Thursday, June 21, 2012

Done Until Dusk


Dawn brought weeding, dungarees, and t-shirt,
flip-flopped feet, head to toe gnats, green shavings and dirt.
Mid-morning showers revived and refreshed
to a bouncy, kicky neon green hippy dress.
Mountain folks’ eyes blared the wonder,
“Is she a koo-koo?”
Other hill fellas seemed dazzled by stardom,
“Well, hello darlin’.”
A toss of coconut-shampooed hair said,
“Who cares” and then again,
“Oo-la-la to you too honey,” with a wink.
Fun, tantalizing, and thrilling little loop.
Dusk settled on dungarees, dirt and chicken poop. 

Sunday, June 17, 2012

And So Begins the Day


Cilantro gone to seed
Looks a lot like Queen Anne’s Lace
Plump, dew dripped blackberries
Protected by brambles and snakes
Makes them more enticing
Coffee steam and tobacco swirls
A sign of man about
Disturbs not birdsong or cock’s crow
Earth’s morning dance
With Grandfather Sun burning
Through cool mountain mist
Mello chases bees
From nectar buffet
Rocky howls for freedom at the
Jackrabbit twitching in tall milk thistle
Air heavy with wild honeysuckle and
Sour dampness of red clay
Somewhere beyond
A deep oak fire diffuses dawn’s chill.

And so begins the day.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Writer's Block


I’ve come to realize that writer’s block is not so much a block as the internal critics shackles.

I haven’t written anything substantial all year. I’ve not worked on the novel I retired to the mountains to do; I’ve not compiled the poetry manuscript that’s been on the back burner for several years – probably burnt to a crisp by now; I’ve not written any new poetry, and I’ve written very few blog posts.

A few months ago, I thought I was getting closer to the explicit act. I’d subscribed to some writerly blogs and newsletters, and was feeling the twitch. In fact, I was twitching all over.

The Write Practice gives prompts with every newsletter, and every Sunday I get the Sunday Whirl with words to create poetry. Today, another blog posted about Using Setting as a Character by Marylu Tyndale, while the prompt from The Write Practice was to write about a road trip. There’d been another about ‘not’ being balanced, and one that listed the 22 Rules of Storytelling According to Pixar. That got printed and is hanging in front of my face this very minute. The twitch had become a burning itch.

So what did I do? Nothing. That critic shackled my hands with the question, “What does any of that have to do with your novel or your poetry? If you going to write, then write what you’re supposed to be writing. If you’re going to call yourself a writer, then do it, but since you’re not doing it…”

The itch cooled quickly and the twitching has subsided.