The words:
avoid
class
sticky
'Hurricane Survivor'
The heady bar in a past life was a place with class, an airport back when women came dressed up and in stockings, and men wore stylish hats. Around the tired building was a forest of banyans and banana trees, their fronds still in the sticky air. In a few hours the sky would be static with thunder and wind. When the hurricane came to Key West, the old building would not be a place to avoid, but would come alive in a party of bravado.
Friday 25 July 2008
Friday 5
The words:
trellis
appearence
deect
youngster
laundry
The old trellis,
its roses and clematis long dead,
the once dignified appearence
now shabby with the neighbor
lady's laundry hanging
over the top; to the youngster,
the boy with the black hair,
he saw not the look
or any such defect, but
an adventure,
a place to play
and a place
to dream.
trellis
appearence
deect
youngster
laundry
The old trellis,
its roses and clematis long dead,
the once dignified appearence
now shabby with the neighbor
lady's laundry hanging
over the top; to the youngster,
the boy with the black hair,
he saw not the look
or any such defect, but
an adventure,
a place to play
and a place
to dream.
For Fiction Friday
The prompt was to create a character around an illness we've had or have, and (try) and make it humourous.
Once upon a time Anghared had strep thoat. For three days and three nights she lay in her bed, fevered. And seeing spots.
The doctor said they were a result of the fever. Drink more fluids and don't worry, my love.
But the spots, they wouldn't go away.
Anghared saw them on the bus; she saw them on the train. In the halls of university; at band practice. Even on her favorite stray moggy.
Why fight it, she thought.
In a weekend her outside became as her inside. Spotted dresses; spotted shirts. Spotted shoes; spotted dog. Even her flat was spotted; large spots on the walls, smaller spots on the duvet and shower curtain.
Anghared lived in a kaleidoscope of spots.
And she lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time Anghared had strep thoat. For three days and three nights she lay in her bed, fevered. And seeing spots.
The doctor said they were a result of the fever. Drink more fluids and don't worry, my love.
But the spots, they wouldn't go away.
Anghared saw them on the bus; she saw them on the train. In the halls of university; at band practice. Even on her favorite stray moggy.
Why fight it, she thought.
In a weekend her outside became as her inside. Spotted dresses; spotted shirts. Spotted shoes; spotted dog. Even her flat was spotted; large spots on the walls, smaller spots on the duvet and shower curtain.
Anghared lived in a kaleidoscope of spots.
And she lived happily ever after.
One Single Impression--prompt 21--Rest
Breathing softly, his
hand clutching a favorite toy,
my son sleeps, I watch.
hand clutching a favorite toy,
my son sleeps, I watch.
Monday 21 July 2008
Poefusion--Friday 5
The five words for the week were:
clobber
encourage
scrawl
wail
hay
I've been thinking a lot of Saratoga racetrack lately. It opens this week. From the time I was 12 until just 5 years ago I always went with my dad, until his death. The last 7 years I got to work on it as a photographer. Memories of it are all bittersweet now, I long to go but my dad won't be there anymore.
One story I got to do was about the old timers on the track, mostly African American grooms and exersize riders. This peom is rough (very rough) but it's a tribute to them and the stories they told about growing up in the south.
All my life
I've been a fighter. Had
to be, a black man
in the south can't survive
otherwise. Can't show
it outside, But in me
is a cry, a wail
of pain.
An anger so deep
it'd feel good
to clobber that smug look
from those white folks'
faces. An act
of suicide, that.
Took a job as a groom, my
way out of the south,
the smell of horse
and hay, the rhythm
of hooves on track my
savoir, encouragement that life
wears a smart hat
and scraws art on walls;
it isn't hunched shoulders
or Nazi salutes or
a Southern bell's simpering smile.
A snort from my charge,
a nuzzle on cheek, I watch
her work 22 and change,
and dream our
future.
clobber
encourage
scrawl
wail
hay
I've been thinking a lot of Saratoga racetrack lately. It opens this week. From the time I was 12 until just 5 years ago I always went with my dad, until his death. The last 7 years I got to work on it as a photographer. Memories of it are all bittersweet now, I long to go but my dad won't be there anymore.
