Life Flutters - A Small Stone

The hummingbird visited this morning

Hovered at the window

Life flutters

The Sun Rises

The Trifecta challenge: Give us 33-333 words with this as your inspiration: The world will end in three days. 


I am impressed because this has gotten me writing. Good job. 


The Sun Rises

The cats need fed, the dog a walk

On the wild side

The chickens have yet to lay an egg

And, I scramble in the moment

Cilantro has gone to seed while

Pumpkins control the ground

A pepper here, a bean there

Sprouts galore, everywhere

The sun rises bronze and

Sets in amber waves

It all matters not what comes or goes

The world will end in three days.

Poetry manuscript scattered about

Novel started, stopped and lost

Inspiration sweats and drips

In puddles on the parched earth

The deck beckons, as does the bed

Instead, knees and fingernails caked

Cool red Georgia clay soothes the fever

Yet the willing soul bakes

The sun rises bronze and

Sets in amber waves

It all matters not what comes or goes

The world will end in three days.

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. 

Feel the Earth -AROS

Work the earth, feel the earth
Gloves not allowed

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.

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. 

"What Do You Write?"

As I sit here, on the mountaintop, beneath birdsong, surrounded by lushness, with the ever present "you should be writing" voice repeating itself in my brain, the question I'm always asked whenever I say I'm a writer looms large.

"I retired to the mountains to write," I mentioned to a neighbors guest yesterday when he walked his dog by and Mello growled at the unknown presence.

"Oh, you're a writer. What do you write?"

Besides the fact that I've not written much of anything lately except blog posts about my One Women Homestead, or the fact that I'm not writing, this questions always perturbs me. Even artists must be labeled and placed in a particular box.

A painter paints landscapes or watercolors or portraits or houses. A musician plays jazz or blues or rock and roll. A dancer does ballet or ballroom or hip-hop. As though, if they chose, they couldn't do the other, or all.

Cozy goldness peeks through lush limbs

Turns to hazy heated afternoon becomes

Cool silvery midnight glow

I write poetry. I write reviews. I write short stories. I am writing a novel. I write blog posts about all kinds of 'stuff' here, and I write writerly stuff here. But to put all that in an answer to "what do you write?" I shouldn't have to. 

I am a writer. You are a dancer, musician, painter. We are artists. We create. 

Don't let them put you in a box because as sure as that cozy goldness turns to hazy heat to cool silver, they will close the flaps and seal us in.