Author: Sally

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.

Grief · poetry

Of Memories Gone

Sally15 Comments

The W3 prompt for this week is to write a villanelle on the cycle of life and death.

I love villanelles (in theory). I especially love when other people write good villanelles. I’ve decided, though, that I don’t like writing them.

I wish I was Dylan Thomas and knew how to not go gentle. Instead I found myself monkeying around with a ton of bricks. Such an overused cliche.

My father died in 2019 and my memory is so blurred. I have very few clear recollections of that day.

I went for a walk. I DO remember doing that — more, I remember my own NEED to do that. There were too many people in that one room and one of them was dead. I needed to get out.

Now, when I look back at that time, there’s a pandemic in the way. It’s like a wall that I can’t see over.

Something significant happened in September 2019. I have vague memories of it.

In my attempt at villanelle-ing, I ended up with two, neither of which I’m terribly happy with —

Here’s the first:

My father’s death hit me like a ton of bricks
It happened late September but the day’s a blur
And then we had a pandemic thrown into the mix

I was his care-giver, but I couldn’t fix
The inevitable. Yes, we knew it would occur!
My father’s death hit me like a ton of bricks

A gastric bleed that would totally eclipse
The dementia to which I had begun to defer
And then we had a pandemic thrown into the mix

When I look back on that time, nothing sticks
Nothing stays in order, no memories pure
My father’s death hit me like a ton of bricks

I went for a walk — yes, that clicks
But after that? I fear it’s all a whirr
And then we had a pandemic thrown into the mix

I know I have good reason for the memory skips
How did I make it through? I am not sure
My father’s death hit me like a ton of bricks
And then we had a pandemic thrown into the mix

And here’s attempt number two:

Enough with all this talk
Words are a garbled mess
I need to go for a walk

The night we hear death’s knock
We gather to pray, witness, bless
— Enough with all this talk

The hospice nurse notes the clock
Done? Begun? Your guess —
I need to go for a walk

To walk and walk — the shock
— I can’t express —
Enough with all this talk

Dear God, I need sound blocked
I need so so much less
I need to go for a walk

Trite, kind, angry words interlock
Into some noisy distress
Enough with all this talk
I need to go for a walk

family · poetry

Bruce the Spruce

Sally4 Comments

I asked myself, Is it possible to write a rhyming poem in stream-of-consciousness?

Hmm… First I chose a structure: a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

Then I opened a tab in Rhymezone and typed in “spruce” — the Stream-of-Consciousness Saturday prompt for this week.

Here goes:

Christmas tree
Little spruce
I hereby
Name you “Bruce”

Quite a name
For a tree
Many folks
Would agree

Bruce the Spruce
Tall and green
Sparkling lights
Lovely scene

You may come
See my tree
Or this pic


Or these three –

fiction

Magic Beans

Sally15 Comments

“Psst…. hey, kid!”

Jack looked around.

“Pssssst… kid! Over here!”

Jack looked to his left and saw a man urgently beckoning him with his hand.

Jack had had the stranger-danger talk at school. He knew he shouldn’t go over, but there was something about the man that made Jack very curious.

When he saw that he had Jack’s attention, the man said, “Kid, you believe in magic?”

Jack took a step nearer.

“Listen, kid,” the man said, “I got these magic beans, see, and I gotta unload ’em.”

Instinctively, Jack stepped back, eyeing the man warily.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya, kid,” he said. “I just gotta get rid of ’em and you look like a boy who would appreciate a little magic in your life.”

He slowly unfurled his fingers revealing five white beans in the palm of his hand.

“Want ’em?” he asked.

As if in a trance, Jack extended his open palm to the man, then closed his fingers over the beans that were placed in it.

…..

Months later, Jack leaned against the brick school building waiting for his ride. He was imagining what it would be like to have a horse.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled out a white bean. He couldn’t remember where it came from, but he popped it in his mouth. Crunch! he bit down.

The building behind him rumbled. A few bricks tumbled. His knees grew weak. He looked up and peeked.

The wall, the wall — OMG!

The Unicorn Challenge: Max 250 words. Base it on the picture. That’s it!

poetry · prayer

Reflection (a prayer)

Sally20 Comments

Lord, let me be a full moon
I fear I am but a crescent
May my actions
Reflect You

This is in response to the W3 prompt this week:

Write a Naani poem — “Naani is one of India’s most popular Telugu poems. Naani means an expression of one and all. It consists of 4 lines, consisting of 20 to 25 syllables. This form is not bound to a particular subject.”

Reena, the poet of the week, also provided the image as inspiration.

