dk's right to write

Toxicity

2012-01-31T18:16:00.000-05:00

A crimson end
to a toxic interlude

AROS - Haiku

2012-01-21T18:06:00.000-05:00

Thunderheads roll

Grayness creates earths’ blanket

Sun is the dream

AROS - In the Calm of the Storm

2012-01-21T11:53:00.001-05:00

This morning the opening discussion post of Writing Our Way Home was from a lovely woman sharing the imagery of her home in Malvern, Worcestershire, UK. There was a response from another about all the snow in Pennsylvania. They inspired me to take notice of my landscape.

In the Calm of the Storm
Early morning doggie stroll in still, warm air broke away to tornado winds, blackened skies, and torrential rains atop this mountain. Windows opened during the calm, quickly shut as the storm arrived. Obviously won't make it to the library today so will need to go through my own for something to curl with beneath the blanket while the storms heads on.

AROS-Frost Queen

2012-01-14T09:56:00.002-05:00

Frost queen lies hard upon the earth, laughing at sun’s weakness, whispering surrender to the steady warmth of day, eagerly anticipating the fall of frigid night.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bmelancon/

Weather is Weather - AROS

2012-01-02T17:30:00.000-05:00

Weather is weather wherever.

Warm, cold rains, hot snow

Chicago saying:

Don’t likethe weather? Wait a minute, it’ll change.”

Same in Georgia, Wisconsin, Tennessee, anywhere you go

Just pack a suitcase for the day and don’t complain.

Comfy Armchair - 1/1/2012

2012-01-01T14:05:00.000-05:00

Comfy armchair, Mello dog at my feet, kitties purr-curled

Bears stumble and fumble with back-to-back touchdowns

Wrapped in bright, warm southern sunshine.

Reach for the Elusive

2011-12-28T16:52:00.001-05:00

A new you rises with the dawn.

The struggle and worry of yesterday gone.

If so you believe, so it will be,

Reach for the elusive and you shall see,

Within the mist of cool mountain rains,

Spirits singing harmonious refrains:

Joy, misery, or lie down to quit.

Lessons repeat. Choice or habit?

Poetry written waitin' on the therapist! Hmm.

Shall I Write

2011-12-27T15:55:00.001-05:00

Wordle 36 - The Sunday Whirl

Leave it to me to turn the words of the season into a lament!

Shall I Write

Shall I write

Shall I heed the decree

Put forth by heart at birth

The simple directions to me

Shall I write

I’ve pondered the mystery

Of the chains which bind

And hinder the journey to me

Shall I write

Or is their fear of pendingjoy

Peace in the familiar

‘Fear of success’ theoryemployed

Shall I write

Of shepherds calling the lost

Glad tidings whispered in thedarkness

The heard forgotten – at what cost

Shall I write

Or stay in the cold, strawmanger

Deny angels presenting clearproof

That ease neednot be a stranger

Shall I write

For me or publication

I shall, however

The ‘will’ needs motivation

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

2011-12-27T07:45:00.000-05:00

Andre

Lenny and Justice

This is what was sent in my Christmas cards this year. Now to the world!

Dear Family and Friends

From a Blue Ridge Appalachianmountaintop,

in a year filled with joy, fear, andadventure,

I send you Seasons Greetings

From the midst of wilderness, where crowand hawk shift unsullied air;

where deer graze easily, and bear trackscrunch early morning frost;

rivers burble white, mist hangs low, andporch rockers roll slow.

This year, familiarity left behind andthe great unknown embraced, where

strangers opened homes, shared lives,enriched me with the new. I got lost

4000 feet in the clouds’ flow and emergedwhole in the dazzling road show.

Leo and London

In 2011, grandson Andre battled and conquered

the curse of adolescence.

Bright and strong, he maintains. Lennyquarterbacked,

turned 13 amid reports

of stunning grades. Leo is class president.

Justice and London are boundless joys.

Lenny and Lizzie married in October withthe entire family

in happy attendance.

Kim started KeKe’s Kitchen Caterers withimmediate success. Vanessa sports a bike club logo (mom’s footsteps?),

and lifeis full of grand noise.

Lola, Rocky, and Mello

Last but not least,

addition of the superMello dog complete with glorious fleas.

Rocky met a wolf worm in the yardbeyond, and Lola is still the resident bitch.

Rid of all buggers, they’ve settlednicely,

and reward me with unconditional love.

2011 was a triumphant year.

Whispersof 2012 float on the mountain breeze

A novel in the works; vegetable,flower, herbal gardens, chickens, and bee hives which,

with a milking cow, will enable steady removal of thecapitalistic glove.

So,

From a Blue RidgeAppalachian mountaintop,

in a year filledwith joy, fear, and adventure,

I send youSeasons Greetings!

