"Goodie Bag" Service Project For The Homeless/In Need

So, my husband and I have been talking for a while about helping those who are in need. Neither of us like to give money where it can potentially be misspent but we wanted to do something genuinely useful for those who are truly in need. 

We came up with the idea because I was talking to him about how very much I hate giving MONEY out at a stop sign, or whatever, but feel a genuine desire to help.

My kind and thoughtful husband has gone and bought deli food for the homeless vet by WalMart that had a sign that said "Hungry" - but that's only one meal.

The idea kind of came from two things: a desire to not give money, and the idea for a "new mommy" hospital kit that I thought about making for a few friends having babies a while ago. I tweaked the contents a little bit about researching what homeless people had access to in a shelter, but may still need. And then I did a little more reading on the kits that some others have put together. Then we went to see what we could find with an emphasis on shelf-stable foods that didn't need heating or utensils to eat. 

The toiletries idea came from the little things that you take for granted... until you don't have them anymore. A toothbrush and toothpaste, Chapstick and Kleenex were some of those things I would always like to have and that seem like luxuries rather than essentials.

Then, as the weather is changing, having a warm hat and gloves seemed appropriate. We thought about socks, but then we'd have to worry about men's/women's sizes, and we wanted these goodie bags to work for either gender.

We went shopping yesterday and made up a few "goodie bags" with items that could usually be found (relatively) inexpensively but would make an impact on the recipient. 

Our kits include: 

a fleece-lined hat, 

gloves, 

granola bars, 

cheese & crackers, 

cookies, 

herbal tea, 

fruit snacks, 

Kleenex, 

Chapstick, 

a pack of gum, 

cinnamon and butterscotch hard candies 

and a toothbrush and toothpaste in a travel kit. 

I sorted them all into equal piles, and then put into paper gift bags that were 2/$1 at the local Dollar Tree. I tied them shut with ribbons, and included an encouraging card. Now we will distribute them to folks who are in need. 

The text of the cards I got from another site doing a similar project, though I altered it as it was a touch religious. So I made it more neutral and added a quote. :) Mine read:

"Here is a little goodie bag for you:

You may be down on your luck right now, but this little bag is here to remind you that you are worth SO much, that there are people who care about you, and that there is always hope. Have a beautiful day!

Encouragement to others is something everyone can give. Somebody needs what you have to give. It may not be your money; it may be your time. It may be your listening ear. It may be your arms to encourage. It may be your smile to uplift. Who knows? -Joel Osteen"

Here are the goodie bag contents "in process" 

(I added a few more things later as I got them put together)

And here is the completed set with the card and ribbons to hold everything together.

Hopefully these will be appreciated. We budgeted $100 and spent just a little under that to make nine bags. (We were shooting for 10, but there were only 9 travel toothbrush kits on the shelf so we made do with that! LOL!)

When I was in college, I was part of the Golden Key Honors Society and we served meals at the homeless shelter, did highway clean-up, sang Christmas carols in the hospital and other service projects, so I really like doing these sorts of things, though without someone else coming up with the ideas I typically just donate to Red Cross, The Humane Society and my special favorite, Rolling Dog Ranch. I also donate to Lupus research for my sister-in-law, did the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) and always try to pick my (running) races that support breast cancer (Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure) or cancer research, or another charity. I even ran one to stop sex trafficking! So I'm definitely service-oriented. Here it seems as though most of those are through the church, so I wanted to come up with an idea that just my husband and I could do on a modest budget!

Someday we hope to do even more charity work, but for right now, it was a great start! I truly look forward to distributing these bags, and now I can keep my eye out for sales on some of these items so we can make more in the future!

My heart is so happy! <3

An Unfinished Masterpiece - short story

He hadn't meant to scare the child but the scars had a tendency to do that. He was almost used to it.

Shannon couldn't even bear to look at him. At first, he tried to console himself with the idea that it was because it evoked memories of that night, but eventually he had to face the fact that she simply could not bear to look at his disfigurement.

He wasn't sure what hurt the most - the phantom pain in the socket missing the eye, the fact that she had moved everything of  hers out while he was off applying for unemployment benefits, or the reaction of people on the street who cringed away in horror. He never considered himself an egotistical man, but the strangers pulling away, his mother bursting into hysterics when she finally saw him without the bandages, the odd and awkward hug that his brother gave him - proud, but with a sense of loss far greater than the single eye and the puckered flesh of the scars that sliced the barren socket. Those damned that scars slashed across the skin of his cheek and left him looking more like Frankenstein's monster than the art restorer with the keen eye and steady hand.

Unemployment benefits would run out soon, and still the flesh was too hot and tender for the straps of the eye patch. Not much call for a fine artist with no depth perception. At this point, he'd take scraping cement walls and painting them, but it seemed there was a glut of unskilled teenagers to do those sorts of grunt work jobs.

He could not face the empty rooms tonight, so he had gone to the theater, attempting to stare down the demons, to face the lingering terror gnawing relentlessly in his bowels. He could hardly have recalled the details of the show he had watched, some dry drama about the rationing during WWII with a cast of no-name actors who were likely destined to stay that way. The door had creaked terribly as he pushed out the back, the same way they had gone out, into the orangey glow of the overhead lights creating dimly-etched circles on the parking lot. He supposed that he must look terrifying in the half-light, but he wanted to tell the kid that he wasn't the one to be afraid of, that he was supposed to be the hero, even if he hadn't worn a cape since the Halloween he turned eleven and insisted on being Superman.