One story I got to do was about the old timers on the track, mostly African American grooms and exersize riders. This peom is rough (very rough) but it's a tribute to them and the stories they told about growing up in the south.
All my life
I've been a fighter. Had
to be, a black man
in the south can't survive
otherwise. Can't show
it outside, But in me
is a cry, a wail
of pain.
An anger so deep
it'd feel good
to clobber that smug look
from those white folks'
faces. An act
of suicide, that.
Took a job as a groom, my
way out of the south,
the smell of horse
and hay, the rhythm
of hooves on track my
savoir, encouragement that life
wears a smart hat
and scraws art on walls;
it isn't hunched shoulders
or Nazi salutes or
a Southern bell's simpering smile.
A snort from my charge,
a nuzzle on cheek, I watch
her work 22 and change,
and dream our
future.
Friday 18 July 2008
Write Anything--Fiction Friday
From their site:
'Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.'
It was the Park. The way the trees danced in the moonlight, the taint of sulfer in the air, the slightest of rumbles as Old Faithful paraded to her wild brothers and sisters; this and more is why young Susan loved the night.
She loved when the moisture began to rise from mother earth in the afternoon, singling the end of the day. She loved when the tourists retreated to their cabins or tents, or just left, leaving the land once again to the elk and the buffalo, to Raven and Coyote. And when the wind rose, teasing the ancient Pine and the playful Aspen, she knew that night was coming.
Before was the between time, when the world turned blue. Pale blue, like a tropical sea, then deepening until all was bathed in velvet. In the between time, the spirits mingled with the physical, the ancestors with the living.
Soon, the moon would rise, the milky way be revealed. An owl would hoot, perhaps an elk bellow for a mate. And then, deep in the night, the wolves would come, howling their welcome.
This is what Susan loved most of all.
'Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.'
It was the Park. The way the trees danced in the moonlight, the taint of sulfer in the air, the slightest of rumbles as Old Faithful paraded to her wild brothers and sisters; this and more is why young Susan loved the night.
She loved when the moisture began to rise from mother earth in the afternoon, singling the end of the day. She loved when the tourists retreated to their cabins or tents, or just left, leaving the land once again to the elk and the buffalo, to Raven and Coyote. And when the wind rose, teasing the ancient Pine and the playful Aspen, she knew that night was coming.
Before was the between time, when the world turned blue. Pale blue, like a tropical sea, then deepening until all was bathed in velvet. In the between time, the spirits mingled with the physical, the ancestors with the living.
Soon, the moon would rise, the milky way be revealed. An owl would hoot, perhaps an elk bellow for a mate. And then, deep in the night, the wolves would come, howling their welcome.
This is what Susan loved most of all.
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Write Anything Fiction Friday prompt 63
(This has to do with writing about an unlucky character and turning that bad lwc into good.)
You would think with a last name like Cohen a really traditional first name like Rebecca or Sarah, or a some hype Israeli/Hebrew title like Shalom or Arielle would be the way to go. But no, my hippie dippy mother gave me the name of Skye.
Skye Cohen.
What a title.
To make matters worse, she foolishly falls away from the usual Boulder crowd and decides that, in order to 'find her roots,' she turns to the Chabad shul. Suddenly my tie-dye Birkenstock-wearing mother is now a hair-hiding-black-stocking-wearing Orthodox-type.
And she's a single mom.
With a daughter named Skye.
Call me crazy but this doesn't sound like the most clever move in the world. In the space of a month our quiet life of just mom and daughter and calico cat has become a bedlam of other head covering female types invading our house on otherwise quiet Pine Street and turning the place upside down in order to make my poor mom as Jewish as they can.
I mean, I don't mind that my mom wants to be more traditional and spiritual, it's just the way they go about it. Like, we were raised Reform but these women act like that's akin to being some snake-handling-speaking-in-tongue-type deep in the heart of West Virginia. All my mom wanted in the beginning was to be able to study mystical Judaism and the holy books but they convinced her she should concentrate on keeping her home kosher and other wifely duties.
Speaking of the holy books, it's because of them that the end of my world began to turn around. It all sort of happened this last thursday, just after school.