Love,

Donna, Rocky, Lola, and Mello

Review of poetry book: Dimensions of the Kaleidoscope by Mark Lee

2011-12-18T10:16:00.001-05:00

Recently, I wrote a book review on Shvoong and would like to link here, however, Shvoong added an image of the wrong book. So, until that is corrected, I'll not link. Below is the complete review.

Dimensions of the Kaleidoscope. Mark Lee. Georgia: The War Book Company, 2011. 69 pages.

“Theremotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be asproper objects of the Poet’s art as any upon which it can be employed.” Coleridge and Wordsworth: Preface to Lyrical Ballads.

InDimensions of the Kaleidoscope, MarkLee embodies this statement, mingling and co-mingling science with Romanticpoetry.

A googolplex is no closer toinfinity

than is the number one,

Just as we are no closer tounveiling the truth,

with all the madnessdone.

And

Supernovae are remnants of explodingstars,

stellar winds are thecolor of primordial scars.

A black hole does appear as a greatspinning eye

in the regions of spacewhere physics defy…

ThroughoutDimensions of the Kaleidoscope, Leecompares, contrasts, and melds space, dreams, time, and love; science andemotion; and past, present, and future hypothesis into lyrical medleys.

SinceI find it terribly difficult to write in quatrains, metre, and rhyme, Iappreciate Lee’s ability. I personally enjoy more alliteration, and slant rhyme,yet I understand there are various schools of thought on this subject, and thejury is still out as to whether good, modern poetry should or should not rhyme.In most instances, Lee does it well.

Thepoetic style Lee uses in Dimensions ofthe Kaleidoscope is pure canonical Romanticism, albeit with not quite thevocabulary of the great ones. Words, images, and concepts repeated frequentlyand often back to back, interrupt the rhythm and flow. For example, the word “realm(s)”appears 17 times in a 65-page book, which translates to an appearance every 4.5pages; “hue” appears every nine pages. This is not to say, however, that the someof the pieces inside Dimensions of theKaleidoscope that words appear repeatedly in are not piercing and thoughtprovoking.

Above the law is a realm all to itself

Man’s wicked capacities fueled by wealth

And

From tempestuous skies in the blackestof night,

the finale of destinyneared.

From distorted hues of black-purple light,

a message, thoughlatent, appeared.

Cliché’sappear often as well, in Dimensions ofthe Kaleidoscope. “Sands of Time” and “Time and Space,” are just a couple. Iwould have like to see Lee use more of his own words, yet these are Romanticphrases, which is why they’ve become such clichés. One used in a poem thattouched my soul was in the piece titled “The Sands of Time”:

And then we see through the portal’spast

that nothing created was ever meant to last —

all that has failed were not the ‘dreams sublime’

but the symphonies of destruction within theSands of Time.

I’mnot sure if anything else would have worked as well. Additionally, the clichédidn’t take away from the sorrow at the realization of man’s disposability. Themain theme of Lee's poems is of useless striving, or the wonder of theuniverse, or the minuteness of humanity. Lee explores the great questions inRenaissance style.

AmongLee’s musings on life, the lines that speak of love, lost love, and lost livesare the most powerful:

Two lovers through a meadow dance

like petals in the wind.

And:

And yet still now, how real itseems:

your countenance glowsin moonlight beams,

Reflecting eyes, so crystal clear,

your voice — sweetlaughter, in the winds I hear.

“InThe Blink of an Eye” tells the story of two men whose lives cross and end intragedy. The entire piece is solidly written and emotionally striking. “TheVindication of Chaos” is current and relevant in today’s political landscape,all told in metre and rhyme. In that same vein, “Average Joe” and “TheDesignated Hero” could be any of us.

Leecloses Dimensions of the Kaleidoscope with “Moments More To Go,” which lets usknow there is more Romanticism to come:

“’All the world’s a stage’,

so let this player roll,

off the hook of Inspiration,

with still moments more to go.

It’sbeen awhile since I’ve read a modern Romantic poet, and Dimensions of theKaleidoscope was quite enjoyable. A bit repetitious and clichéd at times,however the lyricism and perfect metre balances it nicely. For a firstpublication from a new poet, Mark Lee's Dimensionsof the Kaleidoscope does not disappoint.

