Tag: poetry

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: Precipitized

Autumn was hulking against the house by the back door, sometimes gently tapping to come in. I opened the door. A lush gush waltzed in and danced around the room.

I’ve decided that I like autumn better than summer and winter. Winter and summer are fickle about their temperatures and weather offerings. Autumn seems more relaxed and straightforward about it. Yes, warm days will come, with some soaring temperatures which somehow complements a view of autumnal foliage against a blue sky. Mostly, though, memories of autumn has me anticipated a level stream of gently declining temperatures as tree shed their leaves and winter begins gracing us.

It’s Wednesday, 9/11/2024. A moment to remember that morning, seared into so many of our brains, sharp-edged memories formed as our daily routines were put on hold and we watched our televisions.

It’s 55 F at my house. My wife was up early to get ready for her exercise class. She told me after I got up that she came in and whispered to me, “It’s raining,” but I was deeply asleep and did not hear.

A little later, Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah), shouted, “It’s raining and I’m hungry and get up and feed me.” Which I did.

Ah, rain. Small drops, lighty falling, wetting everything, and releasing gases that waft up to us and awakens rain memories. The smell is so rich.

Our air is so clear and fresh this morning. Purple has the readings around me in single digits. Airnow.gov has us at 25.

Today’s high will be in the upper sixties.

I’m looking forward to having something done about my injured foot. Although I wear my brace when I’m out and about, strange complaints and sharp pains will jump out. “Hey, don’t bend me that way,” it yells. “Watch where you’re stepping. You want pain, I’ll give you pain.” I know, it’s a very small thing to endure compare to what many others suffer. I’m just a whiner.

I’m not going to comment much on the debate last night. I will say that my personal confidence and hope that Kamala Harris becomes POTUS number 47 pole-vaulted into new levels.

With the debate and the rain and season shift, The Neurons have plugged a Steve Perry song into the morning mental music stream (Trademark gone). “Oh Sherrie” was released in 1984. I don’t know why it’s in my head this morning. I can’t trace a relationship to anything that I thought, did, or dreamed. It’s just there as I walked into the office, coffee cup in hand, swallowing the last of a fig, and gazed out the window at the green mountains, flat gray sky, and cautiously falling rain. The Neurons work in mysterious ways.

Stay positive, be strong, and vote blue in 2024. Coffee is half gone. Here’s the music video — Steve Perry with Journey playing his hit single. Cheers

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Doggone Cute

I was walking past several parks today. People were out with their dogs, always in the shade, playing.

One shaggy-haired young man looked like he was in his mid-twenties. His canine companion looked old and out of shape. The guy lightly throw a Frisbee. The dog galloped after it. After twenty feet, the dog stopped and turned around, looking for the disc. It sailed over his head and landed four or five feet behind him.

“Behind you,” the man called to the dog. Turning around, the dog saw the Frisbee. Picking it up in his jaws, he trotted back, but stopped four feet away and settled down in green shade.

“Drink water,” the guy said.

The dog went to a water bowl and took a few sloppy laps. “Bring me the toy,” the man said.

Doing as told, the dog brought it over and put it on his man’s feet.

“Ready?” the man asked.

Watching him, the dog began jogging away. The Frisbee was launched. The dog ran out, stopped, and turned around as the Frisbee landed behind him.

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Mood: upbeat and restless

Today is Saturday, June 22, 2024. Summer had asserted itself with a firm hand. A solidly blue sky gazes down on Ashlandia and bright sunshine blisters our skin and browns the land. Currently 73 F, Ashlandia’s area will experience low to mid 90s for the highs today. The wind has shifted and the smoke has drifted out of our valley to go plague others in another valley, so it’s breathable outside. Take precautions against the heat and outside activities can be pursued. It supposed to get cooler for a few days, with temperatures dipping into the eighties.

It feels like it’s been a long week. Realizing it’s Saturday surprises me. The big Biden-Trump debate looms on the calendar. Personally, I have a physical this week. Slowing down, moderately overweight, I feel like I’m aging by the day — which, yeah, we all are — so I’m not looking forward to the physical.

Mom and I spoke yesterday. She related one of her favorite precautionary tales. Her mother had a thing about smells. She was living alone, in her nineties, as her children discussed putting her into a nursing home or assisted living facility. Those discussions had stalled.

Meanwhile, on a cold December Nebraska night, her mother put on a light jacket and took a banana peel out to put in the outside trash. She slipped and fell, staying on the ground for forty-five minutes before noticed and helped. That was the end of her living alone. She lived for several more years but wasn’t the same.

On her part, Mom’s big fall over a decade ago triggered her long health decline. For my part, when I was immobilized with an obstructed bladder a few years ago, I saw changes quickly emerge. I was suddenly stiffer and less fluid in my movement. My balance felt slightly off. My metabolic rate had changed as I aged, of course, but suddenly I put on weight. Much of my muscle seemed to slack off overnight. Then, boom, my skin all seemed to be sagging.

It’s likely that all those things were happening but I didn’t notice until my routines were changed. Seeing those changes made me more cognizant of my retreating hair line, and the color fleeing my hair and beard. I feel older, slower, and weary. Reading news of the world and its people, and political news, doesn’t seem to help at all. I turn to coffee for energy boosts but I know I shouldn’t be drinking it any longer. Like Grandma and her banana peel, I can’t stop myself.

I read Jill Dennison’s blog as frequently as I can. She and I seem like kindred political spirits, part of the same tribe as many of you who regularly visit my blog and comment. I read one of Jill’s posts and commented yesterday. In her comments back to me, she mentioned that she’s looking for a rainbow.

