Writing Adventure

Beauty Marks

2017-08-16T20:52:00.000-04:00

I saw the tears start to fall

Like rain drops falling

During a savage storm

I saw the tears fall down your face

And through their shine

Could see all

I saw the pain, the hurt, the anger

But mostly, I saw your fear

That this is what life is

I saw their intent

I saw their path

There was no rainbow at the end

There was no gold to reclaim again

I saw your tears start to fall

Beauty marks

I felt your heart beat

Like the drums of a soldier

Before a battle

As he takes up arms to a cause

Not really understanding

But knowing he must fight

His heart beating in fear

His heart banging out his excitement

I saw a land without borders

As two armies faced on a field

The knives in your heart

Piercing through the sound

And rhythm of your heart

I felt your heart beat

Beauty marks

I heard your screams

Like the riot through the city

Fighting against hate, injustice

Pushing against the walls

Banging its fist on the bars of the cell

Never turning your cheek

Knowing the feel of the fist

You never turned down the volume

You never shut your eyes

Or turned my head away

You faced the crowd

You were not glass

You were steel

I heard your screams

Beauty marks

I watched you bleed

As you put the tip

To flesh

Pulling away

Feeling pain

Feeling release

Letting out the bad, the evil, the pain, the unjust

Leaving emptiness

Drops of red falling onto the virgin Earth

Staining the waters

Darkening the skies

You can't always see

The scarred remains of pain

I watched you bleed

Beauty marks

I ached in hunger with you

As you melted away

Starving, aching and in need

Reaching out for substance

Clutching only air

Gasping with need

Shining your searchlight

Into the darkness

But finding only night

Looking desperately

Needing even more

You bones shining through

You feel invisible

I ached with hunger with you

Beauty marks

I have been where you are before

I have walked the same path

The dirt worn by those before me

And those yet to come

I have felt the pain

Of losing who you are

Not recognizing anymore

The face in the mirror

Some wear their scars

Others have theirs hidden deep inside

It is not the loudest in the room

With the strength to carry the world

You do not need permission to feel

The world can hold more emotion than you know

I have been where you are before

Beauty marks

I saw the tears start to fall

I felt the heart beat

I heard the screams

I watched the blood spill

I ached inside and out with hunger

I have been there before

I felt the same pebble in my shoe

I felt the same fire singe my skin

I bled on the same battlefield

I prayed with the same whispered abandon

I screamed love but only heard the resounding echo

And still looked upon my scars

Holding them up to the mirror proud

These scars are not the end...they are beauty, strength, the beginning

Beauty marks

Mommy Dear

2017-08-07T09:27:00.001-04:00

The Definition of ME

2017-02-09T08:57:00.001-05:00

The Definition of ME

How do you define me?

Am I just a woman?

Are you just a man?

Am I blond, brunette, redhead?

Am I thin, fat, average?

Am I white, black, brown, red, yellow, or blue?

Am I straight, lesbian, gay, transgender?

How do you define me?

Am I my job?

Am I my school?

Am I a mother? A father? A son? A daughter?

Am I tall, short, average?

Am I loud? Quiet?

Am I shy? Outgoing?

How do you define me?

Am I my country?

Am I my state or city?

Am I my religion?

Am I my language?

Am I the East or the West?

Am I the South or the North?

How do you define me?

Am I what I love or what I hate?

Am I what I create or what I destroy?

Am I my opinions?

Am I your opinions?

Am I a hug or a kiss?

Am I a slap in the face?

How do you define me?

Am I my political party?

Am I what I protest?

Am I the sign I wear?

Am I the sticker on my car?

Am I the gun or the sword?

Am I the pen or the paintbrush?

How do you define me?

Am I the bitch?

Am I the slut?

Am I the sweetheart?

Am I the darling?

Am I the sugar?

Am I the spice?

How do you define me?

Am I one word? Ten? Or a hundred?

Am I one picture?

Am I one symbol?

Am I one note? One song? One concerto

Am I the masterpiece?

Am I the novel?

How do you define me?

Am I the silence?

Am I the roar?

Am I the wave or the ocean?

I am the breeze or the tornado?

Am I the rain or the storm?

Am I the thunder or the lightning?

How do you define me?

Am I my illness?

Am I my age?

Am I my family?

Am I my passions?

Am I my addictions?

Am I my sadness or my happiness?

How do you define me?

I do not know.

How will they define me?

I do not care.

How do I define me?

I do not say.

Hello...goodbye...It’s me!

I March On...

2017-01-31T08:46:00.002-05:00

My eyes are shadowed

My arms ache

My feet are sore

My heart bleeds

But still I march on…

The sun is in hiding

The sky is crying

The clouds have lost their happiness

The rainbows have lost their colors

But still I march on…

I will walk a thousand miles

Over hills and plains

In the rain and the snow

Alone or in a group

But still I march on...

Words of love are whispered

Words of hate are shouted

You call out labels and names

I shout out “Resist!”

But still I march on…

This wall being built brick by brick

Is around each of us now

This wall you want

Keeps love outside and hate within

But still I march on…

This is what democracy is

Love Trumps hate

Humanity first

No home for hate

But still I march on…

We hold our signs

We hold our fear

We hold hands

We hold strong

But still I march on…

It is not for women, men, or babies

It is not for races

It is not for policies

It is for all

But still I march on…

We sit peacefully by

We nod and smile

We whine and complain

We are fallen by the hill of passivity

But still I march on…

We have marched before

We have raised our voices and fists

We have taken up arms

We have not always won

But still I march on…

This fight is not over

This fight must be won

It is for the heart

of all not just one

But still I march on…

We’ve taken up the weapons of our pens

We’ve raised the crescendo of our voices

We’ve locked arms in solidarity

We’ve stood firm with resolve

But still I march on...

My eyes are shadowed

My arms ache

My feet are sore

My heart bleeds

But still I march on…

I Am Not The Wind...

2017-01-24T14:02:00.003-05:00

I am not the wind

I am not the sun

I am not the moon

I am not the Earth Mother

I am not the mother bear

I am not only Mother

I am not a tornado

I am not a hurricane

I am not a storm

I am not a dandelion

I am not a rose

I am not a garden

I am not a porcelain doll

I am not débutante

I am not the princess

I am not the meek

I am not the strong

I am not the aware

I am not my clothes

I am not my shoes

I am not my nails

I am not my hair

I am not my breasts

I am not my ass

I am not the chain around your neck

I am not the guardian at the gate

I am not the browbeaten

I am not the protester

I am not the victim

I am not the pain

I am not the chef

I am not the maid

I am not the chauffeur

I am not the weekend girl

I am not the Tuesday night gal

I am not the whispered secret

I am not red lips

I am not painted nails

I am not rouged cheeks

I am not the dancing queen

I am not the raging bitch

I am not the soft-spoken friend

I am not yours

Nor yours

I am mine

I am the world

I am all and nothing
I am everything in between

I am a woman...

A Writer's Resolutions

2017-01-10T14:32:00.002-05:00

It is another new year and I find that I am still writing the same novel. I thought I would be done by now. No one can predict the unpredictabilities of life. There was a birth, job changes, moves, vacations, and bad weather. Sometimes when you are writing a novel and, yet working a full-time job or parenting a child, you find that finishing that same beloved novel idea is more of a Mt. Everest climb than just a small climb up a short hill. At the end of the climb though is a completed novel and a sense of accomplishment so great.

There is also a big learning curve. When you are writing your first novel it is exciting...until it is not. Then it is work. Writing your first novel you learn how much you really love writing and how committed you are to the process. When you start each chapter is a step-down adventure and each character is a new friend. Unless you truly love writing and see the rewards all the work it takes brings then those chapters stop coming and you are stuck on that path not going any further and those friendly characters start to be nagging burdens along the way.

When a new year starts many people create resolutions. I am going to eat better, diet and lose ten pounds, exercise more, stop swearing, work harder, or simply dress better. Ok, maybe not the last one but resolutions are the way to ring in a new year often. I used to hate going to the gym in January. It would be packed with the resolutioners. All of them hell bent to go to the gym everyday for the rest of the year. By February I had the gym all to myself again.

Writers make resolutions as well. I am going to write everyday. I am going to post more on my blog. I will post on my blog once a week. I am going to do more research. I am going to write ten poems this year, or this month. I am going to create characters that are amazing. I am going to finish my novel and maybe even finish a second novel.

A new year starts, the champagne pops, the ball drops, the kisses start, the noise makers blow and the resolutions are planned out. Writers are no different in this. But, February always starts and those resolutions have become work and in many cases, a distant memory. I have been working on my novel for years. This weekend I did finish another chapter and I have two or three more chapters left to be written before the first draft is completed. This is exciting and it would be great to say, "This year I will finish my novel." "This year I will be published."

That is not my resolution, though. I have never been a huge fan of making resolutions. They were always like making false promises or false declarations. They sound great to the ears but often end up in tears. So this year I made one resolution. It is not a promise. It is an awareness that writing and being a writer takes a lot of work. It is not all romance and adventure. It isn't a movie and it is easy. Even with my one resolution, there is an understanding about what being a writer truly is. A truly passionate writer does know the work it takes to be creative. A real writer though revels in that work. A real writer is compelled to write. It is a need like breathing or eating.

So as I ring in 2017 my resolution for the new year is to just continue writing. That is all. Just continue doing what I love. Don't just write for work or for others but write for me. I see a year of succeeding at this resolution but good luck on your diet and with your gym membership if that was yours.

The Many Sides of Jury Duty

2016-12-13T10:11:00.003-05:00

Even when you are almost completed with your novel, there are only a few chapters to go, when you are a working parent to a baby it is still hard to find time to write. You can try to write during your lunch break at work but in an open office setting that is not ideal when people are constantly talking or interrupting your creative train of thoughts. So that hasn't worked. You can wait until your baby falls asleep. If you were lucky enough to have a baby that slept and slept in their own bed. So that hasn't worked. You can try to write while your baby is playing with her toys. However, when your little one is attracted to what you are doing and the paper and pen you are using, you can get one paragraph written or edited but, that won't obviously work either.

So, what do you do? This writer was lucky enough to get a jury summons. Serving my civic duty I went to go serve my jury duty. I dressed nicely and showed up right on time. Thankfully, I wasn't late but I did manage to squeak in just at the last minute. I made my way to the third floor and waited in a long line to register my presence for jury duty and get my official badge. Then I made my way to the jury lounge where you wait to get called to serve on a jury panel. The room I entered was very long and set up almost like a church with chairs on both sides of the room and an aisle in the center with a podium at the top of the room. This is where the woman announces all the names and numbers of the individuals who get called to a jury panel. The room was warm but that may be because when I walked into the room it was a little like walking in after church has already started. The chairs were full and you had to walk down until you found a spot in the center and ask the people to let you in. In the jury room the people were less gracious about having to move their stuff from the chair next to them to let you sit there, but I persevered, stood my ground, and got a seat I wasn't about to give up so no bathroom breaks for me.

Then, I did the most exciting thing of my day. I sat. I sat, and sat, and sat. Doing your civic duty is dull. At one point the court people played a video introducing you to jury duty and all you should know. I would rather have sat in silence. The video was a bit like something you would see explaining to a toddler what jury duty was. I did get to watch many of the people which I do enjoy doing. I say the man who obsessively checked his phone and in lightening speed kept going through various apps. I say the woman who was slumped over asleep. I noticed most of the people in attendance did not dress business casual as I did so I was a bit overdressed for jury duty. Maybe they would think I was a lawyer and not call my name. There was the couple I sat next to who discussed playing tennis at the club on the weekends with other friends. It was and interesting mix of DC elite, worker bees like myself (we stood out in our business attire), and regular DC people who probably grew up in DC their whole lives.