They had come out from a late show, only a skeleton crew manning the popcorn and sweeping the aisles. They two had lingered through the credits, content and laughing, hoping for a short clip afterward, and only mildly disappointed when it did not come. They had not even gotten half of the way to their car when they had been jumped, bodies surrounding them, a hot slice as his cheek was slashed. It got his attention, and the hot rage spread from his cheek down through him as he jumped out at them swinging. No trained fighter, but feral instinct took over and the last thing he could recall was her screaming and banging on the theater door, but it was locked from the inside. He screamed when the knife took him in the eye, but that was all he could recall.

When he came to in the hospital, the officer had asked him for identifying characteristics, and he was rattled and ashamed when he could come up with nothing more than the concrete solidity of the jaw he had clocked and the dark forms among the shadows.

Shannon's screams had eventually brought a teenager's curiosity and he got the manager who quickly called the police. He himself had been blankly oblivious to it, and through the surgery to remove the ruptured eye, the stitches to pull the shreds of his face together. A blur of painkiller-hazed days, his mother's violent explosion of tears... that was all he could recall.

He stood in the halo of lamplight. The blood had now been cleaned from the pavement. There were no screams. The frightened children were scurried away by anxious mothers, shuttered out the door of the adjoining cartoon showing and into respective minivans and SUVs, all memory of danger faded like a nightmare into the light of morning.

His breath snagged in his chest as he stood silhouetted, alone.

May morning

This morning the alarm is distant
I wake in the dark
and the cool breeze
flits through aspen leaves
a bird calling out in the pre-dawn
silhouettes of trees, houses,
fencelines and garden trellises
as the sky warms to shades of
periwinkle, lavender and rose,
a mourning dove calling out "Who, who?"
repeating her endless query.

Promise of Potential

What is it precisely that makes it so devastating when a child dies, even more so than an adult's death? I think it's that promise of potential, cut short, a thread snipped before the tapestry is woven.

Yet how many of us truly live up to that potential that we mourn in a young person's death? The sarcastic part of me sees sweatpants and video games, dead-end job and hardly the kind of earth-shattering minds that we envision while staring down into a tiny casket.

Sure, probably not ever person feels an overwhelming desire to change the world, make a difference, live a life of meaning, but we become a society merely content with the status quo. It's far easier to swim with the current, and so on. We try to fit in, rather than stand out... and somehow years and decades slip by without us even noticing.

But isn't a part of who we are and the potential influence that we have also based on those people we meet, get to know, mentor, help, laugh with and love? Is the sadness over a young person's death also the loss of an entire storyline - all the heartaches and triumphs, all the loneliness, and the courage, the love, possible children, the lineage, the completed masterpiece of a life?

Poems in May

5/20/14
Wisconsin Tornado

One day the sky felt sick
the gray bellies of the clouds roiled
and the air was an unhealthy green,
clustered heavy and close to the ground
panting and low.
Inadvertently I crouched,
running for the truck,
the handle sticky with the sweat of summer,
dropping heavy onto the windshield
as we raced the wind toward home.

5/21/14
Red Rain

She was lost
standing in the torrent of water
that fell
camouflaging her tears
the pain in her body
in her mind
at the breaking point
staring at the floor
watching beads of water
pool like mercury
racing for the drain
and her thoughts
swirling in red rivers
through the holes in her life.

5/22/14
An Ordinary Evening

My toenails are blue,
and they shine out of the dirty water
as I take the soapy scrub brush
and smell the wet dirt
as I scour the stairs
and sweep the water toward the bottom stair
across the turf green of the indoor/outdoor carpeting
and listen to the neighbors
watching a game on TV
on an ordinary evening.

Reflections on a sunburn

I've been working on cleaning out the winter's accumulation at the back of my horse's stalls, and in doing so, I got a sunburn. Of course, I winced when I asked my husband to rub lotion on it, but oddly I also feel invigorated as well, as though I have done something vital and essential, something fulfilling and empowering as well. Not just the sunburn or physical labor, but the actuality of doing something outside, being in the early summer air and breeze, absorbing all the green of the trees and the blown-out dandelion heads in the grass.

Modern humans spend an awful lot of our time starting at screens- computer, phone, television, and I feel the deprivation of sun and fresh air. The sunburn is a reminder of the hours spent with my horses, the sound of the wind rustling in the cottonwood leaves, the sound of the horses munching, the swish of tails against the first flies. I put my mare's fly mask on, and lean against her warm side, resting. There is some kind of camaraderie that I find with my horses, that peaceful company without expectation - except perhaps hoping my pockets hold treats.

Toothpicks, then!

We seem to have a fruit fly infestation in our apartment.

My husband tried to clap his hands to squish one, but missed.

I told him "You need your chopsticks, Mr. Miagi." (A Karate Kid reference).

He looks at me pointedly and says "These are FRUIT FLIES!"

"TOOTHPICKS, then!" I exclaimed, then laughed myself silly for five straight minutes. :)

A Dinner Fit For Ravens - Writing Exercise

Writing exercise: Random First Line Generator
writingexercises.com.co.uk/firstlinegenerator.php

So for this writing exercise, I was supposed to break out of my typical genre, and write in a style that I never would normally write in. So I picked horror, which very definitely fits the criteria. I went to a random first line generator to get me started, and here's my (edited) result. After a first read-through my husband was confused, so I had to do some editing to make the plot line clearer after answering some questions he had. (SO GREAT to have a listening ear/in-house editor!) Here we go:

---------------------------------

A Dinner Fit For Ravens

"Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out."