Merry Christmas Wordle

2011-11-27T21:31:00.001-05:00

It’s the time of year for the glow of ruddy faces

Mitten and snowmen and angels in wintry places

Steaming hot cocoa with floating mini marshmallows

Glitter and glamour of fine fancy mellow fellows

‘Tis the season of peace and joy, and loving nuclear families

To give and receive, stuffed stockings and shimmering trees

Cornucopia of foodstuff piled high on lace covered tables

So it says in the glossy book of the world’s favorite fables

Shudders and shivers in the blast of Frosty’s frigid breath

In parks, alleys, and doorways lies a hypothermic death

Or negative bank accounts spinning the subliminal tale

In a mad rush of the Black Friday and Cyber Monday sale

The rustle of the smug in their devilish sunshine dance

Wrapped in ermine and fur, the appointed fulcrum of chance

Regaling the gullible with continuous retelling of the story

Ring the bells, the angels sing, and nothing is untidy

From the Sunday Wordle:

National Novel Writing Month

2011-11-08T20:59:00.001-05:00

50,000 words in 30 days. WOW! that sounds like a lot, and it is. It averages 1666 words daily which doesn't sound so bad. The best thing about it is the accountability. I've told everyone and my one friend cracks her Facebook whip at me daily. Since I'm high in the mountains, there aren't a lot of "write-ins" close so I've signed up for the NaNo:NC:Elsewhere Facebook group and the NaNo:North Georgia Facebook group - more accountability. Those groups have been terrific support as well. I've learned about the History of Trains in Appalachia and the Circus in America website. Wonderful research help for my work. I've helped others and enjoyed writerly talk. It's been a while and thoroughly enjoyable.

Since, I'm feeling so good about this, I decided to share another chapter. I look forward to comments.

The food was delicious andmuch different. Slabs of bacon instead of heavy German sausages, and lightlyscrambled eggs instead of greasy fried, and no potatoes. Anna had slicedtomatoes and cheese alongside the warm Brotchen. She poured everyone tallglasses of freshly squeezed orange juice before she sat to fill her platebrimming. William had put Robert in Dottie’s old wooden highchair, the one he’dpainted a ring of posies around the back, and filled the tray with a little ofeverything from the table. Robert was overjoyed moving the food around, pilingit up, and licking his fingers. His face was smeared with orange marmaladewhere he’d eaten the middle from the slice of bread. The air was light and talkwas easy with spatterings of laughter. Only Dottie was tense and solemnlyquiet. When Anna began clearing the table, Dottie rose and stepped to Granny’swheelchair.

“Come on Granny. I’ll takeyou to your room. We have a lot to talk about.”

She saw the quick glanceAnna gave William and the short nod he gave Granny. Yes, they had plenty totalk about.

“I’ll be down in a bit tostart dinner,” Dottie threw over her shoulder as you wheeled Granny through thedoor.

“No need,” Anna said, “Ihave it all under control.”

“I bet she does,” Dottiesaid to Granny.

Granny’s room was spotless and smelled of rosewater.Burgundy mums stood briskly in a window vase. Granny only wanted to wash herface and hands. All the heavy cleaning had been done by Anna. Dottie got hersituated in the armchair by the window and she plopped crosslegged on the bed,ready for the explanation of what she seen in the kitchen.

Yes,Anna had moved into her old bedroom, Granny told her, and made it quite herown. She’d taken down the eyelet curtains and replaced them with cream chintzthat matched the rose coverlet on the bed. She had silver and ivory inlaidbrushes, mirrors and combs that had belonged to Dottie’s mother laid out neatlyon the bare dresser top. She didn’t like doilies, Granny said. She was tryingto get Bill to let her re-do the kitchen, but that was taking some time. Eventhough her things were in Dottie’s room, most of Anna’s time was spent inBill’s room once Granny went to bed. Granny could hear them whispering. She wassure that a marriage was in the planning. At least Granny thought it should.Anna was a good woman and she made Bill happy. That’s what Granny told Dottie.It didn’t make Dottie feel any better that he could be cantankerous for yearswith her and then be the perfect beau to a woman he hardly knew. Granny said she should be happy for him.Dottie clucked.

Theytalked for hours about the changes, her long strolls with Anna, about Boyd andHawaii, about Robert and his antics, about Mary and Jim. Dottie went to fetchtwo lemonades and wondered where Anna and her father had gone—the house wasdark and silent. Granny dozed off with her head sinking into the silk pillowAnna had made for her. Dottie lie on her back staring at the ceiling thinkingof how time just kept going no matter what happened. She too, slipped off tosleep. They were both awakend by a soft tap on the doorjamb.

“Sorryto disturb you,” said Anna, “but you should both come downstairs now.”

She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with one of Williamshankies before she turned to go.

“Isthere something wrong, Anna,” asked Dottie.

“Ithink your father wants to tell you.”

And she was gone. Dottieheard her bare feet—another William Stroebe rule broken—padding down thecarpeting stairs. Dottie carried Granny down to the wheelchair and pushed hertoward the kitchen where Sammy Kaye’s Sunday Serenade was on the radio. Dottiewould’ve sworn that her father would be listening to a football game.