The people watching lasted about twenty minutes before my mind began to wander and the sitting started to become antsy shifting in my chair constantly. I saw many people reading newspapers or books and was wishing I had remembered to bring one. It always takes me so long to wake up in the morning that I should have packed one the night before. Alas, I forgot. What I did have though is paper and pens. As a writer, I am almost never without paper and pens. There are even pens in my bathroom on the off chance that an idea will hit in there. You would be amazed how many creative ideas come to an individual during solo, quiet time in the restroom. Da Vinci probably thought up the design for the Mona Lisa, Einstein could have thought through the concept of E=MC. Nonetheless, I pulled out my paper and my pen and actually got to do some writing.

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I can not remember when I was able to work on my writing for such a long period of time. It felt so good and I got so lost in my writing that it took me a minute to realize after about an hour that the woman at the front was about to call names to sit on a panel and I would have to pay attention. So my brain left the 1800s quickly and entered back into the stuffy, overpopulated jury lounge. After reading names and numbers for about twenty minutes the room became almost empty because they called so many of the individuals to serve on jury panels. After the last name was called, my name never yelled out as one of the intended to serve, I sat back and waited as everyone left. Then in the silence of the now sparsely populated room I re-entered the realm of intrigue and suspense.

This became my sole occupation during jury duty, sitting and writing. I never got called to a jury panel which means I spent my day sitting in the jury lounge waiting and writing. I would have thought it a wasted day if I never had a chance to do so much writing. Jury duty became an exciting adventure in finishing chapter thirty-one. Though, I do not wish to have jury duty again any time soon, I am ever grateful that I finally found a time to get some real writing done without little hands pulling on paper, grabbing my pen, pulling my hair, or trying to type on the computer. It also puts me another chapter closer to the end. There is a light at the end of the tunnel and it is getting very exciting.

At 2:30 the lady at the front in true Queen of Jury Duty style lavishly announced we could leave for the day and not come back. We were dismissed. I happily trot out of the courthouse without having to sit on any jury panel but a completed chapter in my bag. My many adventures in jury duty were accomplished. At least until I get called again.

Plan Distraction Action

2016-11-17T11:17:00.002-05:00

I am knee deep and back visiting the world of 1800's Romania. All my old friends are themselves mired in intrigues and intense, suspenseful actions in the hopes of saving their world. They know that what happens in their lives now will bring about the answer to the question, "how is this going to end?" That is the same question I am asking myself. Yes, I am the writer, the creator. Yet, as the creator you plan and you plot and you envision your story but there are often exciting twists and turns you did not predict but seemed to flow from the pen so easily it was as if the story were meant to take that path no matter what. Maybe Robert Frost took the path less traveled not because he was curious and adventure lie ahead, but rather because he had to. His life was always meant to go down the less traveled path so that he may write about it and expose its secrets. It is how his own story pushed him to the end.

With only a few more chapters of the book left to write into the first draft I am getting more and more excited to see the words "The End". You can not rush to the end though. You still have to put the time and focus into the story and make sure you are giving each chapter it's worthy thought. These chapters are the most intense for action and consequences. These chapters are the climax of the long story I have been telling about my characters.

With a new job and a new baby in the house though it is hard to get too engrossed into the intensity of the story. I have to work and when my baby makes the cutest faces in the world I have to snuggle her and play with her. Writing those intense scenes though often take great concentration. This is hard to achieve when your seven month old baby girl sees you writing and wants to eat the paper or steal the pen or sees you typing away on the computer and believes that this is a cool toy that she wants to try and bang on or at least watch her bollywood videos on.

This month has been unusual. I started my new job, as previously stated, where I do so much writing, the technical kind. I also am getting used to a new weekly schedule and commuting in traffic for an hour again. I was out of work for so long that I am grateful for the work, even though I miss my baby girl. At the same time, it is a distraction from focusing on my writing. Additionally, we had very intense presidential elections and, though I will not comment on who I supported, I will say it took me a week to absorb all that intensity. In all the change, newness, and complications that life has brought, I thought about the top distractions of life and then the top ways to deal with those distractions. If I had to pick the top five distractions in my life that pull me away from finishing my book they would be:

1. Work
2. Baby Leah and family time
3. Internet
4. Other writing ideas for blogs or poems
5. Space Cadet Time

Those are my top five distractions that pull me away from finishing Chapter 31 right now. So, how do I deal with these distractions so that I can get back to 1800's Romania with gypsies, curses, and crazy families? The answer, which goes against what many post online everywhere is....I give in to the distraction.

1. Work - I have to work to pay bills and I am not a best selling author...yet. I get up in the morning and make the long commute and do my job and then commute home. At work I get to do a great amount of technical writing so I look at it as an opportunity to grow my abilities as a writing by writing in different formats and styles and for different types of audiences.

2. Baby Leah and family time - I spend time with my family. They are the ones that I love the most and want to spend my time with. Since I work during the day I am limited in how much time I get to spend with my family so I try to soak up and relish what time I can. It may just be sitting there and watching TV with them but I am with them so I am happy.

3. Internet - Yes, this one could go away, but I am realistic. With Twitter and facebook and news sites and of course the cute pictures of animals, I get distracted but it is another way to relax. (I mean, who could resist this cuteness?)

4. Other writing ideas for blogs or poems - This is a necessity to stop and write them down. If I don't write down the idea or the poem I may forget it. Plus, as a writer this is the continuation of my passion and work. It could give me ideas for my current book or a new story but it is part of the work of an author to give in to other writing ideas. It is important to remember though not to get lost in those ideas and forget about finishing your book.

5. Space Cadet Time - Yes, this sounds crazy. My Dad would shake his head and simply call it Heather's being a space cadet. Sometimes when life is pulling you in so many different directions you need time to just escape into your head and process everything. You need to space out and fly the galaxy even for a moment. It is like hitting refresh on a web page. Everything comes back but it may look or work better. There are times I just need five moments of space cadet time. It helps so that when I enter back into the story that has become action filled and intense I am able to focus more and get lost in horse drawn carriages and gypsy curses and the pain of tripping over long dresses on a dusty road.

The truth is that distractions happen so turn them into actions. Turn your distractions into a way to recharge your battery, relax you mind or stimulate your mind, discover new ideas for stories or plot lines or even blog posts. By thinking of your distractions as actions it may help focus your mind when you are able to set time to write again and not feel frazzled and guilty for time not devoted to your story. You are the author. It is like a loyal puppy. It is waiting for you and will be there when you are ready to sit down and write again.

Happy Distraction! Happy writer!

The Truth About Being A Writer

2016-11-01T09:27:00.001-04:00

The door opens slowly with a creak. Are you leaving into the daylight and the unknown? As you pull the door slowly shut and hear the click of the latch, you feel an extra beat of your heart at the unknown. What will the day bring? Can I get through this? Is this routine or will the air electrify with something new? There so many times in our lives when we have to leave home. We walk out that door either facing adventures or routines or the unknown. We hear the door close behind us with a click of the lock and we step out. Sometimes though the door shuts out the creative and leaves only a day of routine or worse the stank air of downward spiralling emotions.

Baby, unemployment, death, grief, depression and the return of old friends. This has been what my year has been. As those of you who read my blog may have noticed there has been a silence for a year. No posts, no news, no writings to entice nor inform. There is a truth about being a writer that many may not comprehend. At least there is a truth about this writer. Writers live, work, and breath in words and characters and stories but also emotions. When life slides downhill into more of a darkness then the writer can either find inspiration to pull themselves out and reach some understanding of what is happening or they become mired in the emotions that prevent the words from landing on paper.

This year was one of those times when it was a swirl of emotions that ran like a cacophony in my head. The sound of them pushing out the characters and stories that became friends. Sometimes a writer has to face the stark realities of life swirling around them and not revel in the stories of their characters as they watch the words fall on the paper. The emotions of their characters have no space inside the imagination with all the emotions that are reality being faced instead.

Some realities are good. When a baby is born and you watch each day as they grow. You marvel at the beginnings of a little human struggle and learn to do the basics like roll over, sit up, and stand. You get to experience the absolute joy of their first laugh which will always remain the most melodious sound no matter how old your child gets. However, there is also the roller coaster heading down when you are unemployed, suffer the loss of a family member, and live with anxiety of the future. Taking care of a new baby while also looking for a job became the sole existence to my days. It left no time for writing. What little time was left was often spent dulling the brain and anything creative can not pass when that wall is up.

That is not to say that life has to be perfect for a writer to succeed. There needs to be a level mix often. Writers often write to let go of pain, to understand anxiety, and to release the negatives through characters that become a proxy for their pain. However, for anyone who has hiked up a hill or mountain can attest; the hard path up will eventually give way so that you have to hike easily down. You may still have a pebble in your show or an obstacle in your path but you are no longer stretching your muscles to get through the upward climb.

The truth about being a writer is that inspiration can come from anywhere but if you are in the quicksand of emotions you can not move your arms to write and express yourself. Sometimes you have to wait until someone comes along and offers that branch for you to grab onto to then pull yourself out. I am again clinging to that branch. So, now when I walk out my door there is expectations of unknown possibilities and when I sit down I can now revel in the words that have flown over the wall to begin writing again. All I can say is...Welcome Back!

The Return Brings Light At The End

2015-10-08T11:46:00.000-04:00

"Hello."

"Did you miss me?"

"I know it has been so long."

"Don't worry though...I am back. I just had to handle life's unsolvable Rubik's cube."

Yes, I went away for a bit, both literally and figuratively. I took a trip in August right after my last post on this blog. I travelled overseas to London and Paris. It was an amazing experience and I even started a new blog about it, http://gypsywriteradventures.blogspot.com/, if you would like to read. As so often happens though when you take two weeks off; you end up playing catch up for your daily life. It was a time that was busy also with major work meetings and obligations followed by personal hurdles and walls that prevented entrance of creativity.

However, today is National Poetry Day. For a writer, and especially one that writes a lot of poetry, this is truly a holiday that must be observed. In this observation I am posting here a poem. In addition, I am following the theme that was prompted by @PoetrydayUK on twitter, which was "Light." I hope you enjoy and there will be another new post next week. I am once again clearing out the cobwebs of my mind and writing, writing, writing.

The Doll Has Taken The Stage

I step onto the stage

The lights so bright

I can’t see you

But I know you are there

My outfit ideal

Pink tutu full, hair pulled back tight, and toes pointed

I get into position

I wait for the cue

I wait for the music to begin its slow rhythm

The first sounds float through the air

I try to move my head in turn to the music

But can not turn or stir

Instead I feel a tug

And my leg goes out

Toes pointed rigid

I feel another tug and my arms rise

And then slowly my head looks up

And I rise on my toes

Spinning round and round

Yet trying to peak

And see your face

Are you delighted?

Do you see me perform for you?