Everyone knew you didn't go out after dark. Not here. Not alone. She pulled the furs closer around her shoulders and watched the slashes of lighting through the cracks in the heavy shutters. A raven croaked in the corner, sharp eye glinting at her in the ember's light.

"Whsst!" she hushed the bird, "Your Elle's got a fine treat cooking up for you." She shuffled to the hearth, throwing the last tinder on the coals, the quick crackle as flames leapt their length and died down again, the spots still glowing in her eyes.

In the morn she would have to go farther for fuel. The longer distances to haul wood were hard on her bones, but there was little choice. The boy who had come by to help her with chores and the heavier tasks could no longer work. She even kept the gloves she had loaned him, ridiculously oversized on his small hands. It was lonely now, without the boy's chattering. As a matter of fact, not many came around any longer.

A banging sounded as a shutter worked loose, and she and the raven eyed it. The storm was worsening, and the season was young yet. The storms had been growing more severe, lasting longer and blowing harder than memory could recall. She had enough here for a while, though she needed more fuel and laying up supplies for the storm season yet. She secured the shutter, banging the bolt home hard that held them locked in against the night.

When she was a young girl, she remembered crying in nameless fear against the dark, her terror strongly gripping deep within her. Eventually her mother relented, leaving a candle stub lit to light up the shadows. How strange that an echo of that fear boiled up inside her now.

Her raven rattled its feathers briskly, fanning its wings slightly, and cocked an eye at her inquisitively. He was restless, and she felt the same urge that he did. The air was charged, the tops of the trees in the distance nodding rhythmically under the blasts of wind, dark roiling clouds sliding across the face of the moon.

His talons gripped the perch, beak clacking as she undid the aviary door. In a rush of ink he was past her, swirling around the rafters in a whirl of smoky black. She smiled a yellowed smile, and slid the furs from off her shoulders. The beam across the door took a hard push out of the brackets, and the door creaked on its hinges from disuse. A fork of purple lightning illuminated the air as the wind peaked in a higher crescendo, pulling at her hair. She stepped over the threshold, renewed in the electrified night. Her legs stretched out as she began to run, her raven apace even in the gusts that pushed against them.

A spatter of rain hit her, cold and stinging, as her muscles loosened into a long lope. An ear-rattling rumble accompanied frequent lightning daggers. She could feel the tremors through her feet. The wind shrieked around her, the smell of wet earth surrounded her. Against the buffeting of the wind, her body felt renewed, stronger, younger. Her raven screamed above her and dove ahead, wings sucked in tight against his sleek body. The smell of copper in the air, she followed.

* * *

Blood. There had been so much blood. She had never expected it all, and how thick and sticky it was, hard to wash off, and where it had not washed away, how it cracked and darkened as it dried on her skin. It was not storming then. No cleansing rain to stand in. She could smell the copper.

The fire was barely a warm ash bed when she and the raven returned, soaked yet elated. She pulled the furs over her shoulders and peered into the pot on the hearth as he settled in a whisper of feathers onto her shoulder. Taking the ladle from the hook, she pushed the long leg bone down into the broth and stroked the raven's shiny feathers.

"Hungry?" she asked her pet, as an eyeball rolled up to the surface of the stew to stare back at her.

That Pansy

You, that pansy, nodding at me as I pass,
thinking green thoughts and deep earth,
breathing spring and brushing life
with butterfly-lens petals.
Don't think I don't notice you as I pass,
longing myself for deep breaths
and earth in my toes.

Ice in the Potatoes

She laughed when we discovered
the ice cubes in the cooked potatoes,
a joyful sound that I had rarely heard
and which stuck with me for years after,
though in that moment the hard truth stuck
like a stone in our craw
as we looked at each other
over the set dinner table,
the ice cubes melting
in the hunks of steaming potatoes
and realized that my grandmother
was losing her mind.

The Pink Slip

It wasn't right, she thought. It wasn't right that she gave it all. It wasn't right that she gave her years, her endless hours, her commitment, her all, as she stared down at the pink slip on her desk.

What was she but a cog in the corporate machine? What care had they for her overtime hours, not on the clock, or for missed dance recitals, t-ball games and soccer practices?

She put the picture of her children in the box. Janie was in Florida now, in her senior year in microbiology, walking in May. Kyle ran an espresso bar and internet cafe in Greenwood, CO, with twin boys and a wife who used some sort of rock crystal as deodorant, but was nice enough if you overlooked the smell. And Jeppson. Sweet Jeppson. Well, she visited his graveside on Sundays, trying to forgive the drunk teenager who hopped the curb and crushed the life out of her sweet boy.

She picked up her stapler, the one that had graced her desk, held together her accounting reports until the digitized system made printouts obsolete. She couldn't even remember the last time she had actually used it, or whether it could truly be considered company property anymore, or just a hunk of outdated technology.

Her hand hesitated, holding the stapler over the box, then put the stapler inside along with a mostly-used box of staples. She glanced around. The blinds needed to be dusted. Not much point in that now, but still, the urge for tidiness was hard to suppress. She sighed and walked to the janitor's closet for cleaning supplies.

Fridays. They always terminated employees on Friday. Less chance of workplace violence and employees acting out. In fact, high-risk employees were typically escorted out by security, Human Resources cleaned out their work spaces to secure company property and employee personal property was forwarded to the address on file along with confirmation of final pay deposit.

The office was quiet, most employees having opted to telecommute the last workday of the week, though log-ons and systems monitoring every three minutes ensured remote employees continued to get their work done.

