Howl

Never touched.
Forever felt.
Like wind
and spirit.

Your howl is
heard in the
whispers of
sweet sorrow.

Like wind
and spirit.
Forever felt.
Never touched.

In my own words...

I'm trying to spend a few hours with my book this weekend.  I have so much editing and rewriting to do, it's overwhelming.  But every once in a while, I come across a line that inspires me to keep the faith.  Here are three of my favorite lines from the novel-in-progress:

I don’t condone defiance toward God, ya see, but won’t I forever encourage the questioning of mere men.

I long for night, for sleep.  People think it’s because of fatigue, but it’s not.  When I close my eyes, you come back to me.

Each time we lower our heads and turn away, we allow the establishment to continue their cruelties, and they use our silence as their protection.  We are their victims, and we are their shields!

An Elegy for Jack Kerouac (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 16)

Aww, Jack, we stood,
you and me,
in my dreams, on the road,
whoopin’ it up in the heavens on
earth
where our dreams—
tiny pebbles—
were dropped and rippled along
the waves,
cast out to sea,
real dreams, real waters,
real like the winds on Desolation Peak
real like the flames in your head
that would speak
to you,
and through you,
to me.

Aww, Jack, we were free,
you and me,
in my dreams, on the road,
angelic
beatific
prolific
on life’s journey where we danced
high
above the clouds
of gusting dust and
smoke
swirling behind the tail-
pipe
as we zipped along this sacred soil,
our souls splashed and re-
baptized,
bare and blessed,
caressed,
fired up with every step
when we’d meet and greet
the beings of human-
ity.

Aww, Jack, what a pity,
you and me
were only in my dreams,
on the road,
picking lotus flowers
lush along the path of
enlightenment,
left to suffer
with nirvana never found.
To be true,
on this road,
in this God-forsaken world,
you were holy sent
but never in your
element.

Aww, Jack, I pray that you,
not me,
that you
(and Sal, maybe)
through death
found peace
found paradise,
that your soul didn't have to pay a price
and could finally burn,

“burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow
roman candles exploding like spiders
across the stars
and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop
and everybody goes
‘Awww!’"

GO CHARGERS! (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 13 - an animal sestina)

Today we are encouraged to write an animal sestina (in a nutshell, a 39 line/7 stanza poem with rotating ending form of the same six words while using iambic pentameter... right?). Definitely the most challenging poem to date. At least there wasn't pressure to rhyme.   Here goes:


The charger’s chosen first for ev’ry battle
to lead its troop to certain victory,
so all the town can raise their flags and cheer.
The soldiers ride, heads high and filled with pride,
adored by all, accomplishing their goal.
They praise each horse for being such great sports.

A mascot for their school in ev’ry sport,
the charger represents athletic battles.
To play with honor is the major goal,
of course, they’d like to see a victory.
No matter win or loss they end with pride.
No matter win or loss the fans will cheer.

To morning games we travel with good cheer.
We pray for pleasant temps with this fast sport,
as Chargers take the field with schooling pride.
Opponents block and trap in this great battle
as crowds cry out to fight for victory.
And finally we clap as refs call, “Goal!”

On courts they shoot for two or three field goals
with sideline rivals chanting fervent cheers.
The Chargers strive for OT victory;
the Lions want to dominate the sport.
And so it goes, the steal a key in battle,
long pass, down low, the lay up brings us pride!

They join, the boys, for fun with full school pride.
To strengthen skills with each new set, the goal.
The girls, though, serve and spike in focused battle.
A winning match received with joy and cheer.
I’ve got it!  OUT!  It’s mine!  A vocal sport,
a lively treat despite a victory.

For school and independent victory
they run with steady speed and pacing pride.
Endurance crucial for this graceful sport,
each stride and eyes determined on the goal.
Awaiting lines they’ll cross to such great cheer,
each meet, the stars prepare with mental battle.

The Chargers battle on for victory,
Each teammate cheering on Ascension pride.
Play hard, set goals, respect the school and sport.

A City Poem (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 12)

A friend can laugh but keep the story
of silly stupors, on tangents we'd go,
in all our glitz and youthful glory
we'd blend with stars and steal the show.
And if one traveled too close to the sun,
the other reminded, it’s all in fun.