The music picks up pace as I spin

Until finally out of breath

And feeling like I can go no more

I feel the rhythm in my heartbeats

In time to the sounds begin to slow

And I feel another tug

This time I feel my arms raise over my head

And then back down

As I step lightly to the side

So swift, so cute

I can feel the heat from the lights overhead

Their brightness making it impossible

To see the beautiful faces of the audience

Or the one in the crowd

Who I yearn to see

My one light I always want

Shining on me

Finally the music stops

And everyone takes a bow

And feeling another tug

I move to the center of the stage

And pirouette in style

Amid clapping and brava

Finally I see the curtain begin its descent

Until I alone am on the stage

Picturing the other side

I feel arms wrap around me

And lift me up

I am placed on a bed

My hands crossed at my chest

And just as I look up

Into the face of the man

His eyes so dark

His face so intense

My heart beats wildly

Wanting to reach up

Unable to move

Panic setting in

Until I see him put the strings

He tied onto my back on top of my head

And the last sight I see

Before the darkness took hold

Was the lights of the stage

Screaming “The End!”

Writing in Red

2015-07-13T11:52:00.001-04:00

I know, I know, another poem. How could I? I had a writing inspiration and a writing feast. I couldn't stop myself. It is amazing what a little peace and time away from chaos can do. Next week's post will be the end of the short story series (I promise!!! I have it almost complete and then need to edit it.) and then it is back to the book posts. I am almost done. Two more chapters to go. Don't distract me now.

Writing in Red Lipstick

I came home that night

Walked up the stairs slowly

Never turning on the light

Enjoying the cloak of darkness

Fearing the glaring light of reality

I did not fear the dark

It was a blanket that covered up sins and scars

It was an impassable wall

Keeping at bay the wolf who now sleeps

Down the hall from me

I know the path by memory

The memories of destruction seldom easily fade

I entered my room

Slowly closed the door

Never making a sound

Never disturbing the night into waking

Never alerting the moon

To appear from behind that cloud

And I locked the door

Knowing its fallible defense won't protect me

Refusing even now to light my path

I tip toed and stumbled

Cursing under my breath

Soundless fury, quiet shock

I walked into the bathroom

Closed the door behind me

It whispered shut

And I held my breath

The sound of nothing felt loud, screaming

My held breath releases

Like a gale force wind

I crept like a ballerina

Gliding effortlessly on my toes

I grabbed a towel, rolling it into an impenetrable roll

I laid it by the crack in the door

No light gets out, no light gets in.

I turned on the light

And looked straight into the mirror

I tried to give a smile

But it didn't change my face

Dark circles

Tear stained eyes

Red nose

Disheveled hair

Sunken cheeks

And eyes whose depths of sadness

Seemed deeper than the ocean

I clench my fist

I dried the tears with the back of my hand

I squared my shoulders

Anger now pouring out of my eyes

I stood taller somehow

Resolution!

Awareness does not always come

Wrapped in a pretty bow

Often it cuts

Like a knife

Straight into the heart

Cutting through to the bone

I grabbed for the black tube

And gave a small, angry, defiant grin

I opened the tube slowly

Turned the knob at the base

And raised it up to the mirror

taking a deep breath

Should I really?

My head snaps back up

Did you stop to think

Before you hurt me

No!

And I write my message in red lipstick

THE END!

Someday

2015-07-06T18:55:00.000-04:00

This is a poem that has much meaning for me at this point in my life. This poem spoke to my heart and my life and flowed down through my fingers needing a voice. For anyone living in an internal darkness, I understand. For anyone surviving not living, I understand. For anyone feeling too much and then nothing at all, I understand. For anyone floating on a cloud of pain, I understand. My answer is someday. Someday I will be fine again.

Someday

Someday I will stand on the top of the mountain

And scream at the top of my voice

I’m fine!

Someday I will swim in the depths of the ocean

And scream over the sound of the waves

I'm fine!

Someday I will sit in the darkest cave

And scream as it echoes off the walls

I'm fine!

Someday I will stand under the drops of rain

And scream over each clash of thunder

I'm fine!

Someday I will lie on the cool, green grass

And scream into the vast blue of the sky

I'm fine!

Someday I will stand under the darkened sky

And scream up at the large mocking moon

I'm fine!

Someday I will sit quiet and alone

And scream into the silence

I'm fine!

Someday I will stand unmoving within the crowd

And scream into the throng

I'm fine

Someday I will return home and open the door

And scream into my sanctuary

I'm fine!

Someday I will take up my pen and put it to paper

And write out in large capitalized letters

I'M FINE!

Someday

I will look into the mirror

And see my outline

And the colors and shadows

That make me beautiful inside and out

Someday

I will look down at my scars

And see the whiteness

And healing powers

Telling me I have strength to out live my pain

Someday

I will open my eyes

After a good night's rest

And smile not cry

Telling me that joy does exist again

Someday

I will cry

But they will be tears of joy

Like a rainbow after the rain

And know that hope resides in my land again

Someday

The flowers will have color

The sun will shine

The moon will not be ominous

And I will know they are watching me even behind the clouds

Someday

I will have hunger

My fingers will ache for my pen and paper

My heart will pound with excitement

And I will know the comfort that I live again

Someday

I will think of your face and your eyes

Remembering the love I felt

Relishing in the memories

And not live the ache of pain anymore

Someday

I will be fine

Someday

I will believe this again

And from the top of the mountain

I will shout

I'm fine!

This Is Me...Now Take A Bow

2015-06-26T15:35:00.002-04:00

No ending of the story yet. I have not been able to write for over a week except for some poetry. This weekend hopefully will be a bit more promising in the writing. In the meantime, enjoy this poem.

This Is Me...Now Take a Bow

How do you define me?

How do I define me?

Do I have one definition?

Do I have many?

Do you see just a shadow of me?

Do I have an outline?

If I scream will you hear me?

If I whisper will you notice?

If I caress you will you know me?

If I touch you will you respond?

Are my eyes blue?

Or are they red from crying?

Do you see me?

Do you know what I hold within?

I have many definitions

Which one is right?

Mother

Sister

Daughter

Friend

Lover

Writer

Poet

Warrior

Angel

Adventurous

Emotional

Loving

Jealous

Patient

Impatient

Creative

Pretty

Lazy

Kind

Petty

Altruistic

Soft

Hard

Depressed

Joyous

Can we be defined in one word?

Should we be defined in one word?

Don’t take my actions

And define it as me

When next I can change

Like the leaves on a tree

Don’t take my silence

As anger or sadness

When in reality

It may be both

Or it just may be madness

Do not take my hurt

As love gone astray

I feel and I express

Because love for you never goes away

Do not take my softness

Do not take my pain

As signs of weakness

I have lived, I have survived

I have danced in the rain

I have bled

I have wept

I have screamed

I have trembled with fear

I still rise like the morning glory

When sunlight returns near

You can overlook me

On days it is just my shadow

You can slice me in two

On days I am too weary to battle

You can push me away

Say that I am wrong

Take my love for granted

Leave it in vain

You can dress me up with a bow

You can put me on a pedestal

You can promise me all your lands

And your gold and you laughter

Then cover my mouth

Stop my voice

Cover my eyes

Stop my sight

Bury my body

And stop my heart

This does not erase me

I do still care

I do still feel

I do still hear

I can still ache while I show a smile

I can still remember

Of the soft petals of the roses

Now withered and buried

In a box I hold dear

How do you define me?

How do I define me?

Do I have one definition?

Do I have many?

Do you see just a shadow of me?

Do I have an outline?

If I scream will you hear me?

If I whisper will you notice?

If I caress you will you know me?

If I touch you will you respond?

Are my eyes blue?

Or are they red from crying?

Do you see me?

Do you know what I hold within?

There is just one definition

This is me…Now take a bow

The Wayfarer's Journey to Happiness: The Journey Continues

2015-06-15T21:08:00.000-04:00

So you may have thought that the second issue of this serial story The Wayfarer's Journey to Happiness will be the final part of the story. I hate to be a tease but it is only the second edition of this serial story. You can't really call it a true serial story with only two episodes or acts if you are a Shakespeare lover. So I am pleased to present to you the second part of this story and I promise that the next edition will have the end to this tale. If you want a refresher to the first part before enjoying this second part just click here.

Enjoy!

The Wayfarer's Journey to Happiness: The Journey Continues

Through the darkened, cool cave I could hear birds begin to chirp, breaking into my dreams. I had a restless night’s sleep which mixed memories of what has already been experienced with expanded thoughts and imaginings. I couldn’t keep anything straight in my head. The one constant was the old man on the side of the road. He invaded my every thought and image. He would show up in a sequence and give me advice or steer me in a different direction. I could not escape him.

When I opened my eyes I felt the familiar ache of my body from the exertion of my trek leading to the now familiar slowness of fatigue. All I really wanted was to be under freshly washed sheets on a cushioned mattress, snuggled under the covers with my head on a soft pillow where I could sleep for days. The birds outside were like an alarm ringing in my head and I just wanted to scream, “Be quiet!”

Instead, I gathered up my belongings, the few I still had. Shook my head clear of the cobwebs of sleep and, squinting at the brightness of the morning sun as I left the darkened cave, I stepped outside. The ground was still muddy and wet from the hard rain the previous night. I could feel it squish under my boots. The air was already humid and I knew it would only get worse. The birds continued their morning serenade. I was not an appreciative audience, however, as I was still trying to shake the fatigue that was now feeling like a permanent condition.

I could feel my exhaustion give way to sadness and questions. I felt defeated. I wondered why I was on this journey and why it was so difficult. I looked into the sky hoping an answer would appear, but all I got was the glare of the sun forcing me to look back down to the path I was walking. I kept putting one foot in front of the other and my thoughts and mood seemed to get darker with each step. The incline from the large mountain was making my breathing labored and I began to move slower and slower upwards. Yet, I was more focused on those dark thoughts and was not paying attention to my footing until I found myself tripping over a small tree root in the way, stubbing my toe, and beginning to fall face first. I managed to not fall on my face, but rather my knees, scraping them and yelling out, “Ouch!”

When I managed to stand back up I took a cloth from my bag and wiped my bleeding, scraped knees of the dirt and grime from the ground. I was no longer depressed. I was angry. Looking up into the sky I yelled, “So what?!? This was your answer.”

I heard a chuckle come from the trees off to the side of the path and whipped around towards the sound. I could not see anything at first, but I saw some slight movement of the leaves and knew it was not my mind playing tricks on me. There was a person in those bushes. “Come out of there! I know you are in there. What are you doing? What do you want?” I yelled out loud.

Slowly a figure began to emerge and it made me gasp. Coming out of the bushes was a young man. He was wearing next to nothing except a wrap around his middle. His body was tanned and toned. His muscles seemed to flex automatically on their own and each hard line and ripple was leaving me mesmerized. His legs held their ground like tree trunks that had been planted hundreds of years before. His arms so muscular they looked to be as wide as my own legs. As he watched me look over his body he gave another delighted laugh that seemed to tinkle along the breeze like wind chimes sounding on a spring day. I looked up then and saw his face. His chiseled features and large aquiline nose seemed out of place in what felt like a primitive area. The merriment in his eyes seemed almost childlike in their innocence.

He started to speak to me and I shook my head. I responded back, “I don’t understand anything your saying. I don’t know your language.”

We stared at each other both shaking our heads and frowning in confusion. He finally signaled me with his hand to follow him, like a universal symbol. I followed after him in silence watching his every step. He moved with such grace and ease that told me he knew this mountain and its inclines. They were his home and his memory. He would stop periodically as I tried to keep up but was having a difficult time. Once he stopped and motioned with his hand flat down which I did not understand until he began to sit under the shade of a tree to rest. I quickly realized what he had meant and followed suit.