She liked coming in, however. The quiet of her house with all the empty bedrooms, the picture frames reflecting times that she recalled fondly - it was too quiet now.

Her footsteps echoed on the polished granite, the gentle beeping of the keypad to the janitor's closet and the continual hum of the HVAC system the only noise in earshot.

How long ago that she felt complete, a mother, a wife, beloved and cherished. When her children came running to her for every bump and scrape, picked her bouquets of dandelions from the yard, their hands sticky and stained brownish from the drying milk, reading stories of fairies and trolls, knights and princesses to her rapt audience of wide-eyed babies. The days when George greeted her at the door with a kiss and tousled her hair playfully. It felt a lifetime ago.

The empty cubicles and flashing lights of terminals on standby accompanied her walk back, rags and industrial cleaner in hand.

George. That handsome and fun young man who swept into her life, matching her in intelligence and humor. She had resisted him a little at first, never imagining the power of his charisma. A couple of years of spirited debates, movies at the theater, and picnics on the lawn and she found herself in a ring and a veil.

George, the romantic.

She swept the rag down the length of the blinds.

George, the attentive husband.

The dust rolled off the blinds in little balls.

George, the loving father.

The rag wiped deliberately.

George, the man that was.

She pulled the blinds closed on the courtyard which was open to the sky. Where she had watched the trees grow from striplings, flower, shed their leaves, shed the snow, and bloom again instead of watching her children doing the same.

The box holding her belongings seemed pitifully small in comparison to the long years spent with this picture frame, this stapler, these walls. In exchange for numbers appearing regularly in her banking account.

The door clicked shut behind her with the thunk of finality. No security escort to stroll her out. Her fingerprint scan would be de-activated and she was as forgotten as though she never had been. A replaceable cog superseded by smart technology; a human component in an increasingly machine-driven android.

The route she had seen innumerable times flashed by the windows as her thoughts drifted through her recollections. Kyle's first place team in the local Little League division, team trophy nearly as tall as the boys who wielded it triumphantly. Janie's dance recital with the largest purple tutu a six-year-old could possibly manage to dance in, a china doll swathed in layers of tulle. Jeppson's first teetering steps to her waiting arms as adoring George cheered.

George pulling Janie and Kyle through the deep snowfall on a sled so fluorescent orange that it hurt her eyes while Jeppson tried to eat the snow and cried in shocked surprise at the coldness. Kyle's elated gap-toothed grin as he conquered riding his bicycle without training wheels, his glee at scaring his sister by hiding behind closed doors and in dark corners. Janie's straight-A report card and her beaming pride at yet another gold star from her teacher. Jeppson, her beautiful baby boy, gazing up from suckling her breast, enormous eyes framed by a fringe of downy lashes.

Her mind counted down the minutes to her destination, idly noting the "For Sale" signs posted in her neighborhood, the encroaching monolithic high-rise apartments complexes eating up all the available land and shading out the historic single family homes.

The front door needed to be painted, she noted, box against her hip where her babies used to nestle. The house was quiet, as usual. A dim, cold light shone under the door leading to the basement and she sighed, a sound full of both longing and regret.

The box went onto the kitchen counter, the study long ago having fallen to disuse and holding Christmas decorations and boxes of old photos that neither she nor George had the courage to sort through. Maybe once Janie had graduated they could fly her home and she could do it.

Perhaps they were best left in the boxes.

She pulled open the freezer, selecting a chicken pot pie and a lasagna, settling in at the table to await the oven timer.

They had enough to retire. George had gotten them a generous settlement against the teen drunk driver - or rather his parents. And she had contributed the max allowance on the days when there was such a thing as employer-matching contributions.They would be all right. But could she stand the quiet of this house day after day, the cold bed night after night?

She thought of that teen-aged boy sometimes, that boy's bad decision that changed all their lives. One day. One mistake. More lives than just Jeppson's permanently impacted. Of course, that boy was no longer a teenager. She wondered where he ended up. Involuntary manslaughter.

The ding of the oven brought her out of her reverie. Hot pads and two forks, balanced precariously, she turned the doorknob to the basement.

George didn't turn. His hand was slack holding the bottle, afghan slipping from his lap to pool around his feet. The steady glare of the screen in front of him served as the only illumination.

"I brought you dinner," she mumbled, trying to keep the indifference out of her voice.

He stirred, and the bottle slipped from his grasp to thud on the floor. They ate in silence, his heavy breathing disgusting her, yet she unwilling to leave. She retrieved the bottle, sour-smelling suds in the base. She gathered up the forks and set her foot to the stairs when George said something. She couldn't quite hear it, and half-turned.

"What?"

"I only left him for a second." His eyes looked up to find hers. "I swear, Mary, I only left him for a second. He was in the playpen. It was so hot in the sun, I just went for a lemonade. It was only for a second..."

Mary stepped off the stair, carefully, suddenly unsure of her footing. Her heart jumped and she felt a bit woozy, as though she had been the one drinking. George's head bowed, and she could feel the waves of his grief, see the gleam of his tears in the ambient light, but could not bring herself to go to him.

She looked past him through the open door. Kyle's room, left exactly the same, rows of trophies, stacks of comics, high school Letterman jacket still on the hanger. Just as Janie's room upstairs with her collection of  porcelain ballerinas, Jazz dance team photo with girls in sequins and heavily-rouged cheeks holding their first-place ribbons. And just the same as the door to the room beside their own. The door to the room they never opened. The door she had walked past all these years carrying the dagger in her heart. The reason that George slept in the basement - the door he could not pass, the pain he could not drown.