That was like a set up for The Neurons. As soon as that was read and digested, they began playing Chris Rea’s song, “Looking for A Rainbow” from 1989, in the morning mental music stream (Trademark smoldering). The song starts out slow as it carries forward the album’s theme, The Road to Hell, but becomes jauntier and of course features Rea’s slide guitar work.

Well we come down to the valley
Yea we’re looking for the honey
I see a rainbow
I say that’s the land of milk and honey

Me and my cousin
Me and my brother
My little sister too
Come looking for a rainbow
Yea we’re looking for a rainbow

Well we come down to the valley
Got our babies in our arms
Yea we’re Maggie’s little children
And we’re looking for Maggie’s farm

Me and my cousin
Me and my brother
My little sister too
Come looking for a rainbow
Yea we’re looking for a rainbow

h/t to Genius.com

Yeah, Jill, baby, I think many of us are looking for a rainbow and the land of milk and honey. Some seem to believe the only way there is by holding others back, beating them down, or banishing them. Yes, I’m looking at you, Republicans.

Stay positive – yes, it’s hard – be strong – yes, also hard – and lean forward and Vote Blue in 2024. Maybe we can create a place that attracts rainbows. Here’s the music. Cheers

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The Writing Moment

One important matter that many new writers overlook is, what does their muse want?

The muse can fill a critical function in the fiction writin’ process, so identifying them and learning what they like — and DISLIKE — can be a significant component of your personal process. Sometimes, as it is for me, it’s more than one muse, so the aspiring writer must pay attention to who the muses are and what they do. Fer ‘nstance, my muses love coffee. Don’t try to pawn tea or chai off on ‘em; they’ll inform you with seething disgust that they’re not the same. However, some of the muses are more impatient and arrogant than the others. Some of them read someone else’s fiction and immediately scream into my ear, “Write something like that!” I’m always coping with them doing that. The way I do so, with more patience and caution that touching a sleeping cat’s belly, is to gently promise I will write something like that after I finish this (whatever this is) and hope they accept and quiet down.

BTW, don’t try to overlook the grammar and punctuation muses. They can be wrong but they will push and push for a decision about a comma, period, tense, noun, verb, and so on, until they’re satisfied (at least for the moment).

My muses are not fond of writing at home, cuz cats, spouse, phone – well, environmental distractions. (Yeah, we still have a home phone, althought it’s VOIP.) My muses like it in a noisy coffee shop where nobody pays attention to them and they can write in peace surrounded by people bustling around on their business. As I have multiple muses (sometimes called musi in the more traditional plural spelling) (yeah, just kiddin’ ‘bout that), I need to ensure the right one shows up on time. Little is worse for me than entering a revision session only to have a ‘new project’ muse enter to help, suggesting the concept for a new novel, novella, short story, movie, song, play, or essay.

Last, my musi demand time and focus on them everyday. If they don’t get it, they spoon crankiness, exasperation, and irritation into my mood. So, every day, no matter what’s happenin’, they want me to sit and write or edit. They don’t care if zombies are overrunning the neighborhood, a blizzard is underway, or nukes are falling. Nor is being hungry, sick, or social engagements a concern for ’em. They want their writing or editing time. And don’t think that research is good enough for the muse. I’ve tried mollifying them with research; my muses don’t buy it and will sometimes go off and sulk, leaving me without a muse to write. I can do it, but it’s a bit like having problems with a bowel movement.

Now, back to writing. So sayeth the muse what’s in charge.

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Floof Demand

Let me in let me in let me in let me in!

This is not how the day should begin!

I shouldn’t be out there while you’re within.

And closing the door on me is a mighty sin.

How do I know that you’re well?

What would I do if you fell?

I’ve said it before, must I say it again?

Let me in let me in let me in let me in!

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Ode to a Floof

A small floof,

Who liked to goof,

Was such a funny one.

She liked her people’s bed,

And being scratched on the head,

But really loved the sun.

Kibble was tasty.

And she never ate hasty,

Nor was other food shunned.

Then it was off to sleep,

Another day to keep,

And dreams about all that she’d done.

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The Game

I never liked you, the cat said with a smile.

I was trying to kill you when I slept on your head.

It wasn’t by coincidence that I tripped you again and again.

Nor were those love bites like you always said.

And the claws weren’t a whim when I scratched till you bled.

And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.

I never liked the kibble or any of the other food.

Your treats made me sick though I begged for more.

I didn’t like the tuna which you gave off a spoon.

It was all faked when chicken made me swoon.

And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.

I’m a cat and I like games.

I get bored and the days are too much the same.

So I do what I can to keep myself entertained.

Because I’m a cat and this was just another game.

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The Writing Moment

Encountering a friend who just retired, he asked what the other was now doing with his time. “Well,” the new retiree replied, “I’m publishing my second collection of poetry.”

“Great, congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’ve worked on it for twenty plus years.”

“Who is the publisher?”

“I’m self-publishing. After being rejected one hundred twenty-seven times, I just want to get it out there.”

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Lost: Time

I looked in the closet

Under the bed

And in the clothes basket

And couldn’t find the time

Maybe I’d left it in the living room

Or in the car when I was out the other day

Doing errands, like buying food

It could have fallen out of my pocket

While I was walking

Or taking a nap

So I’d better check the sofa cushions

I retraced my steps

But the time didn’t turn up

I challenged my brain to remember

If I’d loaned it to someone

Or maybe gave it away to the Goodwill

While Marie Kondoing my life

After a while

I tried reading a book

Thinking that maybe by not doing something

And freeing my brain from that weighty effort

Of finding the time

I’ll remember what I did with the time

Because I just can’t find the time.

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