Author: Sally

poetry

Anxiety

Sally10 Comments

Moms tend to worry, you
know. It’s what we do
best. Especially
when a little chick
flies from the nest across
a pond — THE pond. So quick-
ly she had gone from
little girl to adult, and just
like that she flew
to London, thrust
into problem-solving far
from home where I
cannot rescue her ’cause
she must learn to fly
on her own —

To hear her voice
and see her face
— the magic of
technology —
took the worry
from my anxious
heart (thank you, God!)


Daughter #3 flew to London for a semester. While I was busy grousing about driving in New Jersey, she was boarding a plane.

We thought we had checked everything, but when she arrived at Heathrow, she found that her international phone plane with Verizon did not work. Of course, it was the middle of the night and I didn’t see her message until I got up an hour later.

I couldn’t reach her. A thousand thoughts — most of them involving disaster — raced through my mind.

When I heard her voice, I finally exhaled.

This is my response to the W3 challenge this week:

Write a jamb-jitsu. What’s a jamb jitsu, you ask?

  • Two stanzas (S1 and S2) with three rules:
    1. S1 must have more lines than S2;
    2. ALL lines of S1 must employ enjambment;
      • Enjambment is: the running-over of a sentence or phrase from one poetic line to the next, without terminal punctuation;
    3. ALL lines of S2 must have the same number of syllables
Writing

Messy Work Spaces

Sally14 Comments

I started a second job a couple of weeks ago working at a church. I have my own office and desk. It’s there that I realized how much I need to be surrounded by clutter to work efficiently.

Crazy, isn’t it?

There are Tidies in the world — who have clean, clear spaces in which to work. They work hard to create those spaces, and I’m sure those spaces allow them to focus on what it is they’re trying to write.

It’s refreshing for me to know that there are also Messies — who are surrounded by papers and books that aren’t in neat little stack. Even the books on the shelves behind them are in a bit of disarray.

I remembered seeing once an article about famous authors and their writing spaces. Unfortunately it’s hidden behind a paywall now, but I used my one free whatever to visit it this morning.

There were over 100 authors on the list and I wrote down 21 names of writers whose workspaces warmed my heart.

Albert Einstein was the first I came to. Is he a writer? I think of him as a scientist. Anyway, I saw the photo, and laughed. How did he get my desk?!

Albert Einstein’s office just hours after his death on April 18, 1955. (Photographer: Ralph Morse. Image Source: Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images.)

Carl Sandburg, one of my favorite poets, was a Messy.

Carl Sandburg Typing in His Upstairs Office at Connemara
Photograph by June Glenn

Arthur Miller, Dylan Thomas, Edward Gorey — I kept working my way through the list, scribbling down writers whose workspace mirrored mine.

Eric Carle delighted me with his. Granted, he is both writer and artist for his books, but I LOVE his space.

My list continued. I won’t bore you with every name. Jack London, J.D. Salinger (sitting naked on an upturned suitcase, writing on the open tailgate of a station wagon — not exactly how I would do it, but his space was definitely a messy space), Ray Bradbury (I went through a serious Ray Bradbury binge when I was in high school so was happy to see that we had a common bond), Truman Capote, and William F. Buckley, Jr.

I’ve never read anything by William F. Buckley, Jr — I think of him as a politician and political commentator — but I’m intrigued.

William F Buckley in his converted garage office

Somehow seeing other people’s messes makes me feel better about my own.

When I show up at my new job,i get out some notebooks and papers to which I may need to refer and spread them on the desk.

Then, and only then, am I ready to work.

Blather · poetry

Customer Service

Sally28 Comments

Alternate title: Smile

Customer Service isn’t that hard
Some people think that
It’s easy to smile and say hello
I understand
Your complaints — I listen and say
I’ll see what I can do about
Your situation.You’re not alone
I’ve been there. I’ve been in
Pain. I still smile
Even though I’m feeling that
The weight of life is heavy. I smile
What else can I do when
All these things hurt.

A less than stellar reverse poem — but I really wanted to do the W3 Challenge for this week which was to write a reverse poem. A reverse poem is one read forwards and backwards, line by line.

My struggle this week has been dealing with this darn shingles pain.

“Listen to your body. It’s trying to tell you something,” a friend said to me. “You’re dealing with a lot of stress.”

She’s right. I know she’s right. But I don’t know how to fix it.