“Isn’tthere a football game on Father?”

“Pleasesit down my dear. We were listening to the Giants and Dodgers game, but therewas a news broadcast cut in, so we switched over to NBC to see if they hadanything. Nothing yet, so maybe they were mistaken.”

“Mistakenabout what Bill? Asked Granny. “More war news?”

“Unfortunately,Louise. Not good news either. It just might be time for us to get in the mixover there.”

“Father,“exclaimed Dottie, “what are you talking about.”

From the NBC newsroom in New York. PresidentRoosevelt said in a statement today that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harborin Hawaii from the air. I’ll repeat that. President Roosevelt says that theJapanese had attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii from the air. This bulletin hascame to you from the NBC newsroom in New York.

“That’sthe second announcement,” said Bill.

Anna cried openly now into the back of Williams’ head.He patted her hands on his shoulders.

“William,can there be a mistake?” asked Granny as she turned to take Dottie’s hands inher tiny, frail ones.

“Dottie,dear?”

“If they’vemade two announcements on two different stations, I’d say it’s unlikely there’sa mistake. Dorothy Emma? Are you okay?”

Dottiestared at the radio. Things were sure different around here. The radio was ontop of the refrigerator when it used to be on the windowsill. She looked at theempty windowsill. Sammy Kaye was singing again on the radio on top of therefrigerator. Her face was wet but she didn’t know why because Sammy Kaye wassinging and she’d always liked Sammy Kaye. She looked at her hands that hadbegun to tremble and wondered why she couldn’t stop them. She looked at Granny,then she looked at Anna and noticed their faces were wet as well. It wasn’tuntil she looked into her father’s eyes that she understood, screamed andfainted.

NaNo Chapter

2011-11-04T17:05:00.003-04:00

This was posted back in 2010. As I continue with the novel, I'm re-posting as a reminder.

1939

Crimson Red. That was the name of the hot new lipstick and Dot loved how it looked. It emphasized her emerald eyes causing them to sparkle and glow. Night cat eyes, she’d been told. She blotted the lips on tissue paper just like Redbook had said, and patted the rouge as well. Her jet black hair was curled in the stylish Victory Roll. She smoothed the skirt on the belted cotton sun dress and twirled around so the fullness ballooned out, showing her silk covered legs. A last glance in back to check the seams and a pinch on the cheeks to enhance the rouge and she felt like any of those models in Vogue. It all was a wise purchase with her weeks tips from the diner.

“What are you doing in there Dottie? Don’t think you’re going out again. Your grandma needs tending to.”

Her father’s rough voice set her teeth on edge. He could yell all he wanted while he was playing with his train city in the basement but he never did the tending. He came home black from the coal of steam engines and expected his bath waiting and his dinner after. Then he’d disappear for the rest of the night playing with more trains. Ever since her mother had died, Dottie became the woman of the house without any of the womanly pleasures.

“Granny’s done and in bed, father. Yes, I am going out again. I’ve worked all week too you know.”

She knew when she said it there was going to be a fight. William Stroebe didn’t take kindly to being talked back to by anyone in his house. Her only recourse was to get Granny involved. She slipped into Granny’s bedroom with the purple iris wallpaper-covered walls and soft candle glow. Her half frame was tucked into the white eyelet bedspread that she’d made for her dowry when she was a teenager in Germany. Dottie loved the softness of the bedspread, the tenderness of Granny’s voice and the exciting stories she told about escaping Germany for the gold paved streets of America. Granny knew adventure and she knew desire. She also knew heartache from the death of a husband and a daughter, and the pain of losing both legs to gangrene. Her body was crippled but her heard and mind weren’t and she was Dottie’s champion. Her splotched translucent hand patted Dottie’s when she sat on the side of her bed.

“Don’t you worry honey, he just wants you to be safe. He doesn’t understand a girl needs to dance, to sing and laugh. He’s forgotten.”

“Now Louise Klaussen, don’t you stand between me and that girl. She can’t be running around all hours of the night. She’s just eighteen. She’s down at the hall with all those soldiers and that will only be trouble. Dottie, go wash that stuff off your face and take off those trashy clothes. You’re not going down there.”

“Bill,” whispered Louise, “she needs it. Try to remember what it was like to laugh. Remember when you and Christine used to go to the same kind of halls and dance all night? Dottie’s not an old woman. She’s got energy to burn and a love to find.”

“Don’t talk all that stuff to me Louise. Christine and me were married when we danced all night. No one is going to want to marry Dottie if she’s out all night dancing and God knows what else.”