But, no!  You’re so much more than fun!
You filled a void both wide and deep.
A pressure valve released, I'd run
to magical trances on your streets.
For life, at times, we could not bear;
we needed a place and people to share.

Ah, yes! You were the place I'd share
with those who needed serenity, too.
Together we rambled, a nightly affair,
until we had to pay our due.
When daybreak brought us back to woe,
this city was both my friend and foe!

A City Poem #2

CHICAGOU

Prairie of Potawatomi pride
Discovery of Domingan and du Sable
A Fort on the river

Blood of the Black Hawk Wars
Ashes of the great conflagration
Second and windy

Hub to railroads
Liar to immigrant dreams
The White City

Home of Hull House
Riots of Haymarket Square
The Jungle

The Race Riots
The White Sox
The Black Sox

Wrigley Field curses
Super Bowl Sweetness
Three-peat, Three-peat Bulls

Oprah

Skyscrapers and projects
Gardens and ghettos
Limos and cabs and buses and bikes
The El

Gourmet and comforting
Irish, Italian, Mexican, Polish,
Asian, Ukranian, German,
Jamaican, Ethiopian, Puerto Rican...

Chicagoan.

The Whistle (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 8 - Violence prompt)

(The murder of Emmett Till)

Did he whistle?

He did.

No, sir.

I do not recall.

Who the hell cares about the whistle?

the Chicago boy

just 14

that 14-year-old Negro boy
from Chicago

who whistled,

whistled while down visiting Money,

Money, Mississippi

who whistled at a white woman—

he shoulda known not to

not to whistle at no woman

no white woman

shoulda known not to whistle at no white woman

while down in Mississippi

when you’re a 14-year-old boy

from Chicago

when you’re a Negro boy

no matter the age and

birthplace

but especially when you’re a

14-year-old Negro boy from up north

from Chicago.

but they say he did it

that he done whistled

that he done whistled at the white woman

and so they came for him

the white woman’s husband and his brother

they came for the Negro boy who whistled

found him in his uncle’s house

asleep in the black of night

found the Negro boy asleep, not thinking

about the whistle

but the husband and brother sure were

and they roused that boy

that Negro boy and kidnapped ‘im

took ‘im away to teach ‘im a lesson

teach ‘im a lesson is what they done did

carry ‘im out back

to the car

drive ‘im down the road

to the farm

shoot ‘im in the head

to the sound of drunken laughter

tie ‘em  with wire

to the cotton gin

mess up his face and ears just for fun

drag him to the river ‘fore the rising of the sun

walkin’ aways as if a battle they’d won

a battle between

power and
power-
less-
ness

a battle between a

deranged society and a boy

a 14-year-old boy

a 14-year-old Negro boy from Chicago

who whistled

who dared to whistle

whistle at a white woman

while visiting Money, Mississippi.

That whistle.

Did he whistle?

He did.

No, sir.

I do not recall.

Who the hell cares about the whistle?

Flippin' Pages

(Just a start, for something, not sure...)

    Though she enjoyed at least one cup of joe each morning, she never dreamt of it, and yet, leasing the old coffeehouse in town was going to be a dream come true.  At least that was the hope.  The ambiance was completely different now with only a few exceptions.  There was still a sitting area to the left of the door in the windowed alcove overlooking the street, but the metal chairs and small, round tables were replaced with reupholstered wing-chairs from the local Salvation Army with outdated magazines and journals from the library and barbershop perfectly splayed on a chipped coffee table donated by neighbors who couldn’t sell it at their last garage sale.  The cash register remained at center behind the heavy mahogany counter.  She couldn’t possibly have found a more tasteful furniture piece, and though it took up more room than she wanted, being three-sided and waist-high, it seemed to fit, and its outer shelves that used to house various mugs and coffee beans, now featured her recommended book collection, with self-written reviews on little placards placed beside each title, a time-consuming chore, but one she did with passion for a personal flare.
    And then there was the al fresco mural, kept but nearly invisible.  The scenery on the wall was completely obscured so that a patron could only catch a glimpse of a patch of leaves, a hidden fig, or a single sprawling vine, when removing a text from its nestled spot.  Perhaps, the avid reader wouldn’t even notice the masterpiece at all.  It was a shame, really, to conceal the tranquil creation of some unknown artist, but a bookstore needed shelves - lots of them, floor to ceiling, corner to corner - and with the limited space available, there was no choice but to blanket the artwork with a sturdy grid of hardy planks, mini scaffolds to hold and protect the weight of treasures, row after row.
    Not long now, she thought, with a wide smile beneath her fingertips as she scanned the single room.  Her index finger tapped on her lips to the beat of an Italian love song, its words she couldn’t comprehend, but the melody was soft and pleasing, like all of the tunes on the CD left behind by the former owner.  She would turn it off, of course, when she finally opened the door for business, but it was the only selection she played while setting up the place, having downloaded all her music and selling all of her discs for the $150 advertisement bill:

FLIPPIN’ PAGES

Grand Opening this Saturday, May 2
10 a.m. - 2 p.m.
A gently Used Book Store and Book Club meeting place
(Tutoring Services available)

Bring in five gently used books of any genre and get
ONE BOOK FREE
with your first purchase.

    What’s taking him so long? she said out loud when noticing the battery-operated clock above the entrance.  There was just one hour to go, and her husband had not yet returned from the bank where he was instructed to exchange two twenty-dollar bills for quarters and singles.
    From the corner of her eye, she viewed the cubbies lining the picture window on the entry way’s right side.  The glass declared “Flippin’ Pages,” etched in frosted letters, and she had cleaned it several times already, finding missed streaks each time, but the paper-towels were still sitting among the tutoring pamphlets and “how-to” books.  She retrieved the roll and shook her head at herself.  You really need more non-fiction.  A couple of cookbooks, do-it-yourself house repair, writers’ manuals, sports-related digests, animal encyclopedias, atlases and map collections, history texts... but absolutely nothing for the gardener or traveler.
    You’ll get there.
    The well-shined knob clicked, and the wooden door creaked open.  His presence startled her.
    “I’ma come in.  Yes,” he stated, not a question or request - a statement.
    She wanted to say, “No.  No you won’ta come in.  Come back at ten,” but instead she accepted him cordially.  “Of course, you can.  Welcome.”

Books for which I am thankful...

Blogging and personal writing have been nearly non-existent since the school year began. This month, however, will have an ongoing post. Throughout November, I will be posting a quote from books for which I am thankful. I encourage you to add your own quotes/books in the comment section, and please let me know if you've read any of these great works!

23.  "To lose love is a terrible thing... But to turn away from it is unbearable.  Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head?  Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily?  Or if you'll ever love anyone that deeply again?"

Kristin Hannah, Winter Garden

22.   “The most dangerous thing we can believe is that we are not the authors of our fate.  God gave us reason, conscience.  We must use it.  To say that our life, our world, just is the way that it is, that we do not play a part - I think it is the worst kind of cowardice.”

Kelly O’Connor McNees, The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott


21.    “Any woman who is sure of her own wits is a match at any time for a man who is not sure of his own temper.”

Wilkie Collins, A Woman in White

20.   "The incompetent always present themselves as experts, the cruel as pious, sinners as devout, usurers as benefactors, the small-minded as patriots, the arrogant as humble, the vulgar as elegant, and the feeble-minded as intellectual."

Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Angel’s Game

19.  “A birth is not really a beginning. Our lives at the start are not really our own but only the continuation of someone else's story.”

Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

18.  “You’re so good at pretending, you’re even tricking yourself.”

Emma Donoghue, Room

17.   “How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.”

Theodore Dreiser, Sister Carrie

16.  “It'll be a change," says Marcus. "Something different."
         "Not a mystery."
         Marcus laughs. "No. Not a mystery. Just a nice safe history."
         “Ah, my darling. But there is no such thing.”

Kate Morton, The House at Riverton

15.  “Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.”

Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

14.  "They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions... but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

13.  "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves."

Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

12.   “Why did you do all this for me?" he asked. "I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.”
“You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.”

E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

11.  “But the rest are even scared to open up and laugh. You know, that's the first thing that got me about this place, that there wasn't anybody laughing. I haven't heard a real laugh since I came through that door, do you know that? Man, when you lose your laugh you lose your footing.”

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

10.   “He was BEAT — the root, the soul of Beatific.”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

9.  "A man ain't nothing but a man. But a son? Well, now, that's somebody"

Toni Morrison, Beloved

8.  "There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and everything that he desires is outside; and there is another kind where things are behind bars, and the man is outside."