The thing is that there are aspects of my job that I love. I do love greeting people — by NAME — I can’t believe how many people’s names I know now.

They stop and tell me about their lives. I LOVE that. I really do. I think I could listen to people’s stories all day every day. I heard stories about Maine and Nova Scotia, about Ireland and surprising relatives there, about knee surgeries and hip surgeries from older people who are DETERMINED not to let this hold them back but continue to live life fully.

My problem is that I am experiencing this nagging pain in my side and back from the Shingles.

And I feel like a wimp.

I don’t want anyone to come close up and hear ME complain.

So you, here, my blog-readers from afar, get to hear about it. SO SORRY!

Really close up, I’m fairly miserable. And I’m making mistakes.

I made a mistake early in the week, and my supervisor said, “But I showed you how to do that.”

Yes, she had — the previous Friday afternoon, after a full week of work and pain, she showed me this thing, which I totally forgot by Monday.

Dang.

I don’t like when I make mistakes.

I finally called my Primary Care Provider this week. I told her about this pain and she prescribed something for it. I’ve actually had two full of nights of sleep since starting it. The pain has subsided to a dull ache and I’ll live with it.

Or I’ll figure out a way to de-stress.

Any suggestions?

fiction

Paper-Scissors-Rock

Sally13 Comments

“WHO’S THAT I HEAR ON A WALK-WALK-WALK?
YOU MUST PLAY PAPER-SCISSORS-ROCK!”

The man walking on the path in the woods was startled to see an ogre towering before him, pounding his fist into his palm.

“Wha-a-a-a-t??!!?”

“PAPER. SCISSORS. ROCK. SHOOT!” The ogre bellowed, making the motions with his hands, then thrusting out the two fingers of scissors.

The man was so startled that he did nothing. The ogre grabbed him, threw him over his shoulder and carried him away.

A few days later it happened again. The ogre seemed to magically appear from beneath the little footbridge as a woman was crossing it. She formed rock with her fist which defeated the scissors so she was allowed to pass.

And so the days went. People mysteriously disappeared or came off the path with strange stories of a child’s game on a footbridge. Children were warned never to travel that path.

However, as children are wont to do, one day the pack mentality took over and a group of children decided to go that way.

Some of the boys boldly led the way. Some of the girls hung back clutching each other’s arms or hands. The muddled middle moved ahead, curious and cautious.

They reached the bridge

“WHO’S THAT I HEAR ON A WALK-WALK-WALK?
YOU MUST PLAY PAPER-SCISSORS-ROCK!”

The children gathered together and faced the ogre.

“PAPER. SCISSORS. ROCK. SHOOT!” The ogre bellowed.

Every child formed rock with both hands and rushed the ogre.

“GAH!!” he shrieked before – POOF! – he disappeared.

Unicorn Challenge: No more than 250 words and base it on the photo.

A strange tale, I know, with absolutely no wise moral other than the knowledge that an ogre will always play scissors.

poetry · Uncategorized

Letter from a Yellow Pen

Sally5 Comments

Dear Writer,
I know my ink is lighter,
Sometimes hard for you to see.
Be

Fair, okay?
I can and I will display
Brightness in the words you choose!
Lose

Your bias.
I’m asking that you try us —
Lemon, saffron, mustard, maize —
Gaze!

Your choices
(Which can vary like voices
From soprano down to bass)
Grace

Your paper
In shades that play and caper
Like shards and flickers of light —
Right?

Use yellow,
My dear reluctant fellow!
You will find that you can see
Me.

Love,
Your yellow pen

This is an Irish poetic form called Deibide Baise Fri Toin. 

The poem is made up of quatrains with an aabb rhyme scheme. Syllable count 3-7-7-1. Lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word; lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word.

The prompt on January 4 from the 64 Million Artists creativity challenge was to write a short letter to yourself from the perspective of an object that you use, or maybe misuse everyday. Honestly, I NEVER use my yellow pens. I have a basket full of a variety of pens in a variety of colors.

My favorites are brown, green, grey, and blue — earth, ocean, sky.

My least favorite is red. It feels too corrective — probably going back to my school days.

I like yellow. I just can’t always see what I’ve written when I use yellow.

Did I use yellow on January 4? Heck, yes, I did!

My pen basket
fiction

The (im)Perfect Crime

Sally11 Comments

That bird annoyed the bejeebers out of him.

Oh, it seemed sweet when she was around, cooing, preening, making little chitterings of happiness. Once she was walked out the door, everything changed.