Here it was. Dot had heard it over and over. Her father had made her go to church every Sunday since her mother passed and she’d heard it there as well. The sin of women and men. The sin of the flesh. The fallen woman and how she brings shame to herself and the family and ruins life for everyone. There was never anything said about trust. Never anything said about love unless it was the love of God. God’s love was doing nothing for her but she hadn’t done anything about it. She was what her father called a “good girl,” but there was no telling him that, so she remained silent and let her Granny tell him the way it was.

“You shouldn’t talk about your daughter like that Bill. Christine would be ashamed of you. Dottie knows right from wrong but keeping her locked up is only going to make her rush into things and that’s when the wrong happens. She’s got me all washed up, dressed and settled in bed for the night, so you just let her go have some fun now and quit your complaining. Go on now, go back to your trains and let me get some sleep.”

Granny nestled deeper into the eyelet bedspread. Dottie knew she wasn’t going to sleep. She’d be up for hours reading Emily Dickinson or Jane Austin or some other woman writer of love and angst. Sometimes, Granny was still awake when Dottie came in and they’d eat cold leftover potato pancakes with applesauce while Dottie told her all about the soldiers and the new dances, like the jitterbug. Then Granny would have Dottie show her the dance moves. Dottie would whistle and hum the current hits like “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” and she’d swing herself around the room in the candle smoke. Granny knew Dot needed a mother and she tried the best she could without legs.

Her father grumbled something about a time and left the room. They listened to his hard steps thumping down the basement stairs then they both giggled and hugged each other like teenage girls.

“I love you Granny.”

“I love you too little girl. Now go have fun and don’t make me a liar.”

She smiled and picked up her book off the nightstand. “The Pride and the Prejudice.” Dottie was right but she didn’t say anything. She jumped and skipped out of the bedroom, out of that house and down the marigold lined walk that shimmered in the porch light, and danced right out the white wooden gate, leaving it standing open in her excitement.

Mary was waiting for her on the corner under the streetlamp. Mary was a long legged, stocky girl with bouncing blonde curls. They went to high school together, the same church and they worked together at the same diner—breakfast and lunch shift. Mary’s father, Hans, worked at the train yards with Dottie’s father and she went through the same trouble at home. Mary’s mother had died last year in childbirth and she took car of the newborn and running the house just like Dottie, but she didn’t have a grandma with no legs to take care of. She didn’t have a grandma to stick up for her either. Mary put her makeup on at the dance hall because if she didn’t it would be all smeared from the tears of fighting with her father.

“I almost didn’t make it this time. I had to run out of the house. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I go home. I might not have a home,” Mary said when she hugged Dottie hello.

“Don’t be silly. They can’t do without us. Who would cook and clean and wash their clothes for them? Come on, let’s forget about them and go dancing.”

That was the night Dottie met Second Lieutenant Boyd Crane, a fighter pilot in the US Air Force. What a dream!

NaNoWriMo

2011-11-02T18:02:00.000-04:00

I've signed up for my first ever National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words in one month. I'd already been working on this novel for a year now, most written in Scrivener trial program for Windows. I'd not opened it for quite some time due to my change of life move from Chicago to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Georgia. When I opened it yesterday, November 1st, the start of NaNoWriMo, all of the 19th century writing was gone. Thankfully, I'd compiled all into a word doc, so I didn't really lose it, just had to find and reconstruct. That was how the first day went when I should've been writing 1666 words.

Today was MY first day and I completed 2357, but the day isn't over. I have 975 words to make the complete 3332 for two days. That is how my evening will be spent, I'm sure.

A friend reminded me about my blog & asked if I would update it with the novel info. I must say I'm a bit nervous on that when it's straight writing with no editing or research, so we'll see. But, for those of you who either don't remember or flat don't know, I'm posting the synopsis. I had posted a chapter excerpt last year, and I'll repost that tomorrow. Then, if I do post the progress, at least you'll have an idea of what it's talking about.

And as always, I am open to constructive feedback.

Peace out.

"In Search of Mama" is the story of Dottie Stroebe, a 1st generation German-American girl, with an illegitimate son, who falls in love with a carny man. Clayton is a one-legged Indian half-breed, fifteen years Dottie's senior. They marry, have another child and travel the circus circuit another four years before settling into a non-descript, life in Chicago. When Dottie passes in 2010, a strange elderly southern gentlewoman with the same last maiden name appears at the funeral, gives Dottie's daughter, Marie, a letter that is an invitation to visit her in NC, and saying she's known Marie's mother since she was little. Fifty-years old, with nothing holding her anywhere, Marie packs up and leaves Chicago shortly after. She finds Louise in a tidy log-cabin behind a dilapidated plantation. Even though Louise has extended the invitation, she is not happy to see Marie. As Marie tries to learn what role this mysterious woman played in the life of her mother, a family story unfolds that carries us from 19th century Appalachia to the plains of Oklahoma in the year it became territory, to 20th century railroad yards of Pennsylvania to Chicago from the 1940s to current. It tells of passion, racism and family secrets hushed through generations.