Trembling, she walked to the shell of the man who had been her husband, who had struggled with the same pain, and who had lost.

His voice quavered, "I had a call from Kyle today. He put the boys on the phone... Isaac and Micah, they called me Grampa."

Mary reached for his hand, as unsure as stroking a stranger's dog.

"I need help, Mary." His voice broke. "I want to be... Grandpa. I was too late for Jeppson, but I could be a grandpa to Isaac and Micah, if they'll let me. And I need you too, Mary."

His hands clasped hers with a new ferocity. "Will you help me?"

She felt a hot tear roll down her face, and before she even realized it was her own voice she answered. "Of course, George. Of course I will help you. It wasn't your fault! I love you and we will get through this too. I love you, George!" The words tumbled out of her and suddenly they were weeping, she holding him to her chest where she had comforted their children. Eventually his sobs faded, and she laid him down, pulling the afghan up and around his shoulders, kissing his forehead when he drifted to sleep.

She collected the forgotten dishes and tip-toed quietly upstairs. The box sat on the counter where she had left it. She took out the photo of her children, kissing it and running a finger over each of their bright faces, Janie looking askance at Kyle as he probably had poked her just before the flash, baby Jeppson pleased to be sitting upright by himself and looking right into the lens. She put the stapler beside the picture and carried the box down the hall. Heart hammering, she stood in front of the closed nursery door, at the knob she so often had failed to turn. She glanced into the now-empty box, steeled herself, and pushed open the door. The door creaked a bit as it swung open, and she kneeled down to place toys into the box.

It was going to be all right, she thought. It was finally going to be all right.

Newspaper headline & list of ingredients - Writing Exercise

Today's writing exercise was to create a writing piece making up a newspaper headline and using a list of ingredients. I know, right?!  Here's my take:




"State of Utah issues health alert - Tarragon, Allspice, Kosher Salt respond." - Salt Lake City Tribune

Cinnamon called the meeting to order. The jars rattled to attention in the spice rack as Cinnamon tapped a chopstick against the spoon rest in a staccato bid for absolute silence.

"Ahem."

Allspice sat a little more flush in the rack.

"There has been a warning to which we must pay careful heed."

Clove buds rattled together in anticipation.

"This is a concern directly affecting each and every one of us, and together we will be successful!"

Oregano interrupted, "But what is it? Tell us!"

Cinnamon cast a sidelong glance to Allspice, who frowned severely at Oregano. Abashed, Oregano shuffled back to order.

"We have a sacred duty," Cinnamon continued, "A solemn and sincere purpose to overthrow bland cooking!"

"Here, here!" cheered Kosher Salt.

At that moment, Peppercorns, serving as sentry, gave the signal and they all fell silent.

The clink of pan and whoosh of flame, crackle of butter in the pan filled the air.

Tarragon silently prayed, "Pick me! Pick me!" and rejoiced when lifted in blessed sacrifice for the cause.

There's a deepness

There's a deepness in what we have
as we take thread and needle
stitching through holes
in the bleeding tissue of our hearts
tugging the thread hard
to pull closed the wounded edges
of our lives, tying knots
to keep us close
heart to heart
in a world of bitter rage
and shocking kindness.

Promise of summer to come

Sunlight filters through
the lime green spring leaves
wind stirring the fluff
of catkin and cottonwood
as though a stir of insects
slipping through the slanting sunshine,
promise of summer to come.

Thought for today - Time For A Reader...

Time for a reader does not change...
the lines of a letter,
a manuscript,
or the dialogue in a novel are seamless,
though innumerable moments
may have passed for the writer
an eternity between those lines.

In the center of a spider's web

In the center of a spider's web
each thread snipped
precariously we dangle
the quivering strands beneath
and walls closing in, claustrophobic.

10 poems, 3 lines each - Writing Exercise

The writing exercise for today is 10 poems, 3 lines each - using whatever your eye falls on around you. The goal is not to self-edit, but just to let whatever comes to mind flow, keeping your hand moving and not re-reading anything you've written until all ten poems are done.

1)  Glass
Reflective it falters
Emotionless stares
sleek and dead eyed.

2) Salt
Pickling, brining
flavoring, preserving,
once priced as though gold.

3) Water
A rush, relief,
flood released,
canary yellow in the bowl.

4) Light
Dust motes on the shade
ribs show through
bedside companion.

5) Window
Shielding, a portal,
speckled with hard water
spot stains like armor.

6) Portrait
She in white
he in black
a good knight and his veiled lady.

7) Mirror
Standing apart,
showing all the world,
yet hiding your face.

8) Tablet
An awaiting world,
pen beside, poised,
from grocery list to poem.

9) Box
Corrugated castles,
ramparts breached,
treasures revealed.

10) Hoodie
Dim the light,
cavernous the hole,
into which I, the turtle, retreat.

What can you come up with? Don't think, just write!

An Evening Stroll in April

A man mowing stripes into his lawn,
the blossoms feathering the trees in pink, white and blush,
a girl pushing her sibling in a stroller in tracks up and back
across the gray asphalt driveway,
a terrier racing silently along a chainlink fenceline,
assessing whether we two are a threat,
windows reflecting back the deepening sun,
shaded patios awaiting warmer weather,
nearly-opened leaves peeping from branches,
and catkins like snow still sprinkled across greening lawns.