He took from a bag tied to his hip a piece of bread and broke it in half handing me one side. I had been so intently watching this stranger and trying to keep pace that I did not notice how hungry I was or that it was time for a midday meal. The sun was high over us in the sky but the shade of the tree provided a slight breeze which helped me catch my breath and dry the sweat that I was sure I was covered in, red-faced and grimy. The man then dug into his bag again and unwrapped something tearing it in half like before. He handed me a slab of cheese. I hesitantly took it and nibbled a bite. It was a harsher flavor than I ever had and I realized it was a goat’s milk cheese. With each bite of the cheese I tried to take a nibble of bread as well to cover up the strong taste. I knew the nourishment was necessary though so I ate it ravenously. I dug into my own bag and took out my canteen of water and gulped it down before handing it over to the man for him to try it. He smiled though and took out his own animal skin casing filled with liquid.

My stomach was filled and my thirst quenched and the slight breeze that played through the trees was cooling me off quite a bit from the long trek. I began to feel my tense muscles relax and my eyelids get a bit heavy as I leaned back against the trunk of the tree to rest before beginning the journey again. Before I realized it I was fast asleep.

When I opened my eyes I felt much more refreshed and a lot less fatigued but the first thing I noticed was that the sun was now much lower in the sky. The second thing I noticed was the man staring at me with a grin on his face. He looked at me and said something in his language I did not understand. When I frowned though he made the sound of snoring. My face turned red instantly in realization of what he was saying. I jumped to my feet and, instead of responding, gathered my stuff and signaled for him to start walking. I could hear laughter behind me and tried to hurry my steps up the ever increasing incline without acknowledging my embarrassment.

I knew my nap had taken precious time from reaching the top of this small mountain and I was concerned about not reaching the top before dark. It was so hard to even see the top now that the incline was getting so steep. The man again seemed unconcerned about the time and still walked with ease up the inclined land. I could not understand how this was so easy for him and so difficult for myself. I started to complain to myself as I compared the easy gait that the man was able to maintain while I huffed and puffed and struggled along. He soon passed me and had to stop periodically again to wait for me to catch up, which only aggravated me more and more.

As the incline increased we were having to grab onto items to pull ourselves up with large boulders or low hanging tree limbs. I could feel each bead of sweat as it rolled down my back. The breeze that gave a little relief that morning had died down and the stillness of the air felt thick and made it harder to breath.

So far I had battled hunger, dehydration, being lost, being afraid, fighting a battle, meeting a solider who showed me to safety but who I lost, and now this attractive man. Yet, with all of that, it was the hike up this mountain that made me feel was the hardest part of this journey as of yet. I felt ready to give up. I wanted to go back to the flat path where the strange, little man gave me the choice of direction and instead go the other way. It had to be easier than the path I had taken.

Just when I felt that I couldn't go one step further and I was practically crawling up the way on my hands and knees I put my hand up on the land to pull me up and instead of the mountain continuing up I was pulling myself up onto the top of the mountain. The man had let me reach the top first and when I stepped foot onto the flat ridge I stood tall and then fell to my knees in amazement and gave a wild laugh that probably sounded a bit hysterical but was the ultimate laugh of relief.

I stood back up then and looked out over the most amazing view I had ever seen. I saw a lush green valley with a long river and full, beautiful trees along its edge. It felt as if I were looking into a utopia-like paradise. After my long journey so far it was hard to imagine anything more beautiful.

The man walked over and was standing beside me quietly for a minute. He then suddenly dropped to his knees and raised his hands up toward the sky. I was stunned into silence unable to do anything but stare. His voice rang out loud as he continued to look up into the sky. It sounded like a chant or a prayer. I realized I felt uncomfortable and started to shuffle my feet. I had not felt the presence of faith in my life as fervently as this man expressed his. I was a woman with faith in so much but this overt display was unlike anything I have ever experienced or felt. I started wondering about my own expression of faith versus this man's.

As I looked out over the beautiful valley I felt a level of calm suddenly come over me and I realized that, though my faith my be different and not as loud, I still had a faith I was proud of because it was my own. I felt the beauty and richness of this time and when I stopped comparing myself and my own spirituality to another's I felt that same sense of calm wash over me. I moved off to the side giving the man time alone with his prayers and sat down on the edge of the mountain rim and just let this calmness stay with me for as long as I could hold onto it.

At the edge of the valley in the distance I could see that the sun was beginning its slow move towards the land. I could see the change in color in the sky as it was turning towards the colors of evenings. The blue was starting to have edges of gold and then the gold had edges of rose pink. As I watched the sun's descent I heard the quiet and realized the man had finished his prayer. I looked over my shoulder to see where he went. He was walking around hauling large branches that he found on the ground and in no time at all created a small tepee-like shelter for us to retire to for the night.

I was a bit nervous realizing I would be in this small shelter alone with him but, at the same time, I was too fatigued to fight. The man led me over to the shelter and pushed on my shoulder until I sat down. He then handed me a stick and when I looked at it confused and then up in his face I realized he wanted me to make a fire. I was at a loss. I did not do these things in my life. He gave a nod as he saw my understanding and then marched off pulling a bow and arrow out from where it had hung all day at his back.

Okay, what do I do? I tried to recall the lesson of fire skills I learned at camp. I found some tinder underneath a nearby tree which I thought would make it easier to grab a flame and grow a fire. I saw a stick that had broken off with a sharp point and I grabbed it in hand. I split another stick slightly making sure not to split it too far. I put the pointed end of one stick in between the cracks of another and against a rock for support. I began moving the pointed stick hard feeling each effort of exertion tire me out more and more. I moved hard and fast though and prayed for the sight of smoke but nothing came. Sweat was pouring down my face and I let it just fall as I tried to keep up the fast pace of moving the stick to get enough friction for smoke. I wanted to cry when nothing seemed to happen. I was out of breath, exhausted, hungry, and now once again frustrated and ready to just throw the stick and cry. I threw down the stick and gave a cry out loud in frustration. Two days before that I picked up a weapon after never having done so and was able to shoot. Today this primitive form of fire was eluding me.

After my cry of frustration I heard footsteps behind me and saw the man frowning as he walked up to me. He leaned down on his knees and then gave a small smile and dug through the bag on his side again and pulled out a shiny lighter. I yelled in surprise and snatched it out of his hands laughing in glee. I realized then he had been asking me to gather firewood and not start a fire with a stick. I got up to do just that and marveled again at our miscommunication and eventual understanding of each other. I also wondered again at how my misconceptions of this strange man were wrong. He was not as simple as I thought, nor as primitive. He was more in tune with the land and nature but that did not make him simple. It made him a survivalist. Just because we spoke different languages and looked differently it did not mean that I was more or less important and knowledgeable than him. He may live in a tribe or a village but that does not make him less capable in this world of surviving than myself. It makes our ways different. At the end of it all we both are working at surviving our own worlds. We are both on a journey, a different journey, but a journey of life.

We had a fire going before long and the small rabbit the man had killed was cooking on the fire. The smell of the meat cooking was making my stomach pang in hunger. I knew from the smell I was going to enjoy this meal. The sun had finished its descent and now the gold and rose sky was just dark. On top of the mountain I watched the stars shine in the sky so clear and the moon seem so big. It was as if we were so close to it all that I could just reach up my hand and pull down one of those stars. Sights like both the solider and the man sitting across the fire from me, the memory of the lush green valley below, the way the water moved down my throat and tasted so cool and good, the feeling of hunger being abated with a simple sandwich of cheese and bread, and even the wild storm from the night before made me revel at all that had happened on this adventure and made the hard times pale in comparison to the beauty and strength and wondrous moments I have also experienced.

I knew this feeling was euphoric and I wanted to hold onto it. I also knew I may not be able to because I still needed to cross the valley and I didn't know what was on the other side that was going to stand in my path. I watched the flames of the fire and thought maybe this was the end of my journey. Maybe this man and this place were all signs this is where I should be. I looked up into the sky hoping for a voice to whisper, “Yes, this is where you will find yourself today, tomorrow and tomorrows to come.”

As I stood staring intently there was no voice and the feeling of home quickly disappeared and I knew that this life quest I was on had not yet ended. I still had much to see and much to learn and many more people to meet.

My Heart Beats For Me

2015-06-05T15:07:00.001-04:00

I know I promised the second part of the short story I posted last week. Unfortunately, my week did not go as planned. It was emotional and sad. It was painful but full of realizations. It was not all bad though. I learned that I am getting another writing award. This is the second one in a month I will be receiving. That is very exciting. The up and down emotions of my week though made it difficult for me to write and caused a bit of an emotional block for writing my story and even my novel. Sometimes that works for writing. Writing then becomes a way of corralling those emotions instead of having them fly all over the world and in your face. Sometimes, though, there is not control and they run rampant around you. Then it is a bit like herding cats.

I have calmed down quite a bit. I have found some of my focus. It returned to me in verse instead of in words for my story. Below is the poem that came to me as I was rebuilding my strength and realization that I do deserve happiness in this world, everyone does. It often just takes pushing that rock up the hill one more time in the hope that this time it will reach the top and not fall down again.

My Heart Beats For Me

You can cut off my feet
But, I will then learn to crawl.
You can push me to the ground
But, I will pull myself back up.
You can cut off my arms
But, I will then learn to stand taller.

You can turn your back on me

But, it won't take away what you said.
You can cut me at the knees
But, I will still find a way out of this pain.
You can slice open my body
But, I will still be amazed by my heart's beating.
You can cut off all my hair
But, I will still have a beauty.
You can take away my sight
But, it won't stop me from seeing.
You can bind my wrists
But, I will still scream my loudest.
You can take away my words
But, I will still hear the poetry.
You can cover my ears
But, I will still know the feel of your whispers.
You can cover my eyes
But, I will still remember the colors of Spring.
You can cover my mouth
But, I will still sing in my heart.
You can ignore me
But, I still exist.
You can scream at me
But, I can still have love.
You can look at me with hate
But, I know I can still deserve happiness.
You can stop loving me
But, I know that I still believe in magic.
You can shout at me insults
But, I still have hope.

I can push this rock up the hill
And have it come back down
Again
And again
And again.
I will not give up.
I will not give in.
I will push that rock up the hill
Until we reach the top at the end.

I can take up the fight
And lose the battle
Again
And again
And again.
I will not give up.
I will not give in.
I will fight on
Until the war has come to an end.

You can pierce me through the heart
And, though I bleed
You haven't taken away my ability to love
My hope, my happiness, my heart
Still reside within
My strength, my character, my truth
Still define who I am
My emotions, my tears, my joy
Still shine on my face
And, though I may be broken
Battered and abused.
I may be unable to move
Unable to stand
Tired without and within
You only pierced my heart
And watched it bleed
No feeling or emotion on your face
I felt it beat
I felt my life
I did not die
I will fight, and love
And cry, and laugh
Stand tall
Be strong
I will do all this again
This time not for you
This time my heart
It beats for me.

The Wayfarer's Journey to Happiness

2015-05-29T09:33:00.002-04:00

As a kid I remember sitting in Catholic school class and they would treat all of us once a week to a radio broadcast over the loudspeaker. They always played a broadcast of someone reading a story like a serial soap opera. Trying something new this time, I am posting part of a short story I have written here. It is not as much of a serial event like those radio programs I heard as a kid, but this is the first part of a two part blog. Stay tuned next week for the ending...Enjoy!