I Am - Blessed Be

2011-10-26T12:03:00.001-04:00

Restless coyote howls shatterfrigid night air as white

candle flames flicker. Leaves whistle a haunting tune on

shivering branches yet tenderlyrustle beneath shuffling

feet. Old year concerns slither away on scented smoke

vaporand ancestors dance joyfully. Drumbeats hearken

my mother, my father, mybrother and wife; faceless

ancestors welcome and embrace with assurance that

peace and release, release and peace are possible.

That matter passes and onlylove remains. They urge

acceptance and understanding without hesitation. Enter

and journey the labyrinth of light and life. The touch of a

stranger’s hand,the reflection in an eye speaks of

knowing in the heart—the heart of all inone, one in all.

The throbbing pulse of Mother Earth coursing through

our veins as we join ourStanding People brothers in the

wooded arena to celebrate death and rebirth,feminine and

masculine, positive and negative, the circle of life never

ending.

Blessed Be!

The released confirmed in tarot,the possibility before me

in colorful ink, step by painful liberating step, validating

my direction, my path, my connection with the universe.

I Am – Blessed Be!

Rocky and the Wolf Worm

2011-10-13T10:17:00.002-04:00

A wolf worm: A large maggot, light tan, and a brownspot on the end. Size is about half of a dime. This fat parasite is the larvaeof the bot fly and will eventually hatch into an adult bot fly…

Primarily in South America, Africa—andsouthern United States. Once the wolf worm has infected its host, it will forma hole inside the host’s skin. The larva can breathe through this hole.

The Rocky cat was out forless than an hour.

I was hoping when we moved tothe country he would enjoy playing in the grass, chasing birds, etc. The firstcouple of days, he didn’t hit it off so well with the neighbor cats that areused to, and have been raised in, the wild. So, I kept him close and in hisyard. Two day ago, playing and training Mello the dog, I lost track of Rockyfor less than an hour.

The next day I noticed himlicking his shoulder and I found a tiny, tiny pin-sized hole. The first thoughtwas that he obviously got into it with one of the cats and a claw got him. Icleaned it with peroxide and went on my way. The next day he continued to lick,I cleaned with peroxide and he licked some more—until there was no hair aroundthe hole. It wasn’t discolored but it emitted a terrible odor. The next thoughtwas that maybe he chased one of the chickens and it pecked him. I cleaned withperoxide and he licked.

Now, the third day, thelicking is serious and the area around this tiny pin-hole is hardened. Talkingto a few friends about and one says, “Oh, that’s a wolf.” A wolf,” I thought, “A wolfwouldn’t bite a cat. A wolf would eat a cat.”

“A wolf?” I asked.

It was hard to get a 'clear' pic, as you might imagine

“Yeah,” she said, “A wolfworm. Cats get them around here.”

So I went home and of course,looked it up on line. A wolf worm or screw worm is a fly larvae, normallyaround and in livestock. We have cattle about a mile over but I doubted Rockygot there and backin less than an hour. They’re also found in rabbit holes. That made more sense. He probably chaseda rabbit and stuck his nose where it shouldn’t be.

The treatment? A warmcompress and squeeze, gently so as not to mash the worm in two, and then pullit out with tweezers when it pops its little brown head out. Rocky took offwhen I just started running the water. Off to the vet.

Upon examination, the vet andhis assistant determine that it is not a wolf worm, rather a wound that has abscessed. One anti-biotic shot and rabies shot later I’m packing Rocky backinto the carrier when the head vet walks in.

“What do we have here?” heinquires.

“She thought he had a wolfworm but it’s just an abscessed wound. Want to take a look?”

“Yeah.”

So, Rocky comes back out ofthe carrier and proceeds to be tortured by a very southern vet.

“Yep, she’s right. It’s awolf worm. Did you get it out?”

“Nooo,” I whine, “he said itwasn’t,” as I pointed accusingly at the offending vet.

Out come the over-sizetweezers that plummet, not gently, into Rocky’s shoulder, once, twice, thricewithout successful removal of anything.

“Did you put something inthere to kill it?” he asks.

“Just peroxide,” I answer

“Yep, it’s dead.”

“Well, I did good then.”

“Nope, not really.”

Out comes the over-sizedq-tip with anti-biotic cream on the end which then also plummets 2 inches into Rocky’s shoulder.

Equipped with instructions tocontinue cleaning and administering liquid anti-biotics, I head out to pay.

“We thought he was working onyou,” laughed the clerk.