To my Mother, who always catches me when I fall

Forever I will remember the bounty of Halls cough drops, honey & lemon kind, Wrigley's spearmint gum, endless puffs of Kleenex and some kind of organic, all-natural, no-sugar snack you would produce from the depths of your purse. I watched the things you would do, years of togetherness, genetic imprinting, social conditioning?

I find myself idly scratching my head when I'm thinking hard, or nervous, the way you would do. I worry a hangnail and fret over my lists. Our voices sound so much the same over the phone, no one can tell you from me, or me from you. And, to my great irritation, I find that now I clear my throat in much the way you do.

But I also devour books like you do, revel in my long baths, still love farmer's cheese, black olives and alfalfa sprouts in my omelettes, and have a fondness for four-legged critters, just like you. I talk with my hands, and USE TOO MANY CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!! I make people laugh, and wait, like you, for the punchline of my jokes to strike up laughter.

I learned to plie in ballet, to plunk out Beethoven on the piano, to ski downhill, and how to ride horses all because of you. You encouraged me and picked me up when I fell - as a toddler learning to walk on two feet instead of four, teetering on my bike, or coming off a horse from time to time. Endless parades of piano recitals, band concerts, play practices, choir rehearsals, horse shows, Taekwondo tournaments, opening nights, graduation ceremonies and commencement speeches - you were there through all of them.

First loves, puppy crushes, break-ups with boyfriends - good, bad, or indifferent, moving me across states or across town, watching me walk up the aisle on a ski hill tucked into the side of a mountain, you were always there, my mother.

I love you Mom!

Tea & Crosswords - a short story

Tea & Crosswords

"It isn't hot today," she says, looking up expectantly.
Caught in a crossword puzzle in a long-across clue for "electronic inquiry about fabric" I look up and pause, running the clue through and around.

Fabric.
Electronic inquiry?
A message about fabric.
Electronic fabric?
No. Electronic message. 
Text. Text message. 

Message works. Text works, but there are blanks in between. That's not right. I frown.
"No, it isn't hot today," I agree. "Rained last night. Quite a storm. Banged about, but blew out fast."
She looks at me, pleasantly. I purse my lips, and having nothing further to contribute, look back to my puzzle.

Email message.

What does that have to do with fabric?

Inquiry.
A question. 
A question about fabric. 
Types of fabrics: satin, tweed, suede, linen, cotton...
Cotton. Caught in a storm.

I look up. Chilly from the storm. She sits, watching me work it out, saying nothing. I clear my throat. "Are you chilly? I could make tea, or bring you a blanket?" She smiles, so I hop to my feet and fill a kettle at the tap, setting it to boil with the click-click-WHOOSH of a gas stove that has equally fascinated and terrified me since childhood.

Electronic inquiry.
Electronic message.
A question.
An inquiry. 
Fabric. Questionable fabric?
What would questionable fabric be? 
Radioactive rayon? Psychedelic polyester? Viscous velveteen?

I walk to her arm chair, and ancient beast of a thing in a dusty rose, the arms worn down to the cross-hatch from decades of use. An afghan that she herself undoubtedly crocheted drapes over the back.

Jersey? Knit? What is worsted weight anyway?
It was the best of times, it was the worsted of times...

I drape the afghan over her shoulders and tuck her into it. One of her hands comes up to pat mine, resting on her shoulder. "Thank you dear." Her hand is soft, but also papery - an odd combination of fleshy and also dry, as though the years had worn thin the toughness and left only tenderness. I hesitate a moment, but the slithery hiss of the building teakettle summons me.

"One moment and I'll have your tea."

For better or worsted, for richer, for poorer.

"Chamomile or peppermint?" I call out as I pull the insistently screeching kettle from the flames, dialing them down from orange to blue until they wink out.

"Chamomile, I think. With honey." Comes the reply, muffled a bit through the clinking of cups from the cupboard and retrieval of teaspoons from the drawer.

Inquiring minds. Questions on fabric.

"Careful, it's still steeping." I warn as I set it in front of her. Her hands emerge to cup it as steam curls lazily in curlicues and the hot water deepens from light gold to bright amber. I look down at my crossword while waiting for my tea, idly stirring as my teaspoon clinks softly against the porcelain.

Three blank boxes in the middle glare back at me from the center of the word. An "electronic inquiry about fabric." I glance to the down clues against my usually strict self-imposed code of doing all the across clues first before starting the downs, which I always suspect are the easier ones. Though I cannot actually prove this theory as the letters from the across clues already in place fill in the words like letters spun into place in Wheel of Fortune. None of the down clues for those three blank boxes give any hints, and unwilling to tackle a new line, I persist. Text fits. Blank, blank, blank. Message fits. Textual. Textile?

"Thank you dear." She says, delayed, a slow response. Jolted from my thoughts I glance up. She takes a tentative sip of tea.

Three blanks. Three squares. Three mysteries. Three magic beans.

Textile seems so likely, but it isn't right.

Fabric.
Texture.
TEXTURE MESSAGE!

I fill in the blanks with satisfaction as the answer falls into place, smiling to myself and utterly neglecting my cooling tea.

"It isn't hot today, is it?" She asks me.

My heart suddenly throbs in pain as I look into her earnest face, the eyes milked with cataracts and papery hands poking out from the cloak of her afghan. I put up my pen and puzzle book, and reach for those hands.

"No Grandma, it isn't very hot today."


Dedicated to my Grandma and my mother, who cares for everyone's grandmas.

