500 words per day, that's the commitment to the Summer Novelist's Club on Facebook. a bunch of Columbia College grads, students, alum & professors. It feels great but i wonder why i need to have a commitment for something that feels soooo damn good.
the start:
Pink cherry blossoms mingled with lavender magnolia blooms to fill the crisp spring air with a perfumed welcome. Beyond the tree-lined gravel drive were rainbow clumps of full-bloomed tulips peeking through knee-high grass. There, at the end of the pastoral scene, sat a weathered plantation, graying paint-peeled columns stood solemn guard over the black holes of fractured glass. A warning caw of a crow lingered on the breeze. Marie sat beneath a cherry tree, elbows on knees, chin in cupped hands, and sighed deeply, drenched in her surroundings.
I’ll be damned, this is the house from my dreams. She picked a blade of grass and stuck it in her teeth. Marie pulled the letter out again, straightened the worn creases, its corners yellowed and ragged from constant fingering. The faint scent of lavender still wafted with each shift of the delicate stationary. She stared for the millionth time at the cramped script etched into the tiny pink rose watermark.
July 12, 1992
Dear Marie
I was terribly sorry to hear about Dot’s death. Please accept my sincere condolences. I’m sitting here watching the simple little ceremony and I’m sure she would’ve loved it. Your mama was always an outside girl. Never knew anyone as easygoing and full of fun as she was. She was certainly the free spirit of the family. You all look like your daddy—a lot.
I’ve known your mama since she was a little girl and we never lost contact over the years. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Dot I wouldn’t be alive today. She was a great woman, your mama. I hope you know that. She never did get to come visit like she wanted to so I’m inviting you. She always wanted to come when the cherry trees blossomed, so if you come maybe you’ll come then. That would make her happy.
Anyway, we’ll be prayin’ for you and your mama and maybe we’ll see you all soon.
Yours Truly;
Louise Stroebe
And so here she was and the cherry trees were in bloom. She creased the paper yet again and put it back in her shirt pocket. It was certainly peaceful and serene but she couldn’t imagine her mother being ever wanting to be here. “Outside girl, easygoing and full of life” was not the general description of her mother by anyone. Up until the day of the service Marie had thought of the woman as a little Hitler, and then not even that little. She lived her entire life, and tried to make Marie live her life in stoic, regimented order. Marie was the radical Harley riding, free-loving, free sprit, not her mother. Yet, when she and the kids let the winds of Lake Michigan take the ashes, Marie had a tingling sensation that she may have been a bit mistaken.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010
She ventures amongst the living but momentarily
Less than thrice within as many days
Excuses abound to validate and justify
Only the necessities of life
Account for the occasional contact with humankind
Otherwise, she paces up and back with questions
Hesitation and eventual submission to nothingness
Sunrise, sunset, dawn to dusk and round again
Creativity is null, absent, escaped with activity
Ideas suggest a well-maintained mind in working order
One wonders to what extent however, without live stimulation
Or the true health of what is current
Less than thrice within as many days
Excuses abound to validate and justify
Only the necessities of life
Account for the occasional contact with humankind
Otherwise, she paces up and back with questions
Hesitation and eventual submission to nothingness
Sunrise, sunset, dawn to dusk and round again
Creativity is null, absent, escaped with activity
Ideas suggest a well-maintained mind in working order
One wonders to what extent however, without live stimulation
Or the true health of what is current
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
WFMT National Poetry Month Winner
My Ballet of Life
Donna Kiser
I watch through the blackness that becomes indigo.
I wait through the indigo that becomes a gold shimmer
of the silky embrace that never disappoints,
the constant rapture that chases shadows
into the brilliant light of truth and touch that
will carry the transformed through the heavens of peace.
A gossamer whisper speaks of quiet hope
longing for the lush joy beyond transcendence.
I sit on a pier of frigid or steamy cement peering
with pounding heart for the explosion of sunrise
over Lake Michigan that presents serenity to a
sleepy, stoic, often ungrateful Chicago.
Powerful serenity to protect without crush,
without smother of the flight.
This is my sunrise, my comfort of
good morning from Grandfather Sun.
My ballet of life in Chicago.
There are others more pronounced,
more famous, more unique, but
none are here, none are mine.
The whispy burnt sienna over Guimaras Island,
the waltz of the sun in Tre Cruces, Peru,
the unforgettable Haleakala, Maui for me does not compare
to sullied gulls screeching welcome in cloudy or clear skies,
to the unimpeded anticipation of possibility.
Nowhere is there my sunrise, my comfort of
good morning from Grandfather Sun.
Nowhere is my ballet of life like this.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
She Just Wants to Go
She Just Wants to Go
March 1, 2010
She just wants to go home. Her head is bald and cold. Her fingertips sting even inside gloves. Her feet are wrapped in wool inside fur-lined boots and still, they are frozen. She wants to be rid of this deep freeze beside the lake even though it will be icier 70 miles west. The wind will race across the open fields and whistle through the aged window panes. But those panes will be covered in plastic and heavy drapery, and they will be closed. Unlike Marie’s windows that are either open—‘cracked a little’ as she says—or closed with only mini-blinds between the chilled glass and the room, which is then inevitably refrigerated. She’s shivered for a month.
