt those evenings
spent upon the porch in twilight murmurings.

Once settled in between the cushions
of a tattered, dusty chair
he raises up the precious object to his lips and blows.
Diminished breath invades her inner being.

But I am overcome by remnants,
not of sound, but scent
that lingers still within the archives of my soul
in saxophonic exclamation.

A poem posted this week by Claudia (jaywalkingthemoon) set fire to a memory that I embellished quite a bit. Thank you for the sorely needed inspiration, Claudia. As a side note, I have read that the sense that most evokes memories is smell.

I am linking this to dVerse Open Link Night. I hope everyone enjoys a visit to the pub this week and I look forward to sampling your offerings.

Write2Day–Writing from the Dark Place

Image via Wikipedia

As the winter solstice approaches–here in the Northern Hemisphere, our thoughts turn to long, dark nights and, often, gloomy days. Winter is a time for introspection in many spiritual traditions, and the body itself calls us to go within.

Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung, calls attention to the various aspects of the human personality, contrasting that part of us we show to the world (even the world of bloggers, perhaps) with that aspect that we’ve so conveniently shoved into the unconscious: our shadow side. As we mature, an important developmental task is to integrate these two parts of us, to face those things that we would just as soon forget about, to work toward balance and to learn to tap into the darker energy, harness it and allow it to touch our creative selves. It is in the unconscious that our creativity thrives and it behooves us to unleash that energy by naming it.

Beauty and light are, no doubt, important attributes of poetry and poetic prose. But think about photography. If a scene is over-exposed, flooded with light, lacking shadow, it is uni-dimensional, flat, boring. It is the contrast that calls attention to the light.

Some of our best known, loved poets grappled with depression, addiction and similar disorders. Think of Sylvia Plath, Ann Sexton and Jane Kenyon to name of few of them. This doesn’t mean that, to write good poetry, we need to wallow in angst. Rather, it means that we need to be willing to open our eyes and SEE what is before us in all its complexity. The majesty of a soaring hawk contrasts with its predation of a tiny wren. Both are part of a hawk’s reality.

For today’s prompt, I invite you to go dark. Deal with a topic you would rather ignore, whether in society, in a particular cultural setting, or within yourself. Do not ask yourself, as you write, “What will ‘they’ think of me?” Don’t try to write to please or be accepted. Go ahead. Dive into to the dark, murky waters of the unconscious and allow that shadow side to emerge.

To join: write your poem, copy and paste to Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post, read other participants and have fun…sorry this is late. My automatic scheduling skills are deficient.