*Thank you to Newsday 4/13/14 puzzle "It's all Yours: Listen For it" by Charles M. Deber, edited by Stanley Newman and dist. by Creators Syndicate Inc.

Bug's Eye View

Bug's Eye View

Skittering along as quickly as possible,
a landscape of pink and mauve,
the tickle of a soft rug,
ever so swiftly passing under many legs,
red, jointed, faster, hurry,
no thought,
just movement across the open.
A bulge, mountainous and rippling
in its blue enormity,
the creases are valleys,
broad weave of light blue
stretching many times higher,
an obstacle to be overcome hurriedly,
scuttling up the side and across,
a chest heaves, a gasp,
an earthquake then falling,
lost in the folds, legs tangling in mounds
a trap of paper towel, crunch of exoskeleton.
Squish.

Mars

Mars winked his red eye at me
and I gazed back
incomprehensible distance terse between us
as I wondered how small my blue marble
must be to his inquisitive stare.

Hamburger Soup

Hamburger Soup

"You must eat," she said, "Wouldn't want you to starve to death."
I look down into the soup, a mix of colors, textures and flavors.
The white curve of the noodles,
the brown lumps of hamburger,
the fading green of the sweet peppers,
an errant tomato seed afloat in a reddish-tinged broth,
the smell savory and tantalizing.
It is a soup of ordinary life,
of comfort
and of home.
A bright orange carrot nestles
in a curl of onion, translucent,
and celery bits give a brief crunch
as I munch my way through each texture,
pondering the effort put into
chopping vegetables,
browning the burger,
seasoning to "just right."
I think of the origins of all the ingredients,
the sun and rain that fell on onion, carrot, pepper and cow alike,
the hands that picked the tomato from its vine,
and the waves of wheat bowing before the combine.

I eat two bowls full.


Dedicated to my mother-in-law.

History In A House

History In A House

The holes in the wall, they bother me. There is a desire in me for a smooth and unblemished wall - a sense of irritated curiosity about what hung there before, who the picture may have been of, as it stared, and left these faded outlines on the wall.

What memories were made here, in this place, where others have come before? What lives were lived in these scuffs on the floor that despite my insistent scrubbing, refuse to come out? What treasures lined these shelves in the china hutch, and what laughter and tears have resoundingly echoed from off these walls?

A house has history, and we humans flicker in and out of these rooms, hammer our hearts into these walls, and are gone, leaving behind only scratches in the floors, and a mystery of holes left in these walls.

Storm on the Horizon

Storm on the Horizon

He waits.
He listens, intently
with the knowledge that countless
eons have bestowed,
the sense of something coming.
Eyes bright, he looks,
cranes his neck and ears,
tuned to the sound of my voice,
of my step, of my smell.
He stands, reaching out his neck,
stretching out toward my hands
pressed to his so-soft muzzle,
ears curved to scythes,
nearly touching at the tips,
and follows obediently
as I lead him away
his body alert in its lines,
his hooves clip-clopping behind
in a sweet symphony of two.

Walking Home at 1 AM

Walking Home at 1 AM
the silence follows me as I make my way from pools under streetlights, glinting in the puddles left from melted spring popcorn snow, falling like the petals of newly-opened apricot tree blossoms.
Far off, a dog barks, so soft from this distance that it more closely resembles the hooting of an owl. A lone car grinds up the hills, the tires whooshing in Doppler waves on an asphalt shore.
Silence slides in around me as my shoes crunch on the gravel, a window here or there illuminated by the intermittent flicker of a big screen, though most windows are dark and houses quiet, their welcome mats awaiting visitors on dimmed porches, a smatter of stars peering at me through the veil of spring snowclouds.

"When you're present, the world is truly alive."

"When you're present, the world is truly alive."

How much time I spend lingering in the past, and either agonizing or daydreaming about the future. To be truly present in each moment, to grasp the very moment for itself, in its entirety, without regard for what has happened already or the speculation - either positive or negative - of what may happen. This is rare. Animals innately have this gift, as they do not utilize logic in the same manner as humans. They are smart, and remember, and may even seem clever or cunning, but the chain of consequence is not developed in a logical progression. Humans contemplate their circumstances, and plan their actions accordingly (depending on the human, of course.) Animal simply exist.

As a chronic worrier, I struggle to let go of the "what if's" that haunt me. The meditation practices that bring focus to the "here and now" are so challenging for my scattered mind collecting all the data and playing out all the treads of possibility.

I remember a college writing assignment to write about your present moment, and I wrote about having stale Top Ramen for all three meals that day, as that was all I had left to eat. It wasn't poetic or beautiful, and even a bit whiny, but that was my current experience. While unpacking the boxes at the new apartment, I've been uncovering old writing, published poems, and even one that I won a $50 Honorable Mention (a much greater-seeming fortune when four measly quarters bought clean, if not DRY, laundry!)

I wrote a collection of poems about a diorama, and suddenly after nearly 20 years, the words still invoked the memories of tawny fur and frozen expressions of the animals in the display cases. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but thousands of words may still be needed regardless.

A single moment colored with my thoughts, emotions, feelings, expressions. Digging into the detailed richness of my human experience flowing through my pen.

A Poem of Textures

A Poem of Textures

I slip between the rich chocolate brown 700-thread count microfiber sheets,
the smoothly silky fabric slipping along the contours of my body.
A dusty blue soft-as-new-grass blanket coddles me,
and there is a metallic sheen to the coverlet,
swirling, intricate patterns reflecting the light
in glints of sea foam and coppery bronze.