She just wants to go home. Home where there is no living area only soft bedrooms, no neighbors that visit constantly, no coffee perking incessantly. Her son was alone and needed her but where was she—having chemotherapy in some massive complex west side Chicago. He isn’t alone any longer, his wife returned but still, they need her and she is miles away with a woman who hates plastic bottles and Fabreeze and shopping. A woman she’s known for thirty-eight years and has become a complete stranger, a woman she can’t imagine having as a friend.
She just wants to go home. She’s adamant that no matter what, she will be home tonight. No matter that it’s the worst blizzard in twenty years, no matter that everyone refuses to drive her there. She’s headed to Metra in whiteout conditions, with tires that have never been rotated and slide through stop signs, screeching to within inches of bumpers. Marie bitches at each instance of crash possibility.
“See, and you wanted to drive down 88 that’s all open highway. Shouldn’t even be driving here. And you really need to do something about these damn tires. I’m not driving this car anywhere until the roads are dry, so if you want it home, your son’s gonna have to come get it.”
Marie repeats it every time she pumps the brakes and the car continues onward, reaching wantonly for the others cars creeping through the storm at rush hour. Okay, she says, forget it, to take her back, and she’ll get home another way. But they are already passed the halfway mark and Marie says it makes no damn difference if they drive north or south, it’s the same shit all over. So they continue toward the shrouded lights of Ogilvie station distorted through the white. Taxi cabs honk, sirens blare, CTA buses loom all around but Marie makes it to the curb.
She just wants to go home. She doesn’t care if she can’t walk, if it’s sleet and ice, doesn’t care if there’s hundreds of people coming and going, pushing and bumping. She can’t wait for Marie’s daughter to get out, to help her out, she’s out, she’s going home and she’s down, under the car. Her hat has fallen off and her bald head screams at the world, “Look at me! I have cancer and I just want to go home.” Terry’s stocky 5 foot frame picks up her 6 feet of 95lbs and carries her to the train, puts her in the seat and tells her to have the conductor help with the luggage. She nods, she sighs, she leans back and sleeps.
She just wants to go home. She calls Bobby, tells him she’s in the first car of the train and she’s on time. When the train reaches its destination, end of the line, Elburn, IL, she drags herself from the seat. The white haired man offers his assistance but she snatches the luggage away.
“My son’s picking me up.”
She shuffles down from the train one step at a time, stands in the silent whiteness and sees no one. Where is Bobby? Where is Marie? She begins to cry and drags the suitcase along the platform in some direction that she thinks is correct. She cries and whimpers and there is no Bobby, no Marie. Then out of the blinding swirls strolls Bobby and she falls into his arms. He shoves her off and grabs the suitcase.
“What the hell is wrong with you? This isn’t the first car. This is the last car. You just had to come home now, huh? In the worst weather of the year. Make me drive in this shit when I just want to be home with my family. I don’t know ma, what the fuck is wrong with you.”
She just wants to go home. She pulls herself up as straight as possible and shuffles as quickly as she can to keep up. She just wants to go home, home to her son and here she is.
Now, she just wants to go to California.
March 1, 2010
She just wants to go home. Her head is bald and cold. Her fingertips sting even inside gloves. Her feet are wrapped in wool inside fur-lined boots and still, they are frozen. She wants to be rid of this deep freeze beside the lake even though it will be icier 70 miles west. The wind will race across the open fields and whistle through the aged window panes. But those panes will be covered in plastic and heavy drapery, and they will be closed. Unlike Marie’s windows that are either open—‘cracked a little’ as she says—or closed with only mini-blinds between the chilled glass and the room, which is then inevitably refrigerated. She’s shivered for a month.
She just wants to go home. Home where there is no living area only soft bedrooms, no neighbors that visit constantly, no coffee perking incessantly. Her son was alone and needed her but where was she—having chemotherapy in some massive complex west side Chicago. He isn’t alone any longer, his wife returned but still, they need her and she is miles away with a woman who hates plastic bottles and Fabreeze and shopping. A woman she’s known for thirty-eight years and has become a complete stranger, a woman she can’t imagine having as a friend.
She just wants to go home. She’s adamant that no matter what, she will be home tonight. No matter that it’s the worst blizzard in twenty years, no matter that everyone refuses to drive her there. She’s headed to Metra in whiteout conditions, with tires that have never been rotated and slide through stop signs, screeching to within inches of bumpers. Marie bitches at each instance of crash possibility.
“See, and you wanted to drive down 88 that’s all open highway. Shouldn’t even be driving here. And you really need to do something about these damn tires. I’m not driving this car anywhere until the roads are dry, so if you want it home, your son’s gonna have to come get it.”