It came about because I knew those annoying women would be about this time of the day, and also because I liked walking close to Naropa University and catching a glimpse of some of the Tibetian monks that teach there. I like seeing happy spiritual-types and not smug-oh-so-superior ones.
It was after turning right onto Pearl Street and deciding to spend my unused lunch money on a brownie at Blue's Bakery (mmmm....chocolate brownie with carmel melted on it and sea salt sprinkled in...I ask you, who could resist?) that the beginning of my salvation began. As I passed the Co-op just beside Blue a small group of people wandered out of the study hall in the Co-op, the one next to the vegan cafe. I had my eyes cast down, and so at first I didn't notice that they were all holding text books in Hebrew, one of the texts of the Talmud.
Jewish texts.
The Talmud, no less.
And in the hands of women.
Now, if they're allowed to study, why not me to? I stopped at the flyer in the window, pretending to read it, just to get a sneaky look at these people. They sure didn't look like my mom and her posse. Seeing my rather timid glances, one lady smiled and said hello.
Like the perfect fool, I stumbled over a simple reply like 'hello' and instead pointed at the black book in her arms.
'Ah, are you interested in learning the Talmud?'
Hardly believing my luck, I nodded yes.
She smiled. 'Rabbi Goldburg gives classes every other thursday. You're welcome to join in, if you like.'
'Yes, but I don't own any texts.'
'Ah, we have photocopies for people in your situation.'
What, people with weird mothers? Great!
Hardly believing my luck, I felt myself nod and agree to faithfully come to the next class. Now, of course it's during the last hour of high school but I wasn't going to let that deter me. I'm doing this, damn it.
The nagging females in my house didn't even annoy me after I floated through the front door. A chance to study Talmud. I can't believe my luck. I took my non-kosher brownie (I can't even remember buying it) and wandered upstairs into my room.
A chance, a real chance.
How lucky am I?
You would think with a last name like Cohen a really traditional first name like Rebecca or Sarah, or a some hype Israeli/Hebrew title like Shalom or Arielle would be the way to go. But no, my hippie dippy mother gave me the name of Skye.
Skye Cohen.
What a title.
To make matters worse, she foolishly falls away from the usual Boulder crowd and decides that, in order to 'find her roots,' she turns to the Chabad shul. Suddenly my tie-dye Birkenstock-wearing mother is now a hair-hiding-black-stocking-wearing Orthodox-type.
And she's a single mom.
With a daughter named Skye.
Call me crazy but this doesn't sound like the most clever move in the world. In the space of a month our quiet life of just mom and daughter and calico cat has become a bedlam of other head covering female types invading our house on otherwise quiet Pine Street and turning the place upside down in order to make my poor mom as Jewish as they can.
I mean, I don't mind that my mom wants to be more traditional and spiritual, it's just the way they go about it. Like, we were raised Reform but these women act like that's akin to being some snake-handling-speaking-in-tongue-type deep in the heart of West Virginia. All my mom wanted in the beginning was to be able to study mystical Judaism and the holy books but they convinced her she should concentrate on keeping her home kosher and other wifely duties.
Speaking of the holy books, it's because of them that the end of my world began to turn around. It all sort of happened this last thursday, just after school.
It came about because I knew those annoying women would be about this time of the day, and also because I liked walking close to Naropa University and catching a glimpse of some of the Tibetian monks that teach there. I like seeing happy spiritual-types and not smug-oh-so-superior ones.
It was after turning right onto Pearl Street and deciding to spend my unused lunch money on a brownie at Blue's Bakery (mmmm....chocolate brownie with carmel melted on it and sea salt sprinkled in...I ask you, who could resist?) that the beginning of my salvation began. As I passed the Co-op just beside Blue a small group of people wandered out of the study hall in the Co-op, the one next to the vegan cafe. I had my eyes cast down, and so at first I didn't notice that they were all holding text books in Hebrew, one of the texts of the Talmud.
Jewish texts.
The Talmud, no less.
And in the hands of women.
Now, if they're allowed to study, why not me to? I stopped at the flyer in the window, pretending to read it, just to get a sneaky look at these people. They sure didn't look like my mom and her posse. Seeing my rather timid glances, one lady smiled and said hello.