Ha-ha!! Yeah, I was oohing and ahhing quite loudly in support of the Rocky cat. So?

I can say though thatCopper Basin Vet will be our vet from here on out. He knew exactly what was upand handled it quite efficiently. All the medications, visit, and shots costwere $45, which would have been easily $300 in Chicago. Needless to say, Rockyis back to being a fat, lazy housecat who only dreams of chasing rabbits.

And, if you look closely, you can see the healing wound on his shoulder. Yuck and Yikes!!

What Is Love

2011-09-29T18:04:00.003-04:00

What Is Love?

What is love but a fervent wish to be

Wordles

2011-09-29T16:34:00.000-04:00

Where Art Thou Calm?

Silent clouds drift in seditious march to thunderclaps

and the shutter snaps a rainbow’s sporadic dance

from pot of gold to pot of gold. Neither here nor there,

while leaves tremor in the grumblings of a sacred mist.

Where, oh where art thou, dear calm?

The croak of an aging cicada pledges

the return, the rebirth, the life of earth.

A semblance of chaos masks the grand plan.

Unpredictability stamps a stigma of ignorance,

yet Mother Earth allows for nothing to hinder

her tread of constance and authority that

plasters time with absolute control.

Within the tangled tuft of man’s mind

therein lies, enmeshed in the weeds' garden,

a bit of harmony strangled by uncertainty.

Still,

silent clouds drift in seditious march to thunderclaps.

Granite Wishes

The crackled revolution is upon us,

full of cheap strangers who screw

and spin a cleansed desperation. Wasted

light burns hope to ash that piles,

compacted to granite wishes.

It's Not Quiet

2011-09-08T10:41:00.000-04:00

Oats simmered with raisins and caramelized brown sugar.

A sprinkle of cinnamon freckles a pat of sweet cream butter.

Squirrels chatter at finches stopping by the dogwood.

Air is crisp, too crisp for a September Georgia morning.

Sun rests on fluffy gray clouds.

It’s not quiet.

Rooster’s crow and crows caw, while

Blue jays flutter through autumn tinged limbs.

Beneath the peace, beneath the tranquility,

Sorrowful voices from StoryCorp remember,

Memorialize loved ones of 9-11.

A young boy tells his grandfather that he is

The only grandfather and he is missed. A son

Remembers the sharing of last words: I love you.

Words carried on the hoot of the morning dove,

On the beat of hummingbird wings,

Float tenderly on the golden leaf transported

In the eternal breeze, that caresses a cheek

High in the mountains and mingles with black coffee steam.

Meter and Form Poetry

2011-09-06T22:57:00.000-04:00

Working on meter and form poetry over at Writing Our Way Home. This is a struggle for me. I've always been a free verse girl, but wanted deeply to learn forms. My attempts at tercets (without counting the meter):

The Hiding Hermit

Where does one go when one isn’t present

Cramped in a hole twisted, stuck and bent

Worry swirls round with evil intent

The sun may shine or the clouds may roll

Matters not to the sunk and buried mole

Who fears the world beyond his little hole

Wait it out and this too shall pass away

Maybe tomorrow, next week, who can say

When the hiding hermit will come out to play

And then:

Heavens Serenade

The skies split and the water flowed

No birds, no crickets, nothing showed

Up for days ‘cept a tiny thrilled toad

Only the patter and pound on dry earth

The gulps and belches of merry and mirth

For the end of the regions dusty dearth

Flowers bloomed bright and bold

All glittered and gleamed like polished gold

The creatures were content, young and old

Rockers on the front porch creaked and swayed

As life once again flourished and played

In the sweet nectar of heavens serenade

My Father's People

2011-08-28T13:12:00.000-04:00

My Father's People

My father’s people walked here,

amidst the blue ridges and crystal waters;

slept here, loved here, long before.

Their whispers reached through the distance,

wound their way through the smog,

along the smoldering cement,

over steel and glass to wrap gently

‘round my heart.

Tone tightened, softened only when heeded—

heeded that voice of freedom, the voice of earth —

constricted and chattered when I forgot.

Call of my father’s people, my people,

guiding me home.

Home to the rivers, home to the mountains

home to my brother trees.

I sit amongst then now and can almost hear clearly.

I am here with hi-da-da-tse-li who labor

lovingly to remove the world, and flood with life.

My father’s people, my people, I walk here

amongst the blue ridges and crystal waters.

S’gi!

The Body Rejoices

2011-08-26T11:28:00.000-04:00

So, I'm working on form and meter over on the writers site Writing Our Way Home. It's really an inspirational site with a bunch of lovely people who are welcoming, warm, and supportive. Right now we're working on Heroic Couplets. For example:

True EASE in WRIting COMES from ART, not CHANCE,
As THOSE move EASiest WHO have LEARN'D to DANCE.
'Tis NOT eNOUGH no HARSHness GIVES ofFENCE,
the SOUND must SEEM an ECho TO the SENSE.

