I read, journalled, exercised, and played my new Irish flute today.
I’ll hit “Publish” here, then read a short story.
A good start, yes?
Homesick
“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.
Of Memories Gone
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
Bruce the Spruce
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 –
Magic Beans
“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!
Reflection (a prayer)
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.
Bohemian Rhapsody
“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?
Freddie Mercury, Queen
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
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
Lord Byron
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 !
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?
Leaning into a Pricker Bush
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.
Hindsight (regarding the Shingles Vaccine)
Pain that is hard to express –
Distress! I cannot measure
This constant dull ache and itch;
It’s a bitch, not a pleasure.
After I came down with this —
Yes, I was remiss, and more,
I pooh-poohed getting this shot!
I know it now — not before
This is in response to the W3 prompt this week:
Compose two verses according to the following specifications:
- “Opposites”:The first and last word of each stanza must be opposites of one another;
- The two stanzas must use different opposites.
- No restrictions on form, length, meter, or rhyme;
- Thematic: Write about emotions, attitudes, and/or moods;
I chose to try again at a Welsh form: Awdl Gywydd
- Four lines
- Seven syllables per line
- The final syllable of the first and third lines rhyme with the 3rd-5th syllable of the following lines
- The second and fourth lines rhyme.
This is also in response to having Shingles — which aren’t an emotion, attitude or mood, but they sure do provoke a lot of those.
Strawberry-Rhubarb Crisp
Strawberry-rhubarb crisp for breakfast.
I can easily rationalize it. There’s oatmeal in the topping, fruit (strawberries) as a mainstay, and rhubarb — whatever food category that fits into — in there too. Surely it’s healthy, right?
The truth is my appetite has been off. My whole everything has been off. When my son’s girlfriend made peanut butter blossoms — those peanut butter cookies with a Hershey’s kiss pressed in the top — I politely declined. Oh, I eventually ate a few, trust me — later. They are hard to resist. But I didn’t woof down six at a time which I might have done had things been different.
Last weekend, or maybe it was last Friday, I started feeling achy. My back hurt. I thought I had slept on it wrong. It was my left scapula, and it was weird. Not the ordinary I-slept-on-something-wrong feeling.
Before the crack of dawn on Tuesday morning, I left for a flight to Roanoke. I was picking up one of my daughters from school. As I was getting dressed, I noticed a small rash just below my left breast. That’s weird, I thought.
Got to Roanoke. Got the rental car. Got together with my daughter, but I was exhausted. I left her mid-afternoon to go nap in my hotel room. The rash had grown, too, and was itchy-painful.
Maybe you can see where I’m going with this.
It was either Tuesday night or Wednesday morning that it hit me that I had shingles. No, I hadn’t gotten the vaccine.
I contacted my primary care provider, but, as it turns out, they can’t do a tele-health visit with me if I’m out of state at the time. Ridiculous, right?
Initially, shingles was (were?) just annoying. “I don’t have time for this,” I said more than once to more than one person. I mean, it’s the holidays. Sheesh.
But, by Thursday, I felt like excrement. You know what I mean, right? I did a tele-health appointment, was prescribed an antiviral, and stayed in my room all day. Mostly.
The next day, same thing.
My appetite has been way off with this.
Last night, my son’s girlfriend was making strawberry-rhubarb crisp. “Do you want some?” they both asked.
I politely declined. I didn’t like strawberry-rhubarb crisp on a good day. My mom used to make it and it was not my favorite.
However, this morning when I went down for coffee, there was the baked crisp on the counter. I could see the oatmeal in the topping. Breakfast food, for sure.
I dished out a small bowl, and it was, literally, just what the doctor ordered. (She’s a doctor.)
It was so good that I went back for more.
Maybe rhubarb has healing qualities.
One can always hope, right?
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 