The Wayfarer's Journey to Happiness

I needed a new word for tired. My legs were sore, my feet ached, and my heart was heavy. This journey was long and I was lost. I did not know how much longer this trek would take or even where I would end up. All I knew was that I wanted home. I didn't know if I would even recognize home at this point but, I wasn't going to give up or give in. I felt an exhaustion course through me like I have never felt before. It was not because of the long journey but because it was a hard journey.

I stopped next to a creek bed to rest. I was so thirsty and my stomach grumbled with hunger. I dipped my hand into the cool water and raised it to my lips. The cold liquid slid down my throat and I could feel its whole path through my body. It filled my empty stomach enough for me to stand back up to start back on my quest for home.

As I turned back to the path I saw a man staring at me through the trees on the other side of the road. There was nothing outstanding about this man. He was short with only thin wisps of dark hair strategically placed over a balding head. He was portly and even his drab, dirty robes, which looked as if they were made from scratchy material, could not hide this fact. He had a round Asiatic face but even from the distance I could see the light of intelligence in his eyes. As I neared the road, and got closer to the man, I saw that he was older than I initially thought. The light in his eyes was youthful but it was difficult to see up close given the layer of dirt and grime and the wrinkles which showed a long, hard life.

He stood across from me with a sly grin now on his face pointed in my direction, a twinkle in his eyes, his hands clasped over his rounded center, but he did not say a word. I finally gave a shrug of my shoulders, whispering under my breath, “little weirdo.” I turned to head down the road again when I heard him clear his throat and in a clear, loud voice he asked if I wanted to find happiness. I answered without thinking as I tried to continue walking, “Of course.”

“Do you know if you are on the right path?”

I was tired and cranky and the old man was now blocking my path so I snapped in response, “What is this some kung fu, samurai, voodoo crap? Does anyone ever know really if they are on the right path? I do know one thing. You are blocking the path I am on and need to get out of my way.”

The smile never left the old man's face, even after my rude response which I started to regret the moment the words left my mouth. I shrank back in disgust when I saw the discoloration of his teeth and the large gap on the bottom where two were missing. Who was this man? He was dirty, bedraggled, wrinkled, short, and just stood there grinning. I put my hand to my head which still hadn't stopped its constant pounding and aching to try and massage away the pain in hopes that my thoughts about this man would become clearer.

He rose up and down on the balls of his feet and gave a laugh. “Ah...so you are on a life quest. We all take those at times in our lives, even if we don't realize it.”

“I am not on a damn life quest. I really just want to get home.” I said as I felt exhaustion creep over my body. “Who are you anyway?”

“My name is To-dai.”

“Today?”

“No no. To-dai.” He responded giving a chuckle. “And, where is home?”

This question made me uncomfortable. I started to shuffle my feet and look at the ground. Finally I just gave a shrug of my shoulders and said, “I don't know.” Before he could react though I quickly stated, “But I will know it when I get there.”

His face became unreadable as his brows knit together and he put his splayed fingers up to his mouth as if in deep thought. He started to nod his head and then finally said, “Good, good.”

He started to finally step aside shuffling out of my way. I gave him one more strange look and then hoisted my pack higher up my shoulder, feeling its weight and started to pass by him. I got only a few feet when I heard him call out, “Life quests have many obstacles to get through. There may be war, famine, heartache, mountains, oceans, rain, snow, and indifference. We are all on a life quest. In the end we all reach home, scarred, changed, and for the soldier, stronger. You will get home. Follow this path you are on and you will find all of that. Turn around and follow this other path and you may not. You have to choose. Will you choose the path that may leave just a pebble in your shoe to worry about or will you choose the path that will lead you over mountains, valleys and oceans?”

I started looking down one way and then the other. Both of the roads looked the same to me. They had cracks and potholes and were tree-lined. Nothing stood out different from one side to the other. There was no sign with arrows pointing, “This way for an easy trail” with an opposite arrow that said, “This way for a painful trek.” I once again just gave a shake of my head and thought, “Why am I listening to a crazy old man anyway?”

I continued to walk down the road that I had started. After a while I peered over my shoulder but the old man was gone. I put the conversation out of my mind and just continued with my travels.

The sun started to rise higher in the sky and I had already sopped through the first sweat rag I had in my pack. I felt sticky and wet and knew I needed to find some shade quick. The tree lined paths from earlier were gone and now the terrain was barren and empty except for dust and sand, all of which was broiling under the sun along with me. I felt alone except for the bugs that flew in my face or I saw crawling along the ground which I tried to avoid.

Each step seemed harder to take than the previous one. I knew my energy was fading and I needed to eat and drink some water and take a brief rest to gather my resources again. I rounded a bend feeling the weight of my pack like it was full of large rocks instead of supplies. Around the bend I saw a small grove of thin trees. I mustered up enough reserved energy to reach the grove and proceeded to lie on the ground for a few minutes in fatigue. The trees did not offer much cover from the sun that was beating down on me but the rest I was taking was much needed and I felt some of my strength slowly come back to me. There was a slight breeze that I also felt on my face and I leaned toward it letting the little bit of cool air dry me off and refresh me. I finally sat back up and opened my pack, pulling out a canteen of water gulping it greedily. The one nagging fear that came into my mind was that I did not know when I would be able to refill my canteen again and knew I should conserve the water when I can.

I slowly dug through my pack again until I found some ready-made food. The ache in my stomach felt like such a permanent condition that I almost didn't notice it anymore...almost. I took a bite and then gobbled up my food like I hadn't eaten in days. It really had only been half a day but the full stomach now actually left me a bit nauseous. I took one smaller sip of water trying to conserve and it settled my stomach down.

As I was putting the canteen back in my pack I was startled by a loud explosion in the distance. I almost fell to the ground in shock and fear. My senses were instantly on alert. In the distance I saw a fire creep over the land like a bright, slow-moving snail. I started hearing a “Pop! Pop!” in the distance. I quickly gathered my things and started running down the road thinking I was running away from whatever was occurring nearby. I wasn't. I was running towards it. The noises around me and my fear and adrenaline had me turned around. I rounded another bend and saw men with weapons. They were holding their rifles tight and pointed. The weapons reminded me of the M1 Grand I've seen in pictures with my grandfather who fought in World War II.

I instantly froze and then went to turn on my heels when I was pulled suddenly from behind. A young man that looked only about nineteen years old thrust a weapon in my hand. “Here. Shoot. We are being overrun.”

“No, no, no. I can't shoot. I don't know what to do.” I yelled at him as he was running off.

He looked over his shoulder and simply said, “If you see red uniforms and it is moving...shoot it!”

I started to shake. I was not a hunter. I did not grow up playing guns. I grew up reading classics and playing with dolls. I knew I had to get through this area to reach my destination. I did not know why I knew this but I did. I was on a path and unfortunately this trail led me here.

I hid behind a tree and tried to think about how to stay safe and get through. I peeked slowly around the corner keeping my weapon ready to shoot but out of sight enough that no one could see it if they were looking at my hiding place. Nearby I heard a twig snap and my attention instantly became alert. I needed to know if it was the enemy or a friendly. I stole another peak around the corner and saw a flash of red move. Without even thinking, I put the weapon to my shoulder. I did not think other than to notice what was around me. I did not waver other than to try to keep my mind hyper focused on the enemy ahead. I waited, and then, I saw them inch closer in sight. I counted out three seconds as he neared my position and then inhaled and held my breath, flew around the tree and put my finger on the trigger and SHOT!

I don't think I breathed for a full minute after I shot. The pounding I thought was from the sound of the gun was actually the adrenaline ringing through my ears. The man fell to the ground. I walked over to his lifeless body, making sure he was not fooling me in any way by playing opossum. I put my boot to his side and I gave a swift kick. He lie face down on the ground and did not make a sound. That is when I noticed the pool of blood forming under him and I realized the consequence of my actions in disbelief. Before I could register any of this though I heard steps behind me and swung the gun around ready to defend my life. “No! We are friendlies.”

I instantly swung my gun up and then fell back against the tree. The feel of the hard bark digging into my back and the strength of the wide based tree supported me for a moment while I tried to gather my thoughts into some normal calmer pattern again instead of a chaotic mess. I heard the solider approach me.

“Who are you? What are you doing in a war zone where you shouldn’t be? Are you crazy?” He scolded like I was a misbehaving child.

“No…no…I guess…I was lost.” I stammered in response. “I am trying to find my way and the path brought me here. I did not expect to have to battle in a war. I did not expect to have to fight my way through a forest just to get back onto my trail. I truly thought it would just be a straight way with a few turns maybe…not war.”

The solider studied my face for a moment. There was something oddly disconcerting about the way he stared at me. It was as if he was trying to hear beyond my words and see through me to discover if I were leaving out a truth.

“Life has a way of doing that to us doesn’t it? Come on. Follow me. I know a hidden way to the edge of the encampment that will take you to safer and higher ground. Walk fast though. I can’t be loitering with you all day.”

He started to march through the trees and swift was exactly how he moved. I practically had to run to keep pace with him. I felt myself start to breathe hard. “What did you mean by ‘life has a way of doing that to us’?” I managed to gasp out the words, now fighting for a breath.

He stopped and looked at me with that hard look again. I did not care this time though. I was just enjoying the brief break from his fast pace and put my hand up onto a nearby tree as I pulled air into my lungs hoping to lessen the breathless gasping I had been doing.

He handed me a canteen of water which I gulped at greedily and he answered as I drank. “No one expects to be faced with a battle or a war. Everyone leads their life on a path and hope that it is straight and sunny and there are never any obstacles. War happens though. You don’t plan for it. You can try to skirt around the edge of it to avoid it, you can run away and hide, or you can face it and head into the battle. You can snatch up your guns and you can shoot at your enemy all while turning off the emotional side of yourself and turning on the survival side. That is war. The strong are the ones that battle and, yes, sometimes lose, but at least do not stop or hide but run in and face the enemy.”

I stood slowly taking in his words, looking down as I did to the gun that remained in my grip and which I held in front of me for protection. I was again feeling less labored in breathing, I took one more gulp of water and handed him back the canteen. He spun on his heel and head back down what was now barely a path. We were moving under low hanging branches, obstructed by large roots in the ground, the areas where sunlight could not reach were soggy and wet, and the leaves made me slip a few times forcing me to grab onto the closest branches I could find.

We finally seemed to come upon a tree line and he pushed me to the ground into a kneeling position and raised his fingers to his lips for me to remain still. He peeked through the thick bush slowly making barely any movement so that the enemy would not be alerted to our presence. He finally felt secure that there was no one around and gave me a nod.

We stood up and headed out of the cover of the forest. “I did not think the enemy would be here. They are far up the hill top where most of the fighting is currently, but you can never be too careful of the reconnaissance teams. See this creek bed. Walk close to it and follow it for about four miles. It will run and lead you to a small lake. That is where you can take up on the road again. That road will continue away from the fighting and your path should be much easier now. Remain at constant alert though until you hit the road. Here, take this also. It will protect you from the sun.” He handed me a dark scarf which I tied around my head.

I gave the man a smile and then felt an indescribable urge and found myself pulling him into a hug. “Thank you so much. I don’t know if I could have gotten out of there alive without you.”