Blather · Music

Bohemian Rhapsody

Sally7 Comments

“Does this picture inspire you to write something?” — Sadje’s question for the What Do You See prompt (WDYS)

Immediately Bohemian Rhapsody was playing in my mind —

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see

Freddie Mercury, Queen

And then I went on to listen to song after song by Queen.

A friend asked me the other day what my favorite music was. Sometimes a question just stops me in my tracks. This was one of those questions. I stopped to ponder.

“I listen to Celtic folk music all the time,” I told her, which I do. The Corries, the Sorries, Dougie MacLean, Old Blind Dogs, North Sea Gas, Celtic Rovers, Malinky — and the list could go on. Whenever I hear another group I like, I just add them to my Celtic playlist.

But if I was stranded on a desert island with one piece of music to listen to for the rest of my days it would be Dvorak’s New World Symphony. I decided that years ago and it still holds true. Bucket list item: hear that symphony played by a full orchestra.

I told my friend that.

That conversation led me to think about a top five or top ten that I would take to that desert island.

This morning’s dive in Queen made me fully aware that Queen would make the list. Man, oh man, Freddie Mercury could sing, couldn’t he? And the lyrics are rich and full and hard to get to the bottom of, right?

Would I choose Bohemian Rhapsody? I don’t know, but I do know I could listen to him sing forever.

Andrew Peterson would make the list. I’d have a tough time choosing one of his songs, too. He would make it for different reasons than Freddie Mercury. Andrew is one of the most genuine, sincere, kind, generous people I have ever met. His songs reflect that. And he knows my name — which is pretty huge to a hide-in-the-background-stay-behind-the-scenes kind of person. He has no reason to know my name, but he does. Or did at one point — which counts, right?

When it comes to the Celtic music, I would choose a song, not an artist. Dark Lochnagar is based on a poem by Lord Byron and speaks to a longing for the wild freedom and beauty of Scotland.

… England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic !
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !

Lord Byron

Yep, love that song no matter who sings it.

Sadje asked if the picture inspired me to write something. It inspired me to fall off the edge and delve deep into the music that I love.

Rabbit trails are crazy like that, aren’t they? Photo of an illusion —> Bohemian Rhapsody —-> Freddie Mercury —> music on a desert island. Makes sense, right?

Blather

Leaning into a Pricker Bush

Sally5 Comments

I was asked to describe shingles pain. Is it worse than childbirth? Hmmm….

The comparison is off. It’s not comparing apples to apples. It’s comparing apples to pricker bushes.

One is ultimately good — who doesn’t like a delicious apple?

The other is annoying. All those scratches from a pricker bush semi-hurt, semi-itch, totally-annoy.

The worst physical pain I ever experienced was not childbirth. It was a gall-bladder attack.

Childbirth is a means to an end. I guess it was painful? The truth is that I look back and don’t remember the pain at all. I remember holding that new little person for the first time and studying his or her face.

Shingles is annoying pain. It’s fairly constant. It’s unreachable as far as relief. It’s exhausting.

Several months ago, I had a woman come in my office, ostensibly about getting a membership to the gym or something, but she started weeping. Her husband was rapidly descending into dementia. She couldn’t leave him home alone. She couldn’t leave him with someone else. She was his everything — and he needed so much from her.

Now there’s a pain that’s worse than childbirth AND shingles.

I had the same conversation a few weeks later with a young woman whose father had just moved in with her. He, too, was descending into dementia. She, too, wept while talking to me.

In both of those moments, I was profoundly grateful that I could be there to listen. In a strange way, I was also thankful for what I had gone through in caring for my parents, especially my father.

I guess all pain IS a means to an end. When we share a painful experience with someone else — one we’ve been through and they’re going through — we can offer help and support that others cannot.

So many people have reached out to me about Shingles because they remember. They remember their discomfort. Now they’re on the other side of it cheerleading me on. “It’s awful, but you’ll get through it!”

The other night I woke up thinking about the W3 poetry prompt, which this week involved using opposites in a poem. I was in so much achy pain that my brain couldn’t comprehend there could be anything other than that in life.

“Siri,” I called to my phone on the nightstand, “what’s the opposite of pain?”

She responded in her matter-of-fact way. “The opposite of pain is pleasure.”

I couldn’t fathom pleasure at that moment. My middle of the night conversation with Siri did lead to a mediocre poem for W3, though.

Someday I’ll be able to sympathize and empathize and be an encouragement to someone else going through this. I can look forward to that.

In the meantime, I’m telling everyone to get the vaccine.