Like the perfect fool, I stumbled over a simple reply like 'hello' and instead pointed at the black book in her arms.
'Ah, are you interested in learning the Talmud?'
Hardly believing my luck, I nodded yes.
She smiled. 'Rabbi Goldburg gives classes every other thursday. You're welcome to join in, if you like.'
'Yes, but I don't own any texts.'
'Ah, we have photocopies for people in your situation.'
What, people with weird mothers? Great!
Hardly believing my luck, I felt myself nod and agree to faithfully come to the next class. Now, of course it's during the last hour of high school but I wasn't going to let that deter me. I'm doing this, damn it.
The nagging females in my house didn't even annoy me after I floated through the front door. A chance to study Talmud. I can't believe my luck. I took my non-kosher brownie (I can't even remember buying it) and wandered upstairs into my room.
A chance, a real chance.
How lucky am I?
Tuesday 15 July 2008
One Single Impression--prompt 20--Myth
Raven steals the sun
black wings illuminating
trickster heals the world.
black wings illuminating
trickster heals the world.
Monday 14 July 2008
Weekend Wordsmith--prompt 'Crowded'
She dreams of colours,
primary colours,
dancing,
laughing, singing,
alive.
She dreams of crowds,
sweaty,
heaving, loving,
alive.
She dreams of senses,
delicate, spicy,
perfumed.
Alive.
She dreams.
primary colours,
dancing,
laughing, singing,
alive.
She dreams of crowds,
sweaty,
heaving, loving,
alive.
She dreams of senses,
delicate, spicy,
perfumed.
Alive.
She dreams.
Sunday 13 July 2008
Friday 5 from Poefusion
Every friday at Poefusion there is a prompt of five words, for you to write a poem or story to. Last fri the words were:
grandfather
photo album
post office
broken window
folder
This poem is rough but I've no time to rewrite it (it's a bit hard to write whilst also entertaining a 3 month old), and as I said in the last post, if I think about it, I'll never write at all, so this is my way of trying to get creative again.
The boy with no ties
to family,
no mother to praise him,
no father to encourage, no
grandparents to spoil him; this
boy watches the social worker
with the folder
and wonders why
it isn't a photo album
for him.
If it was, what
would they look like, his family.
Would his mother be pretty, his
grandfather kind?
All he can see when he thinks of family is
a broken window where bullets came in,
a stained and dirty mattress to sleep on,
the t.v. that never was quiet.
The social worker glances at him;
the woman who can read minds.
She's seen it all before.
When she thinks of his family
all she can see is a rage
as red as the post office van
that passes the office.
Her thought to strike them down in vengeance.
Instead she offers this
boy a present,
a book instead of an album.
Knowledge instead of pain.
Love in place of indifference.
grandfather
photo album
post office
broken window
folder
This poem is rough but I've no time to rewrite it (it's a bit hard to write whilst also entertaining a 3 month old), and as I said in the last post, if I think about it, I'll never write at all, so this is my way of trying to get creative again.
The boy with no ties
to family,
no mother to praise him,
no father to encourage, no
grandparents to spoil him; this
boy watches the social worker
with the folder
and wonders why
it isn't a photo album
for him.
If it was, what
would they look like, his family.
Would his mother be pretty, his
grandfather kind?
All he can see when he thinks of family is
a broken window where bullets came in,
a stained and dirty mattress to sleep on,
the t.v. that never was quiet.
The social worker glances at him;
the woman who can read minds.
She's seen it all before.
When she thinks of his family
all she can see is a rage
as red as the post office van
that passes the office.
Her thought to strike them down in vengeance.
Instead she offers this
boy a present,
a book instead of an album.
Knowledge instead of pain.
Love in place of indifference.
One Single Impression--prompt 19
Okay, this is crap, I know it's crap, but the thing is...if I don't jump now and just do it then I'll lose my nerve and never do it. So this is my first attempt at Japanese poetry via the OSI prompt 'Through a Window.'
Falling gently down,
the girl from the window lands
soft, a down feather.
A slip was all it took for
her to know that she can fly.
Falling gently down,
the girl from the window lands
soft, a down feather.
A slip was all it took for
her to know that she can fly.
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