“He gave me a slow easy grin. “You would have been fine. Now take care. I must return to my men.”

He turned to head back into the forest, although I suspected he was kneeling out of sight watching to make sure I made it down the creek. I walked along the edge of it for a couple minutes and turned to look over my shoulder to see if I could notice him. When I turned back I heard a shot echo through the whole forest. It made me jump and the birds in the trees in unison flew off in loud, winged fear. I wanted to run back to check on the solider whose name I never even got, but who I felt a kinship to after he selflessly led me to safety. In my heart I was fearful of finding out that the shot was not made by him. I also knew that I should not turn back but run.

My head suddenly screamed one thought at me as I started to see a shadow of red through the trees…”RUN!” And, that is just what I did. I ran and dodged the trees, keeping close to the creek line as my guide. After about ten minutes I did not hear anyone follow me. I also noticed the creek bed getting wider and wider and knew I was getting close to the lake. I stopped and hid behind a bush gathering my wits and my breath once again. The sun was falling in the sky now and I knew that I would have to find shelter soon. My heart ached when I thought of the dead solider, who may not have died if he were not helping or concerned for my safety. This was a loss I could not understand.

Pushing aside this type of thinking for now to focus on the challenge I had ahead of me, I leaned over and filled my canteen. My stomach began to make loud noises in protest as I realized I was again hungry and water was not filling that void anymore. I kept myself hidden within the trees except for when I had to go out for water at the creek. I would always take my rifle with me then and remain vigilant as I searched the landscape. I started to wonder if I was just being foolish now or, if once you learn the need for vigilance you can never fully return to peaceful naivety. I sat down and pulled my bag closer to me. I rummaged through it until I again found a sandwich wrapped in paper and some fruit. It was not much but it will tie me over for now.

The sun was falling and losing its own battle now to the dark night. The night falling usually made me fearful of what was out there. I was scared of the unknown and what could happen to me. After my small battle and actions of the day, I realized I was not afraid of the night anymore. Instead, I found a comfort in it. It protected me from sight of the enemy and it allowed me to seek shelter and rest. I laid my head down with my bag propped under it like a pillow and I fell into an exhaustive, fitful sleep.

The next morning it was the rising of the early morning sun sweeping over my face which woke me from a deep, exhausting sleep. I started out early and managed to find the lake the solider mentioned after an hour and I knew the road was close by. I filled my canteen, not knowing when I would have the opportunity along this trail again, and I ate a morning snack of blueberries which I found growing near the lake. It was not much but it would give me the small boost of energy until mid-day. I veered to the left and climbed up a small craggy hill and at the top I was again planted onto the road.

I looked back down over where I have already traveled and marveled at the enormity of what I had been through and survived. I must be close to home now after all of that, right? With that small hope I turned back to the road and continued my trek home.

I continued walking all day without any major incidents like the previous day, one foot in front of the other, the sun beating down on me hard by mid-afternoon. I stopped periodically to rest and dry out from the heat. I realized I had to take more frequent rests than when I started on my journey and it was slowing me down.

The terrain began to change a bit by the early afternoon. It was becoming more elevated and difficult to maneuver in my fatigued state. I could see mountains in the distance and hoped that I would not have to climb over any and this trail would cut through them instead. There were clouds forming overhead and I knew a storm was fast approaching. I started to look for any kind of shelter as I walked, but only found tree lines or hilly, craggy fields.

I reached the top of another long, winding incline, fighting for breath I stopped. I had to put my hands on my knees and my head down until I could breathe normally again. As I stood up I gasped and almost fell backwards. There in front of me was the small mountain I was hoping to avoid. I knew I had been nearing it, having marveled at the beauty of the mountains in the distance, but here it was presented before me, blocking my straight and peaceful journey I had most of that day. I knew it was either find a way around it, which could take so much longer or find the strength to climb it, which I did not have at the moment. I wanted to just lie down on the ground and cry.

Instead, I looked up into the sky for an answer and felt the first drop of rain hit me in the face. I knew I wouldn’t be climbing that mountain today with the storm now almost upon me. It was late afternoon and based on the darkness of the clouds in the sky this was going to be a storm of large size. I needed somewhere to ride it out in safety.

I moved fast as I edged closer to the mountain. A small recess off to the side caught my attention in the corner of my eye. I moved some of the branches and brush aside and saw a small cave. Just at that moment, I was startled by a loud clap of thunder that sounded more like the Earth were breaking apart. Without thinking of what was inside, I crawled into the hole, feeling the hard packed ground on my knees. I settled with my back against one wall, put my knees up, and buried my face.

It was only a matter of moments before the sky opened up and rain poured down in a sheet. I had found shelter in the nick of time. I usually loved the sound of storms and the bigger and wilder the better. I sat there and listened to the music of the storm outside so full of rage and wildness. Yet, invading my enjoyment of the sounds was the nagging dread of the mountain in my way. I knew the only way was to climb over the mountain. The storm outside did not give me energy like listening to a storm normally did. I felt tiredness hit me that was not physical. I sank back, closed my eyes, and knew I better rest now. I had a hard trek ahead of me and will need all of my strength for this one.

TO BE CONTINUED.......

A Title Is The First Impression Handshake...Wear It Well!

2015-05-20T15:43:00.001-04:00

I could make the obvious Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene II, reference here..."What's in a Name?" That is too easy though. The truth is that I am getting so close to the end of my novel and it still bears no title.

I remember when my son was being born. I had his name picked out months before his birth. I just knew that was the name he should have. I know other people don't think they can name their kids until they are born. They need to see their babies and then the name will come to them. Others just can't find a name or come to a consensus for a name of their baby. I fortunately did not have that problem.

I also have no problems when I am writing my poetry or short stories. Granted a poem and short story are not a novel. They do not take as long to write. I don't really have a pattern for naming them though. Sometimes I name poems and stories after they are completed and I am secure of a theme or an idea that seem to be prevalent throughout. At other times it is the title that I work around. When I wrote the short story Endurance of Hope, which I posted in an earlier blog post, http://wordsgal.blogspot.com/2015/02/endurance-of-hope.html, it was the title of the short story that inspired me. Actually it was a homily given by my priest, but it was the title for the story that led me to then create the story around it.

I don't know if there is one hard and fast rule when it comes to creating a title for your novel. I know I have had a difficult time thinking of a title or name for the book but I am now nearing the end of the first draft and this baby needs a name. I wonder if other authors find it difficult when it comes to naming a book. I mean, Anton Chekov when the basic route with many of his titles.The Wife, The Boor, The Three Sisters, Uncle Vanya, The Blunder, and so many more. Other authors use the main character as a way to name their novels. The book that comes to mind would be F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. I think more often than not it will be the titles that stand out that may attract a reader at first. Titles like, Scream, Quietly, or The Zookeeper's Wife, Gone With The Wind, A is for Alibi, again I could go one here.

I of course decided to do a little research. How do people, novelists, create the names for the works? Was there a scientific, mathematical approach? If so, then I would be out of luck. I am not good at the scientific, mathematical approach. Did the title just appear to them as if the Greek Muse of Poetry and Love, Erato, was whispering in their ear? This I would raise an eyebrow in doubt but I put it out there as a possibility. Did they break down their novel and try to see the theme? Do they wait until the very end and use the last sentence and beginning sentence as ways to create a title? Maybe they are fortunate to see a phrase that seems to be repeated throughout and that has become the title.

The truth is all of these and more are accurate and probably used to create the title of a novel. Just like their are multiple ways and reasons people name their children something there are even more ways and reasons authors title their stories.

In my research to assist me with how to title my novel I came across a quote someone posted:

"The title of a novel is part of the text - the first part of it, in fact - and therefore has considerable power to attract and condition the reader's attention."

- David Lodge

This is my first novel. It is my first of many I hope. I realized that the title is really the first connection the reader will have with me as an author and my words. That is a lot of power for something that could be just one word or five. The title is also what has to lead the reader into opening the cover and starting the story. It gives them a sense that they want to read what is between the bindings. A title pulls and draws the reader first. The title is the first impression where the text is the juicy getting to know you. A title is the hand shake in greeting while the words inside are more the comfort of a friends voice. Ah, the pressure!

Ok! Ok! Ok! Don't worry. I am breathing again. I am the person with the firsthand knowledge of this story. In truth, the real quote I should use here is, "By George I've got it!" The reason being is that I have decided on a preliminary title for my novel. No, I won't be sharing it quite yet. GASP! I know how awful of me. The reality is that if my novel is fortunate enough to be published from what I understand there is a great possibility that the title would be changed by the publishers. Sounds a little sad to name your "baby" only to have someone come around and select an new title for it, but it is a possibility.

In the meantime, a teetering possibility of a title has been selected. Chapter Thirty and Thirty One edited and next week, if I manage to finally finish it, I may be posting a short story to give me extra time to also begin writing Chapter Thirty Two, the second to last chapter.

"Onward and Upward we go!"

Arnold Schwarzenegger: The Writer's Coach

2015-05-13T15:12:00.000-04:00

In my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice I say, "It's not a poem." I have posted many poems lately instead of anything about writing or my novel. April was National Poetry Month and I definitely took advantage of this fact to take a break from my novel and write my heart out in poetry. Poetry, as I have stated, is my first love.

But, Poetry Month has ended, my collection of poems have been expanded, and it is again time to get back to the novel. When last we were tuned in....I was about to start writing Chapter Thirty Two, but had to complete the edits on Chapter Thirty and now Thirty-One First. My poems were a nice distraction from editing. I love editing, except that it takes great concentration, which at present I have been having problems with, but it also takes great time allocation, again which I at present did not have much of. Added to those barriers, every Spring seems to be filled with work meetings and, since work pays the bills, that needed the necessary attention.

My work meeting is now completed. I am back home a little more tired and still busy with the aftermath of the meeting, but able to dig into my writing again. I also put off editing because Chapter Thirty is a longer chapter so editing would take that much more time and attention. It turned out that having an appointment where you have to sit around for a long time gives you what you need to do a bit of editing. I am one step closer to being able to start Chapter Thirty Two writing.

This is exciting for multiple reasons. One, this chapter will continue the conflict of the characters and probably be the penultimate chapter for the action and consequence of the book. (No pressure there right?!?) And, two, it may actually be the second to last chapter of my book. It is like running a really long marathon and being able to round a corner and see the ticker tape you have to run through to complete the race and take home the trophy.

That does not mean the race is over. After completing the last chapter there are a few things that need to be done:

1. Edit;
2. Read the novel and make sure it flows;
3. Edit the novel to make sure it flows;
4. Name the novel (currently my book is like a baby without a name);
4. Edit;
5. Edit;
6. Decide how to proceed with getting it published;
7. Edit;
8. Type The End and take a sigh of relief;
9. Send out for publishing as decided;
10. Wake up the next morning and start my SECOND NOVEL!

You probably see the theme of the work I will be doing now that I am nearing the end of my first novel. I already know what I want to write for my second novel and my fingers are aching to start. That probably won't be for a while because I know that the editing process will be long and continuous for a while. So as I put in my edits for Chapter Thirty and dream and long to see the end of my novel there are two worries I currently have:

What in the world am I going to title this book!!!!

and...

The final edit of the entire novel!

