A blog for the midnight epiphanies and idle thoughts of a hopeless wordaholic.
Rosemary's letter challenge may occasion my being committed! I cannot seem to shut off my brain. Here's one more. I promise to quit now!
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Arnie from Aukland, astute and athletic, accentuated his awesomeness, aptly anchoring the afternoon news, his competitor auspicious by his absence. Alas, Arnie was arrested for assassination.
Weekly Scribblings, and Rosemary has challenged us to practice repetitive use of a letter. I've chosen the letter T, and used it in an American sentence, and added a fun bit using the letter L.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, December 9, 2020.
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Poetics Tuesday. I've chosen a line from Gibran (To melt and be like a running brook that carries its melody to the night) and included it in what may be an octave, but lost in the A B C D's.
Submitted to dVerse December 8, 2020
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Carried by the brooklet that rambles the meadow
Riding the ripples, lost in evening's glow
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night
Meandering rivulets carrying me where'er they might
I might be a princess under some foreign moon
Perhaps a lass frolicking the mists of Brigadoon
Miracles and magicals, wild and free
Where'er the brooklet has taken me.
Lillian challenges us to write prosery today, which must include a line from Louise Gluck's "Faithful and Virtuous Night" The line is "Having read what I have just written, I now believe ..." My prosery is flash fiction, submitted to dVerse December 7, 2020.
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A hand-carved box my grandfather gave me when I was a boy contained magic, he told me, but I must never open it. When in trouble, all I needed was wait until I saw the first star of night, rub the magic box saying “I believe” three times. Through the years the magic seemed to hold true. Sheepishly I admit to performing the ritual on the night before my bar exam. Reading what I have just written, I now believe in its magic, just as I always have. My son is 5 years old, and I’m giving him the magic box. But, before I pass it on, I’m compelled to see inside. Cautiously, I lift the latch and raise the lid. … to find the box empty! How wise my grandfather was. He knew the secret of achieving is believing you can. Smiling, I re-latched the box and headed for my son’s room.
Writers' Pantry #49. There are days we take assessment of who we have become, and it is often a humbling experience. I'll share my journey to humility this bleak, Sunday afternoon, and admit my self-deprecating humor may be just a bit exaggerated.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, December 6, 2020
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In youth, while we revere our elders, smugly most of us think to ourselves we’ll look and act much younger when we reach that age. But, in subtle and insidious ways, time marches on. I had always prided myself on having a small waist for my ample body, and I accented it with belts. Middle age came along, my waist thickened, and belts were uncomfortable so they went by the wayside. I soon tired of flirty skirts and business suits, and opted to wear pants. No more worrying about sitting properly and crossing my legs carefully. In no time I discovered elastic waists were wonderful things, and it seemed less important (if not impossible) to hold my stomach in.
Being blessed with small eyes, for years I wore artificial eyelashes to make my eyes appear larger. Soon my eyelids sagged to the point the artificial lashes appeared to be slings, so I abandoned that habit. I had always worn bras that gave me a perky, pointy profile, but soon I could find no man-made spandex strong enough to fight the slow droop of age. I opted for something comfortable that contained my breasts and gently lifted them to the point I didn’t step on them.
Speaking of steps, middle age blessed me with generalized arthritis. It seemed my feet came to feel like bags of miscellaneous bones. Today I'm lost without my Easy Spirit shoes. Their arch support, sensible soles and laces gather up the miscellaneous bones, and guarantee I feel grounded. Gone are the sexy pumps and delicate sandals, gone are the belts, gone are the flirty skirts and business suits, gone are the perky breasts, gone are the artificial lashes. I peer into the mirror and see exactly the same elderly woman I vowed I wouldn’t become. Life has a way of having the last laugh. It's called humility.
Weekly Scribblings wherein we're to consider the new words of 2020. Heaven help us they are all words we wish never to hear again! My poem is at once pithy and hopeful.....my theoretical moonshot for escape! Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United December 2, 2020
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I used to live in Smilealot
It was a carefree town
Now I live in Anthropause
and blursdays tend to get me down
Doomscrolling makes me morbid
There seems no good news to find
The plethora of infodemics
Endangers my soundness of mind
I refuse to let the messages
Of death, despair and rumor
Lead me to drinking Kool-aid
And losing my good humor
I’m checking out of cyberspace
No computer, no iPad, no phone
Just come knocking at my door
When the bird of madness has flown.