~Alexander Pope

I didn't think the last one I did was very good, which is why I haven't posted it here. I 'try' to share only my good stuff-you'd thank me, really.

So, I thought maybe if I just write and then re-arrange the piece to 'make' a heroic couplet. I struggled with that until I broke out in a cold sweat and before I stamped off and threw myself in bed, I quit. Here is the original piece, which obviously I like since I'm sharing.

The Body Rejoices

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Sunrise meditation, deep morning mountain air breaths

Crisp, cool and damp with night’s sleepy dew.

Tai-chi stretches confident before mindful trees

Warms and caresses stagnant muscles

Breaking dead branches fallen to the earth,

Pulling overgrown horseweed

The bulk of being whispers

“Thank you”

Raking years of layered hickory nuts, shells and leaves

Closer to the compost, closer to the fire pit

Whispers becomes murmurs, turn to screams

Head reels and stomach churns

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Hot water steams down and soothes into lullaby’s

Senses heightened, oxygen pumps robust,

Words tumble, poetry flows

The mind rejoices

The body—content.

Fairyland Haiku

2011-08-19T08:47:00.000-04:00

Mists swirl about dancing

in the trees, through the forest

Creates a fairyland

Sunshine On My Table

2011-08-16T14:08:00.000-04:00

Sunshine on my table

Plucked from my wild yard of weeds

To brighten my table, my day

Boxes to Burn

2011-08-14T18:18:00.000-04:00

Boxes to burn

Time to remember

Slow, simple

Move ment

Wordle #16 - White House of Hell

2011-08-14T15:13:00.000-04:00

White House of Hell

Rusty prophets swept in last month

Foaming spittle, anticipation of the hunt

Morning rose tender with promise

And fate blew its seductive kiss

Soon the walk of talk stumbled and fell

Sun set on the white house of hell

Cement buckled and the veil shred

Torments of greed’s lusty bed

Take notes clearly dear people

Of the crawling scars in yonder steeple

The Voices Prattle - Wordle#15

2011-08-11T12:10:00.000-04:00

The voices prattle on ceaselessly and senselessly,

regardless of scenery, blistered cement or mountain mists.

Replacing bumpin’ Chevy’s with a crickets’ ratchet or

intoxicated screams with wilderness howls did little

to silence the jangle of the juried sentence.

The image of dedicated creator, immersed in serenity

splinters into proclaimed reality of sameness.

“Wherever you are…” rattles the clichéd voice,

proving its limited dimensions. But, “If it’s not broken…”!

Success of past destruction breeds repetitive mimicry.

Ambitions vision stutters on, sprouts hardy greenery

resistant to the blathering of fear-mongering flatulence.

This delicious weed pierces the fortress of holy babble and

emerges, flowering victorious, nutritious, and fruitful.

My Last Dance With Chaos

2011-08-08T19:22:00.000-04:00

My Last Dance With Chaos

Swingin’ my chubs from a cement slab as cars, trucks, buses, and trains zoom

The ole’ alma mater has fresh new faces blended with

Welcome and well wishes amidst horn blasts and gas fumes

On a rolling blue Lake Michigan backdrop

old familiar smiles offering

Crowds of nervous parents in new student orientation—kids loosed in the big city

Life worn characters knock back brown paper sacks while

Privileged poodles and retrievers prance by attached elegantly

To Cadillac strollers steered by sleek plastic facades

View replaced with stone and glass stretching through the haze

To touch wispy skies instead of misty mountain tops tinged in blue.

My last dance with chaos.

The Twist of Forged Fate - Wordle #14

2011-08-07T10:17:00.000-04:00

The Twist of Forged Fate

Chance that the journey is but a parting of the curtains, be they white ruffled chintz or thick brown velvet. Illumination floods, transported on the rush of winds. The revealed is rendered momentarily blind yet, marvels as clouds caress her skin and souls’ scent tickles. The whir of promise shatters the silence of fear. She blinks, and the reprehensible is scattered, splintered; gilded flakes fall to the ground, swallowed by daylilies and dogwood petals. She stands majestic in the twist of forged fate.

The Void Is All An Illusion - Wordle 13

2011-08-07T08:27:00.000-04:00

The Void Is All An Illusion

Surrounded by lush emerald, jade, forest, and mint;

auburn, gold, and russet jostles within to herald

the celestial autumnal arrival. Ivy wraps the balcony

in a rhythmic pantomime with mountain breezes.

There’s a flap in that breeze. Once ominous, now joyous.

For the bones realize the void is all an illusion.