It hissed at him. Who knew birds could hiss?

It glared at him with a withering stare.

Lately it had started dive-bombing him.

“Can we cage the dang thing?” he asked.

“Cage Dexter?!” Clearly, he had offended her. “No-no-no-no-no-NO! He needs his freedom!”

What about mine? he thought.

“The cat’s gonna eat him,” he told her.

“They are friends,” she insisted.

The hell they are, he thought.

That day, after a particularly bad bout of hissing, withering stares, and dive bombings, he donned some disposable gloves (so he wouldn’t have to touch it) and snatched it right off its perch.

“I’ve got you now,” he hissed, in a meaner hiss than Dexter had ever done, and he wrung his little neck.

He scattered feathers around the apartment, to simulate a struggle, and put a good amount near the cat’s bed. Then — and this is the part that turned his stomach – he ripped wings and feet off to leave them as further evidence.

He carried the rest of the carcass out to the dumpster and threw it in with the gloves.

Or so he thought.

Back upstairs, he was in the bathroom washing up when she came in.

“I found this on the sidewalk,” she said, holding a glove and feather. “Doesn’t this look like Dexter’s?”

The Unicorn Challenge — no more than 250 words based on the photo prompt.

Pretty proud of myself today – I started with over 270 words and got it down to 247!

poetry

Judgment

Sally17 Comments

I seen what they are
I ain’t been where they been
But I ain’t gonna lie —
When they look at my skin
And see all my tats
I seen judgment begin —
But, God, they don’ know
Diddly zip nothin’

‘Cause they’re full o’ themselves
And full o’ shit too
They can’t lend a hand
To help me or you
They just bitch about this
And bitch about that
I ain’t got no patience
For those miserable prats

The W3 prompt for this week:

Write a contemporary poem inspired by Robert Burns on one of his three themes: love, nature, and the human condition. Also, try to include some local dialect.

This is based on my many conversations with one of my co-workers. He is one of the most genuine people I know — comfortable with himself, willing to help anyone in need, judged frequently by those who don’t know him.

Sad, but true — I don’t hear his dialect anymore and had to pay attention to it yesterday as he leaned on the counter and told me about his dogs (one of his loves) and the current bourbons he is considering (another of his loves). He and I share a frustration with the way people complain and complain and complain, but do nothing to make anything better.

photography

From My Window

Sally6 Comments

In 2024, I want to exercise my creativity. In searching for ideas of how to do that, I stumbled across a creativity challenge from the UK that included 31 prompts. (64 Million Artists)

Here is today’s: From My Window

I read the prompt while I was at work this morning, and it was still dark out. I took this photograph:

I was quite taken with the lights of tree inside reflecting out, and the lampposts in our parking lot, still lit, shining in.

Half an hour later, I took this shot:

The lights in the lampposts are out. The Christmas trees still reflect, but not as brilliantly.

Somewhere in all this is a poem. It’s about darkness and light and reflecting.

I’m just too tired to write it.

Can you?

fiction

Homesick

Sally16 Comments

“C’mon, Blackie,” Iain said. “Let’s go home.”

The fluffy white dog looked at him questioningly.

“Ach, you know what I mean,” he said, reaching over to scratch Blackie’s ears. “Our home here.”

Neither one stood. They both leaned into the other, Iain finally burying his face in the dog’s ruff while he wept.

God, how he missed his home. He missed ducking his head under the low door-frame as he entered. He missed the smells of the kitchen: the soup simmering on the back of the stove, the bread in the oven.

He missed the clutter on the kitchen table: the to-do lists, the newspaper, the mail.

He missed the muddy boots and shoes in disarray by the door where they had been removed and kicked aside.

He missed the gardens, always half-weeded, never perfect.

The busy-ness of the city where he now kept a tidy apartment didn’t fill the emptiness.

The sounds of the water lapping at the boats, the view of the sun setting on the mountain didn’t fill the emptiness.

Blackie, the white dog — that name was his father’s sense of humor through and through — couldn’t fill the emptiness.

He wept into Blackie’s ruff until there were no more tears.

“Let’s go,” he said again, wiping his nose and face on his arm. This time he stood.

He walked in silence, Blackie beside him. She always understood.

“How much for two tickets,” he asked at the train station. “One for me, one for my dog.”

This is my response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge.

Such a simple challenge: no more than 250 words and base it on the photo prompt.