Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Can you smell it....?
I make the best pies in America
No really, I do and I have my MIL to thank for
teaching me when I was a young bride back in the olden days.
At the moment my house smells like apple pie
because on the stove is my second pot of apples
cut up in large slices from my Golden Delicious Apple tree.
It is fall and in the fall it is harvesting apples
now whether one tree makes me an apple farmer is really a question
that one probably never ponders...
I love any berry or fruit pies and desserts
but my family loved my banana cream pies which required
no talent other than the crust.
I don't make those anymore because I am not near my family.
Sweet apples growing on my tree
turning from apple green soon they will be
deep sweet yellow
falling one by one from my tree.
Crisp and filled with dreams
coated in sugar and cinnamon beans
deep sweet yellow
apple slices from my dreams.
Smothered in thin crust
a touch of sugar on top a must
deep sweet yellow
apples hiding under the golden crust.
Hot or very cold my friends
scoop on the ice cream always wins
maybe caramel maybe not
but best shared with good friends.
Friday, August 18, 2017
I am a writer but also I am an artist.
Writing allows me to release stories that have been
hiding somewhere in my recessed mind.
Art is an expression of quirky
love for all things different and beautiful
to the eye of the beholder.
Whether it is a book, a poem, a movie
a song or a piece of art.
The eye of the beholder will decide for themselves
if it is pleasing or not.
Sometimes when not pleasing it might not
be pleasing but most times it is because
it is not that person's cup of tea.
The above piece was an old banjo
missing parts, in bad shape and only $10
at the weekend swap meet.
I have taken it apart and looked for parts
to renovate. They don't exist so I moved to pure art.
The banjo had an old torn yellowed head
was missing hooks and the pegs
parts of the wood and of course no strings.
I first made sculptured glass magnolias
and leaves basing them off of a beautiful water painting
they were then inserted into holes drilled
into the center wood support.
The old head was cut and then I painted
magnolias and leaves as the background to the glass.
The front is clear glass.
On that I have painted magnolias, wild flowers
and morning glories.
It is far from a finished piece of art
and despite the fact that I tell myself that it should be simple
I just let my muse control on how it evolves.
I love painting more than melting glass
but it is the combination of the two
that makes up my love of mixed mediums.
When I was younger, I did a series
of small paintings of old doors and cats
but the doors were made of clay.
I still have one in my studio but doors are a passion of mine.
I have never combined my love of flowers
love of doors and my muse.
In my writing, you will always find flowers,
doors that need to be opened or maybe barred against
For now, I will finish the banjo
for someone out there will fall in love with my muse
and will put it in a place for enjoyment.
Life is always so full
when you do what you love and love what you do!
Friday, August 4, 2017
You can put this entire summer in the can
and seal it up because I am over it.
After clumsily falling
or face planting myself into cement
literally making my right arm
totally useless and creating a fog of incredible pain
I finally have full range of my arm
though it still needs therapy to build up the muscles.
I remember my sister having a cast
on her leg after falling off a horse
and laughing because when it came off her leg
was spindly compared to the other.
I know my bad.
So being unable to do anything of significance
eight weeks of healing
pinched a nerve in my back or hip or somewhere
which defined pain that surpassed
the arm...like it went out the hatch pain
like I started to talk to God again pain
giving small tokens to any god who exists in
fantasy or sci-fi stories.
I couldn't walk...I couldn't stand for more than a moment
and frankly I was beyond mad at the world
because I hate pain.
Am I better...a little...I can at least start to stretch
by touching my toes and other stretches
and though I should not be so snarky
I have learned that there is a difference between
mental snarky and pain 'oh my God' snarky.
To those in constant pain...
I am so sorry.
Sorry that there is nothing that exists to lift
the pain that wears you down like a drip in the dirt
leaving a deep hole.
I am sorry that our bodies are not easy
to fix or to understand.
I want a machine that gives you 3-D view of everything
in your body...like a robot.
So I am humbly yours...missing the summer
and working toward taking control
of my own self.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Let us put aside the characters for just a moment and look at what is the backdrop.
The time frame of your story
The place of your story
The temperature of the world affecting your story
Research is something that is both important and not so much
but I find that understanding that moment in time
putting yourself in the 'timeframe' of the social graces and
the political fever.
Once you are comfortable with knowing your backdrop
you can start outlining your story line.
There should always be rocky roads that work
against you, misdirection and treachery. All of these can be
blatantly or just under consciousness.
You have to weave history with your story but like
describing the weather you need to do it with the interactions of your characters.
The most important part of a story is the characters.
Paint them with a full palette but don't over paint them. Don't
wear down your reader by telling them the same thing over and over
but by having your characters capable of embracing
the backdrop, embracing the dangers and rocky roads with succulent
human reactions in real time.
Know your history, know your time
know the minute details of society and then form your characters.
Writing is difficult, avoiding cliques is important but keep your backdrop
simple and concise
and your characters as rich as a triple layer chocolate cake.
Fall in love with your characters
Invite them to your screen and into your world.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
We all cheer on the heroine
urging her to overcome adversity
so sweet...so very, very likeable
that we reach into the pages
pushing her toward success and happiness.
It is the morally reprehensible
the lack of character
the rise of your pernicious side
that should garner your sharp eye
for a story must have evil to understand good.
against what the protagonist must surely,
as does the rain fall, contend
a battle of sorts in heaven or on earth
rises from the depths of our living hell.
Bells chiming from the fallen church
through the graveyard
on that ultimately moonless night
there rises the bone chilling fear
Paint your evil
with the blackest of hearts and souls
pulling the strings of dramatic breath of conflict
for he is as vital to a story
as the sweetest of heroines.
Monday, July 3, 2017
We don't ever go there...not in our polite conversations
Not with our closest confidants
And strangers may not take it in the manner it was given
We don't ever go there because it became taboo.
Somewhere along the timeline
From the caveman who was really quite rude
To the romantic era where poetry was at the height of entertainment
We don't ever go there because of the moral box.
Love is merely a name of that which makes us happy
A word used with our unbridled pleasure
Roses growing wildly or in a row emitting aroma so sweet
That the ripe strawberry imitates with the tongue.
We don't ever go there and when it wanes with time
A thief like a black cat takes our energy
Dripping the passion along the wooden floor at night
A loss so subtle we rarely mourn.
Intimacy is the acknowledgment of a physical need
Renewal of our self-discovery of the wild creature
Who roams the earth in forgotten dreams
We don't ever go there to capture it once it is stolen.
Softly it leaks from our souls without a sound
We feel its departure but rarely fight to renew our intimacy
Our love of our physical reaction
Dies like the rose budding on the vine.
Love or Intimacy or Intimacy or Love?
Choosing one over the other is not necessary
We don't ever go there, we don't ever say "I live for Intimacy"
But you should...nothing in life renews your soul
like raw physical intimacy.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Sometimes I wander
late into the darkness of my life
pushing aside that niggle voice
considered my better side.
For there in the dark
beats the heart of misery
I can hear the blood pulse rhythmically
a siren upon the crashing waves.
A struggle on cat paws
I push away from my strength
letting go with abandonment
as it pulls me further under into its bosom.
I don't resist
for my experience, my history
based on denial in the whispers of the night
are sordidly in vain.
A short ride in the dark
I let go embracing wave after wave
knowing I shall return once I am through.
Once I know
that nothing lasts and nothing is bad
it is just me refocusing
shedding all that makes me sad.