The Only Way To Write Is To Write

The only way to write is to write.

Stephen King purportedly was once asked what the secret was to his success. He answered back rather cryptically, "B.I.C." The inquisitive audience pressed for more detail. "Butt.In.Chair."

The only way to write, and to write well, is to practice. Practice writing. Write a lot. Write anything. Write everything! Write outside your preferred style, genre, or location. Write often, and give yourself permission to write utter garbage just to clear out your mind for the good stuff. I took on this writing challenge, setting myself a goal to write for every day. I am not putting a word count, a story limit, or any other restriction on myself, other than to simply sit and ACTUALLY write. Write about my life, write about my characters, write a poem about salad, if it inspires. But to actually write.

The other goal is to read, and with a critical eye. What works? What draws me as a reader into the story? Do I read the chapter headings? What hooks me in to keep turning the pages, and not turn on a mindless DVD instead? How is the author using the voice of the characters to show and not simply tell the story? What turn of phrase gets me? What parts do I have to re-read in order to understand and why? Is it because I want to glean more meaning, or simply because the author was unclear? How could it be changed to add clarity? What descriptions leave me with a high-def picture in my head so tangible that I can taste the meal, see the glow on the burnished wood, and smell the fuel used on the torches casting such a flickering light?

I admit, reading the work of the amazing writers, of which I hold George R.R. Martin in highest esteem, this is difficult for me because I fall so deeply into the writing that my critical brain shuts off, and I lose myself in the story entirely. But it's precisely that complete absorption, that compelling need to finish just ONE more chapter, that whole being experience that I want my own readers to experience. So in studying a master who invokes such a reaction in ME is definitely worth dissecting and emulating.

I have said repeatedly that I've forgotten more about my book than I've ever gotten down onto paper. (Or into computer, as modern life takes over....) These characters have lived inside the boundaries of my imagination for pushing two decades. When I am truly tuned into my writing, they live, and I am a mere observer to their story.

A long time back, I set a rule for myself that I wouldn't write "boring." If I wasn't interested in writing it, then readers wouldn't be interested in reading it. Unfortunately, this left chronological storylines in shambles, but a lot of great ideas and some rather decent writing came out of this approach. Re-reading some of that work, I am in awe that it came from my pen, my brain, my character's lives. (Though sometimes equally I grimace at the amount of re-writing and editing that needs to be done. For example, it is far different writing a love scene as a 15-year old virgin than a married 36 year old woman....)

But why I am driven to even write at all remains somewhat of a mystery. I am not documenting important matters, crimes against the human race, the future of women's liberation, or the positions of proponents of animal rights.

For me, reading has always been a release. A place for my overactive mind to find a respite, a realm where all the daily struggles, heartaches and pains somehow fade, if temporarily, and for me to live vicariously through the lives of other people in other places who don't fret over the grocery budget, the property taxes going up, or the odd noise coming from the fan in the refrigerator. And isn't that precisely the power of storytelling? To take a reader from the mundane to the extraordinary through the lines of your pen, or the strokes of your keyboard.

However, there is only one way to accomplish all these high and lofty aspirations.

As Stephen King so eloquently and simply stated, "Butt.In.Chair."

HAPPY WRITING!

To the unkind boy in the white car

To the unkind boy in the white car

Who are you to call out hurtful words,
slung carelessly out the window,
fueled by your peers riding alongside,
the cowardice of your insult
hurled as a verbal slingshot
as you drive by, bashing me.

I walked on, head high to brush off the hurt,
my footsteps concentrated to cover the hammer of my heart.
"I've been called worse," I quip,
trying to dismiss the words away,
though naggingly, they trail behind.

What sad state of world we have come to,
the infantile jab, a verbal assault by a boy,
less than half my age,
no friendly small-town America here,
no respect, nor even common decency.

Idiot boy, don't you know there are no camels here?

Diving Into Detail - Spring

Yellow pollen spills
into a goblet of petals
stretching, velvety-soft
to brightening April sun.

Wet, stamens poke out,
turgid and beckoning,
thrusting up,
eager to be touched.

Shyly, the bees circle,
tulips nodding in anticipation,
insects dancing their way,
legs heavy with other flowers' pollen.

Losing Myself

(A love poem to my husband)

Losing Myself

You, with your soft, kind eyes,
your gentle hands,
your patient ways -
have done what I would not believe.

Stone by stone
you disassembled my wall
crumbling the mortar of fear -
of the past, of the future,
into your careful fingers.

With your open arms
you carried away the bricks,
the piles I barricaded myself behind,
the defense to keep others at a distance.

As I lay, broken, hapless, helpless
you believed that another me hid beneath
a pupae waiting to emerge,
a butterfly with as-yet sodden wings.

That unshakable faith of purpose,
a hand to lift me again,
the hesitance as wings unfurl
and together now we soar.
In losing myself
I found ever so much more.

Tonight I found... myself

Tonight I found
a box of memories
newspaper clippings
photos of half a lifetime ago.

I reflect on them
the girl burgeoning into a woman
who stepped off the threshhold of home
and into the abyss of unknown lands.

Who was I then?
This eager, timid thing
bursting with energy, sexual, vibrant, alive
waiting to tear into the freedom of choice.

Who am I now?
18 years and several wrinkles show
the experience of living
grooved into my bones and sinews.

Who will I become?
18 years more
And older, more vibrant and assured
version of the me who now holds a pen, wondering?

Time, inexorable.
Life, inescapable.
Experience, attainable.
Joy, achievable.