(Lord give me patience with myself and not demand perfection just possibility). Every writer when they are editing are a bit of a perfectionist. I am no different. I am also not a very patient person in some matters, other matters I have all the patience in the world, but since I know what I want for my second novel, and I am so close to the ending of the first, I can feel the creepy, crawly, nagging bug of impatience scratch up my leg bothering me.

For now I push aside the nagging bug, and I look down at my paper and not at the fanfare in the distance waving the flags that say The End. I will make it to the end of my race with a sense of accomplishment and much more plan and insight for the next novel I write. With Arnold Schwarzenegger's voice again in my head I hear, in his thick accent,"Focus!" No one wants to cross Arnold so it is back to the writing and of course as prefaced in the list above...the editing.

Did Superman Know Love?

2015-05-04T22:50:00.001-04:00

Did Superman become a hero

When he got his red cape

Or when he learned

The true meaning of pain?

Did he have to cut himself

And see that he bleeds

Before he understood

The cries of mankind

Dying in war?

Did he have to feel the ache

Of hunger and thirst

Before he understood

Longing and Desire?

Did Superman become a hero

When he flew from a skyscraper

Smiling at the birds

Feeling the wind under his feet?

Did he have to know despair

To understand elation?

Did he have to know anger

To be able to love fully?

Did he have to know discord

Before he could appreciated

The sweet song of the nightingale?

Did he have to feel the bruise of a fist

Before longing for the gentle embrace of a hug?

Did Superman become a hero

When he held the Earth

High in one hand?

Did he have to know the heaviness of grief

Before he can learn about charity?

Did he have to feel the cold

Before craving the warmth

Or know the blaze of summer

Before turning his face towards the cool breeze of Spring?

Did he have to know poverty

Before reveling in the riches of fame?

Did he have to know betrayal

Before believing in loyalty?

Did Superman become a hero

When he ran the speed of light?

Did he have to believe a lie

To see with clarity what is truth?

Did he have to feel the tears

Running down his face

In order to laugh away his pain?

Did he have to feel the heat of a bullet

To know the benefits of healing?

Did he have to know fallibility of sickness

Before he knew the nourishment of health

Did he have to grow old and feeble

Before he ran with the speed of the young

And the energy of the strong?

Did Superman become a hero

When he put on his first red cape?

Did he have to leave his true love in pain

To understand the depth of emotion?

Did he have to lash out in anger

To know the importance of a smile?

Did he have to know a heart feels pain

That it can ache and feel loss

Before truly knowing to hold onto love?

Did he have to be hurt

To then hurt someone else?

Did he have to know indifference

Before seeing the truth in a smile or a wink

The love in a touch, in a kiss?

Did Superman become a hero

Because he could easily love?

Are we all so different in our hearts

Or just screaming in different voices?

Was I a super hero

Wounded in battle?

If I stretch out my arms

Will I feel the freedom of the wind upon my face?

If I moved and never stopped

Will I forget about my own pain

Until I finally drop in need of rest?

If I have to save the world

Will I become too weary

Will I ever know the love of one

When I have to save the hearts of so many?

Do heroes ever get to love

When they carry around so much pain?

Did Superman ever really know

How to love or just to save?

How The Flower of Spring Remains

2015-04-26T12:23:00.000-04:00

April is National Poetry Month. What better way to commemorate this event than with another poem. Don't worry. If you are not a poem fan, next week I will be posting something other than a poem. This poem also follows the last poem that I wrote in theme.

How The Flower of Spring Remains

The tree had grown strong

Lived a long, full life

Provided shade

Provided beauty

Provided solace
The seed feel from the tree

Wanting to be like the tree

Strong and happy

Full of life

The wind carried the small seed

Along the Earth it flew

Carried past majestic mountains

Not wanting to land there

And mar the beauty

Past shorelines of an ocean

Deep, wild, savage strength

Not wanting to be swallowed by the intensity

The seed breezed on the wind further

Over fields of growth

Sustaining the world-weary travelers

The seed was not ready to settle

Among the crowd of many

Wanting to stand out on its own

The air gained strength through the storm

Carrying the seed faster than it wanted to go

Nothing to hold to

It tried to just follow the ride

Past large buildings of corporate vanity

Homes of quiet desperation

A storm was brewing

Clinging to air

The seed begged never let me go

Tempest was easier to hold onto than salvation

Time flew past

And the seed clung to flurry

Knowing the storm more intimately

Than the pardon of serenity

But now tired from the journey

The seed was losing its will

Finally feeling a great release

And the painful impact of the ground

Finding a small, empty space to rest

In a field of nondescript nature

The field was barren

A forgotten battlefield

Memories of pain and grief

Seeped into the Earth

This much anguish

Remains permanently etched

Onto the most beautiful, innocent of essences

Invisible scars that can not be erased

Just hidden

Like a layer of brick

Covers the broken of heart

Or the blanket of a harsh snow

Covers a vulnerable earth

Protecting itself from the elements

The seed settled into the land

Settled into the cold and rain

Waiting for the sunlight

Hibernating under a sunless sky

Pushing and pulling against time

Burying itself against the onslaught

Never leaving the warmth of passive protection

To face the indifference, the rage, the heartbreak of love

Just as the wind never stops blowing somewhere

Or the sun eventually fights the cloud

To shine the victor upon the land

The seed grew and

A flower emerged from the little seed

Weak but resilient

Around it the memories of ugliness

Trying to grow on a field of heartache

Battles never forgotten

Just learned from

Up from this Earth the flower grew taller

Seasons pass

Petals fall, returning again after rebuilding

There it sat alone and wanting

Reaching up in the day

To the big light in the sky

Offer a prayer of solace

From the loneliness, from the journey, from the pain

Surviving hunger, drought, floods, earthquakes, darkness and bleakness

Seeing one day

The clouds roll over the land

Dark and ominous

Full of anger and hate and self-protection

Soldiers arrived

Boots on the ground

Tramping and hunting

Seeing not beauty

Just the red of rage and indignant rightness

Each side facing off

Brother against brother

Expectation, anticipation

The malady of the ages

Like the quiet before a storm

The air too thick to breath

The heart too loud to heart

Like a gunshot marking a race

The world can change in a moment

Lonely ennui

Turns to trembling despair

Bright, radiant happiness

Shifts swiftly to abject defeat and heartbreak

Holding onto the wind once again

Looking for the strength to survive

Not just the battle but the war

Echoed memories of pain

Returning once again

Like a math problem that continues without an answer

Will this ever end?

The growing sameness of pain

Learning each time to maim and destroy

This time more casualties

This time more cracks and pieces removed

From the goodness of a heart

Is all that remains empty, blackness

Or like the seed

That fell onto a barren field

Full of memories of hatred, pain and grief

Will a flower grow

Cover the darkness

Hiding the vulnerability

As the flower is trampled

Bent trying not to break

Once the fighting is done

Will it again rise again from the ground?

How does a flower grow within the cracks of the land?

Nothing ever returns the same

The death of one moment may not be the end

The flower lying weakened and gasping on the ground

Buried against the indifference of a world

That did not see it

Invisible to the weak that shine with auspiciousnesses

It returns back to the ground

It returns home

Into the arms of the ground

Sleeping, weeping the blood red tears of pain

Just as the rebirth of Spring

Always follows the death of Winter

The flower emerges

From the desperation of memories

Its stem is stronger

Its leaves are fuller

And its strength more enforced

Against the nature of humanity

To prove is value over another

The wind can blow harsh

But it stands firm

Bending not breaking

It laughs without the purity of innocence

But the appreciation of breath

Purpose to the pain

Where understanding remains none

Your boots can trample over me

Your words can cut deep through me

Leaving me bleeding on the battlefield alone

But out of the pain

The flower still grows stronger

Through the wounds of my heart

This is how the flower of Spring grows

This is how the flower of Spring survives

This is how the flower of Spring remains

It grows in the wounds of pain

It hides the desperation of a heart

It does not concede defeated

It continues living each season

From seed to flower

Like a cycle of strength

Never to be undone.

Will Spring Ever Return Again?

2015-04-17T14:57:00.000-04:00

The winter stretched out
long and cold
the land lay barren
the fields fallow
the bird’s song was sad
the air crisp and angry
Darkness reigned over sunlight
Cold reigned over warmth
Will the Spring ever return again?

The face of my enemy stayed in front of me
The hand of my friend no longer on my back
I stood alone in battle
Weapon in hand
Wondering where you went
Who used to fight with me and for me
Whose words of love
Now fall with undeserved distrust and malice
Will peace ever return to this land again?

The sun hid behind the dark clouds
The moon stays within the darkness
The stars afraid to shine
The oceans stopped rolling
The sea sat quiet
The wind stopped blowing
Through the leaves of the tree
All remained still, savage
Will the world start to revolve again?

Days have turned into weeks
Weeks have turned into months
Yet the seconds of the clock
Pounding through my head
Move languidly, slowly
Our time together not enough
I have counted each second we have been apart
Will time start to count again?

The pens have all dried up
The pencils all stubbed out
Paper stays blank, words lose meaning
Books have been sewn shut
Poems torn asunder
Plays are shut down
Paintings hanging have no color
There is no encore at the end
Will ignorance be forgotten again?

People don’t talk without shouting
Or love without hurting
They ignore the suffering
And esteem the extravagance
The truth is hidden
Behind too many masks of lies
You call this depression
Yet it is your knife that has sliced through my heart
Will happiness ever shine again?

The heart that used to beat so fast only for you has stopped
Leaving just a cavernous echo, phantom pain
The blood that coursed
Now barely flowing, quietly weeping
The eyes that glowed
Now live in perpetual sorrow and deluge
The soft words whispered
Now dispassionate rebuke
Will I ever feel again?

The farmer that watches his fields
Sit barren and infertile
Sees a sprout of green
Struggling but surviving
Growing and adapting
Flourishing and then flowering

The soldier that took up arms
Stops and sets down his rifle
He looks up at the sky
He sees the stars and the moon
Shining down in memory
And knows he fights because peace will reign again

The rain is retreating into acceptance
The clouds begin to sweep away the doubts
The air becomes crisp with rebirth
Making the sounds of bells dance on the breeze
And a rainbow forms
Showing that the world never stopped moving, I did

The clock on the wall chimed
Reminding me of you
As a memory fills the void
Instead of ticking like a bomb
Time is not my enemy, nor my friend
Time is just where I put my memories that count again.

The words flow under me like water
The blank page no longer my competitor of creativity
But my canvas of expression
Where I can leave my anguish and insert my joy
I write down my story
Remembering that wisdom often comes with scars

People who shout can also whisper
And people who hurt may have been hurt too
Strength comes out of the ashes
Like a phoenix rising
To turn those shouts into a whisper and love into compassion
So that happiness is not about you or them, but inside of me

Your knife may have sliced my heart, but I am still standing
You can hurt me and you can kill me
You can stop the Earth, shut down the cities, lock the doors, and seal the windows
You can dig my grave with your words or drown me with your guile
But my love for you will still be real, an anguished and cherished absolute
No rebuke or contempt can distort my existence

Will I ever feel again?
Will happiness ever shine again?
Will ignorance be forgotten again?
Will time start to count again?
Will the world start to revolve again?
Will peace ever return to this land again?
Will the Spring ever return again?