Marie repeats it every time she pumps the brakes and the car continues onward, reaching wantonly for the others cars creeping through the storm at rush hour. Okay, she says, forget it, to take her back, and she’ll get home another way. But they are already passed the halfway mark and Marie says it makes no damn difference if they drive north or south, it’s the same shit all over. So they continue toward the shrouded lights of Ogilvie station distorted through the white. Taxi cabs honk, sirens blare, CTA buses loom all around but Marie makes it to the curb.
She just wants to go home. She doesn’t care if she can’t walk, if it’s sleet and ice, doesn’t care if there’s hundreds of people coming and going, pushing and bumping. She can’t wait for Marie’s daughter to get out, to help her out, she’s out, she’s going home and she’s down, under the car. Her hat has fallen off and her bald head screams at the world, “Look at me! I have cancer and I just want to go home.” Terry’s stocky 5 foot frame picks up her 6 feet of 95lbs and carries her to the train, puts her in the seat and tells her to have the conductor help with the luggage. She nods, she sighs, she leans back and sleeps.
She just wants to go home. She calls Bobby, tells him she’s in the first car of the train and she’s on time. When the train reaches its destination, end of the line, Elburn, IL, she drags herself from the seat. The white haired man offers his assistance but she snatches the luggage away.
“My son’s picking me up.”
She shuffles down from the train one step at a time, stands in the silent whiteness and sees no one. Where is Bobby? Where is Marie? She begins to cry and drags the suitcase along the platform in some direction that she thinks is correct. She cries and whimpers and there is no Bobby, no Marie. Then out of the blinding swirls strolls Bobby and she falls into his arms. He shoves her off and grabs the suitcase.
“What the hell is wrong with you? This isn’t the first car. This is the last car. You just had to come home now, huh? In the worst weather of the year. Make me drive in this shit when I just want to be home with my family. I don’t know ma, what the fuck is wrong with you.”
She just wants to go home. She pulls herself up as straight as possible and shuffles as quickly as she can to keep up. She just wants to go home, home to her son and here she is.
Now, she just wants to go to California.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Writers resource links
writing is such a solitary act that we often forget to connect with others, however, to become better and to get published, someone must do the connecting. here are a few resources:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CRWROPPS-B/
http://www.writersrelief.com/
http://www.placesforwriters.com/
just a few to get you started.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Geneaology
Holding Hands
2009
My grandfather’s hands reach through the thick
Steam clouds of America’s great iron horses.
Strong, weathered hands covered in the black crust
Of coal dust immune to hot water and lye suds.
Our fingertips have never met over the years and
Tears that flow over the calluses and carpal tunnel.
A daughter’s freedom fight waged against the Old country
Rigidity and bigotry smothered the familial, and losers all.
Yet, so much of me is scorched by the railroad steel and
The Pennsylvania soil toiled by Germanic stoicism.
I am he, cupped in those battered hands that reach silently.
He is me, flowing through fingertips onto stark silence.
Mute stoicism brands us through the centuries with
Destruction still to the familial, with only the hope that
Past century’s lessons learned will last, and at last
Conquer the stubborn Attila the Hun barbarianism.
2009
My grandfather’s hands reach through the thick
Steam clouds of America’s great iron horses.
Strong, weathered hands covered in the black crust
Of coal dust immune to hot water and lye suds.
Our fingertips have never met over the years and
Tears that flow over the calluses and carpal tunnel.
A daughter’s freedom fight waged against the Old country
Rigidity and bigotry smothered the familial, and losers all.
Yet, so much of me is scorched by the railroad steel and
The Pennsylvania soil toiled by Germanic stoicism.
I am he, cupped in those battered hands that reach silently.
He is me, flowing through fingertips onto stark silence.
Mute stoicism brands us through the centuries with
Destruction still to the familial, with only the hope that
Past century’s lessons learned will last, and at last
Conquer the stubborn Attila the Hun barbarianism.
Monday, January 4, 2010
New Years Day-2010
The Dawn of the New
Cherished silence post revelry
Blue moon shimmers over still waters
Chosen solitude refreshes and reminds
Whispers that all is well, past and future
I await the dawn of the new
Rising on plentiful dreams and possibilities
Whether sunshine or clouds
The movement is perpetual
Beneath the coldness of winter
Wrapped in sparkling hoarfrost
Plump and juicy ripe fruits
All await the dawn of the new
The day blooms in nurtured bonds
Essentials of existence meted thru
A shared exchange of gifting
The body wearies yet the spirit exalts
Dusk lowers on satiated slumber
Dreams drift in delicious ease
Gathered together effortlessly
To await the dawn of the new
Cherished silence post revelry
Blue moon shimmers over still waters
Chosen solitude refreshes and reminds
Whispers that all is well, past and future
I await the dawn of the new
Rising on plentiful dreams and possibilities
Whether sunshine or clouds
The movement is perpetual
Beneath the coldness of winter
Wrapped in sparkling hoarfrost
Plump and juicy ripe fruits
All await the dawn of the new
The day blooms in nurtured bonds
Essentials of existence meted thru
A shared exchange of gifting
The body wearies yet the spirit exalts
Dusk lowers on satiated slumber
Dreams drift in delicious ease
Gathered together effortlessly
To await the dawn of the new
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