Silence…

A Childish Dream and A Writer's Oath

2015-04-09T11:39:00.001-04:00

You may have noticed, but I had to take a little break. It has been a couple weeks now since my last blog post. Between writing on my novel, writing my poems, looking for my short story idea I had this fall that I want to work on (which is still missing and making me crazy!), and writing for work, I got a bit of writer's burn out. This was very much different than writer's block. When I have writer's block it feels as if there is someone in my head not letting the ideas pass through the gate of creativity. Writer's burn out is a bit different. I had ideas coming into that same gate but I was carrying too much in my arms to make it all the way through. I would sit down to edit Chapter Thirty and Chapter Thirty-One or even start to write Chapter Thirty-Two and my pen simply was too tired to actually put the thoughts on paper. So, I took a little break. A type of spring break for the writer.

During that break I got to focus on other things and did not stress over my writing or lack there of. I still did my work writing but I did other projects for work also. I saw that the sun was out and luxuriated over this fact which made me a bit lazy for a bit. I got to spend my evenings having thoughtful discussions or playing tennis or simply sitting and watching exciting movies and television. It was a writer vacation. Even the best of writers, which I am not self-proclaiming, need time to recoup, reorganize and relax. By the end of these two weeks though I felt my brain get a bit jumpy and my fingers a bit itchy. Thus as I sit here excitably typing away my thoughts I can say, "She's baaaaack!" (Poltergeist style)

One of the interesting thoughts I had over the past two weeks still involved writing and ideas. That does not go far from a writer's mind ever. Yet, I also starting thinking about writers as a whole. I remember having a conversation about "What did you want to be as a kid?" Sometimes as adults in a fast paced world we forget the ease of those childish wishes because of the work that is needed to put into even just a daily life. I remember wanting several careers. My earliest recall was a deep desire to be a nurse. That soon fell away when I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital and discovered it involved needles and blood. That is not how I pictured the romantic-style life of nursing. Yuck! Then, I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to take ballet and become graceful and swan-like. Given my propensity for clumsiness and scraped shins I am going to say it was probably wise I did not follow that career path. My mother always accused me of highly emotive dramatic behavior so I am sure at several points in life she thought I would be an actress. I am still dramatic of course but it was none of these paths that led to my passion.

As early as I can remember, I recall writing. As a young child even I wrote. I wrote on everything unfortunately. My mother scolded a few times for clothes that were marked and I do recollect incidents when toothpaste had to be applied to the wall to wash off my pen markings. The whole world was my notepad apparently. Writing was always in my life. Being a writer was always a dream that was always present. Yet, as I sat there one day during my brief respite from writing it made me ask myself, "What kind of writer am I?"

This is a question that seems easy to answer. Yet, when we think of our childhood dreams where the idea of being a writer formed did it envision the writer I am today? No, of course not. People age and experience life making beliefs and thoughts take on a more dimensional shape. Am I a writer like Maya Angelou or Ernest Hemingway or Shakespeare? Yikes, no. They are who I admire and look up to for writing but not who I am as a writer. Ironically I had a discussion about my writing recently that also made me realize who I am as a writer. There were a few realizations about me that I have cemented, at least in my mind:

1. When in doubt a poem's my out - I started out writing poetry very young. I was first published when I think I was 12 years old. (Yes, it looks like a 12 year old's poem but I am still proud.) Poetry is my go-to writing format. It is where I gain a lot of comfort and is a big niche for me.

2. My writing formats though can be affected by my emotions. Just as I mentioned my proclivities to being emotional and dramatic they do fall into my writing and shape it. I often write poems with a serious, maybe even darker, tone while my short stories are lighter in nature. My novel is a great combination of both of those. It has elements of great drama. It also has moments of light laughter.

3. I am still that emotional, dramatic girl but this is not a bad thing after all when you are a writer. I am a very sensitive person but it is who I am. That sensitivity allows me to feel empathy and can often shape my creativity. A sensitive person can make a great writer. They feel and feel a lot but those feelings are translated and placed into stories and poems. Writers are able to create and express stories because of the realm of emotion that exists inside of them.

4. I may never be famous. I may never get published but I will never give up my writing. Writing for me is not about becoming famous, although that would be exciting. It is not about getting as much published as I can, although I will continue to try to be published. Writing for me is like one of my senses. Just as I have sight and touch and smell, I have writing. Writing is a part of me that does not go away and even if it only ends up for me a the small circle that read my materials it won't stop me from writing.

5. I will always love when I hear that someone has discovered my writing or every time I get published. I am proud of my writing. Not everything will resonate with everyone but it is my outlet. Writing is my friend, therapist, parent, sibling, and dream. I love to share my writing. When I discovered my poem had been used in someone's wedding ceremony I felt great pride of the work I created not just because it received recognition, but because it affected someone enough that they had a connection with it as I had.

And finally...

6. I will always hate commas. I will also usually be a bit too verbose and love to insert big words.

This is who I am as a writer. It does not change anything moving forward but it made me see that the little girl dreaming about being something grand is still in there dreaming. The adult woman I am is also proud of herself for what I have created with my writing and that I still have that same passion as a kid with just a lot more work and direction now included. It is chasing a constant dream but it is one I never want to wake from and not have it be true. This is my oath to myself and to my writing.

Where Did All The Rainbows Go?

2015-03-26T14:57:00.004-04:00

Where?

Where did all the rainbows go?
I see no more unicorns
The dragons have all flown home

Where have all the flowers gone?

I see no more colors of hope

I see only black hate and gray indifference

Where has all the crops gone

I see only empty fields

There are so many dusty fallow pastures

Where are the stars that shined so bright?

The Earth has shrunk

Down to a stone

Where does the sun hide?

At night when I am scared

During the day when I am searching for joy

Where is the moon?

During the day when I want to cry

At night to chase away the clouds

Where is all the laughter?

The playground lays silent

The crayons in the box are now all one color

Where is the music?

No notes floating along the breeze

No sound dancing in the trees

Where are all the towns?

The signs have all been pulled out

The houses all torn down

Where have all the smiles gone?

There is no softness in the eyes

There is just sorrow and contempt in your glance

Where have all the sweet words gone?

There are no loving whispers

Just angry shouts and raised fists

Where has all the love gone?

My empty hand now sits empty, cold

There is no passion in your words, your kiss

Where are all the answers?

There are just questions

There is just silence

Where?

With a key I unlock the fence

Take away the bolt

Throw open the door

Push aside the curtains

Fling open the windows

Raise my head up to the sky

Sink my knees down to the ground

Place my hand on my heart

Feel the warmth upon my face

There you are, you are not gone

You sat waiting, remaining, anticipating

For me to open and reveal the contents

Expose all the truth and the light

It was not hiding behind me

It was sitting all around me

It did not sit still

It pushed against the sides

It did not shout

It screamed in silence

It did not laugh

It cried unrestrained

It did not flinch

It stared at the reflection

It did not harm

It sat there cracked, broken

Where did all the rainbows go?

Can’t you see?

They begin with you.

Wrongful Jail Sentence for Words

2015-03-17T12:32:00.002-04:00

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words." - Mark Twain

That quote is definitely not as inspirational as one would think but then it has been one of those mornings where a Tuesday feels like a Monday. I overslept by three hours so I was a bit late to work. My car key had problems working and I then got stuck behind large construction trucks. Of course when you are late the world doesn't open up any paths for you to get there faster. The good news, besides the fact that I got some extra needed sleep apparently, is that I made it to work and Chapter Thirty One is now complete. I also only have two or three more chapters until completion.

That is very exciting news for sure but there is a level of patience that writers must have throughout the whole process but I am noticing most especially at the end. I am so close to the end that I want to just write and write and write and rush through the chapters until I see those two magical words...The End. I have to be careful though that I do not rush the writing too much in my exuberance. The result of that is when I go back to do my edits it takes so much longer.

Now that Chapter Thirty One is written it sits and ruminates in my head for a while and I go back in that interim period and edit Chapter Thirty. This will be a large task since Chapter Thirty was a longer chapter than others. It is good that the chapter is put away for a bit even if it means you are writing the next chapter. The thoughts and actions of that may continue into fresh and exciting action and progression but when you look back at a chapter that you are editing after not reviewing it for a brief period you have fresh eyes to see many of the "wrong words" as Mark Twain so eloquently stated.

Mark Twain is right in his assessment that writing can be easy. Anyone can be a writer. We all sit down and write emails and letters, reports for school or even our jobs. Anyone can sit down and write a novel. The difference is that it is not just writing; it is also editing and a very large boulder of patience. As anyone who has read my blog can attest I have been writing this novel for a few years. I have had periods of inactivity on it. I have had periods like now of great inspiration. It is not just about the writing though. Anyone can sit down and just write. What I am learning is that it takes writing and editing and editing and editing, a bit more writing and then back to editing. Writing is about crossing out the wrong words.

When we are writing our pens are moving over the page so fast it seems like it would catch on fire, or in this modern world our fingers are tapping on the keyboards like a fast musical song resembling Rachamaninov. The story is unfolding before our very eyes and our brains are click clacking, all wires inside are buzzing as we are pushing the scenarios further and further. Yet, when we get to the end of the chapter and take a breath, maybe go back and edit the piece after a momentary interval it becomes about removing words, changing words, moving action sequences, creating a story that flows a bit better than it did when we were picturing it in our heads so that what we see in our heads translates to the reader in a smooth sequence.

Writing is easy. Editing is not difficult. But, the patience comes from the fact that we have to stop often, change what we wrote and go back to chapters we envisioned completed quickly which are now being re-worked. I am admittedly not the most patient person. Yet, watching the slow progression of my book as I have continued and persevered with the writing and the editing has been exciting. Saying that I am done with Chapter Thirty One is a large accomplishment which is the reward for patience. Our patience is rewarded because, though we have to stop and edit and reshape the mold of the story, being patient that it is not just sitting down and writing a novel quick, fast and completed, it is all part of the process. I watch as the completed written and edited pages fill my book with a pride of ownership. The pauses to remove the "wrong words" becomes just another part of the process. Plus, at the end of it all, I continue to write again.

If I had to rework Mark Twain's own eloquent appraisal of writing I would say, "Writing is easy, editing is a process but it isn't a fast speed race for the sprinters and we must all learn to take the time to remove the fat from our diets if we plan on even making it to the finish line." Sounds better than saying that any of the words were wrong like convicts that need to be jailed, maybe just a bit misguided and superfluous, but not wrong.

The Sweet Agony of Home

2015-03-10T13:52:00.002-04:00

If I change into what you want

Will you be my home?

Am I an old soul?

Never knowing home.

Or a young one?

Never having a home.

If I let you hurt me,

Will you stay with me forever?

If I let you rape me,

Will pain be my only home?

If I cry,

Will you also weep?

If I throw out words of hate

Will your fear give me what I want?

If I laugh,

Will you feel my joy?

If I shrink down to nothing,

Will you protect me forever?

If I walk next to you,

Will you hold my hand?

If I lead

Will you follow me?

If I stumble,

Will you pick me up?

If I provide you comfort during your darkest days,

Will you leave once the sun rises again?

If I am you sun,

Will you be my Earth?

If I give you my heart,

Will you return it broken?

If I give you my mind,

Will you poison it with your venom?

If I give you my body,

Will you beat and discard it?

If I let you do all that,

Will you be my home?

If I understand your heart and your mind,

Will you use it against me?

If I accept you completely,

Will you repudiate me?

If I leave the light on,

Will you ever return to me?

If I do nothing, everything, something

Will it matter?

Looking in the mirror
No questions,
No answers,
No thoughts,
No sound.
One heartbeat.
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