Upton Sinclair, The Jungle

7.  “... there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life... you steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... there is no act more wretched than stealing.”

- Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner 

6.  “The discomfort of that gaze, its disconcerting combination of impenetrability and knowingness, affected me intensely, producing a kind of paralysis of will.  I felt that she knew me instantly for what I was, and for who I was, in all my disguises.  It appeared to me that those eyes had taken in all the degradations of my life, and recorded all my doings committed beneath the light of heaven, or the cloak of night; that they saw, too, what I was capable of, and what, with time and opportunity, I would do.  I suddenly felt unaccountably afraid of her; for I knew then that I would have no choice but to love her, with nothing given back.”

- Michael Cox, The Meaning of Night 

5.  “She told us that both our grandmothers were angry because neither Lori nor I had been named after them, so she decided to call the baby Lilly Ruth Maureen.  Lilly was Mom’s mother’s name, and Erma Ruth was Dad’s mother’s name.  But we’d call the baby Maureen, a name Mom liked because it was a diminutive of Mary, so she’d also be naming the baby after herself but pretty much no one would know it.  That, Dad told us, would make everyone happy except his mom, who hated the name Ruth and wanted the baby called Erma, and Mom’s mom, who would hate sharing her namesake with Dad’s mom.”

- Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

4.  "When you're five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties you know how hold you are. I'm twenty-three, you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It's a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I'm--you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you're not. You're thirty-five. And then you're bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it's decades before you admit it."

- Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants 

 

3.  "Bodies may be tortured.  They may even die.  But the spirit goes on.  And if a person is part of family, the spirit is housed anew in another body each time a child builds his home as a branch of his parents'.  In this way, every father and every mother, every grandfather and every grandmother, goes on living in children and grandchildren."

- Naomi Ragen, The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

2.  "Success today would dispel at last the eastern perception that Chicago was nothing more than a greedy, hog-slaughtering backwater; failure would bring humiliation from which the city would not soon recover, given how heartily its leading men had boasted that Chicago would prevail.  It was this big talk, not the persistent southwesterly breeze, that had prompted New York editor Charles Anderson Dana to nickname Chicago the Windy City."

- Erik Larson, The Devil in the White City

1.  “Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen.”

- Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Shadow in the Wind

September 11th

It was September 11, 2001.  I had a 22-month old and 5-month old.  It was early.  I heard the phone ring, but I was busy with the boys.  I didn't pay attention to the message or wonder who had called.  I assumed it was my mother and would return the call when I had finished changing the infant's diaper and cleaning up the toddler's breakfast mess.  But something told me to check the answering machine right away, not to wait, and so I did.  It was Lorie's voice, the voice of my childhood friend/maid-of-honor/partner and confidante in life's ups and downs.  The voice was uncharacteristically shaken.  "Ger, you have to turn on the news.  A plane flew into the World Trade Center."  I was holding the baby when I pressed the power button on the remote, and just as the screen turned from black to vivid image, I saw the billowing smoke from the tops of the towers and thought, "No way."  Then the replay of the events were shown, the first building already ablaze, a commercial plane careening smack into the second building, the horror on the faces of journalists, and the unstated reality that some kind of evil plan was being carried out in New York.  "Dear God," I started, but the rest of the prayer didn't come.  I was mute and held my baby tightly.  I took both boys into the playroom and turned on a Thomas the Tank Engine movie to occupy them while I called my friend.  Our ears were on the handsets, but our eyes were glued to the televisions, every channel and every citizen mesmerized and stunned, almost in a trance of disbelief.  "What is happening?  HOW is this happening?"  The questions were unstoppable, and then another crash was reported at the Pentagon; we refrained from admission of our country being under attack because that would mean we weren't as powerful or untouchable or... safe.  But the towers fell.  Those mighty steel structures disintegrated into a warzone scene of clouds and dust, engulfing the streets and skies, and even though I had the sound set low, I could hear the screams of those trapped, of those running to escape, of those trying desperately to save others.  I could hear the sirens and the explosions; I could feel the confetti-like debris on my goosebumped arms and wet eyelashes.  Lorie and I hung up before the story started to unfold about the crash in Shanksville, PA, and while my heart continued to pound, and my mind continued to swirl, I stepped outside on the front porch amid the silence that I never noticed before.  Living close to an airport, that deafening silence will forever hold a place in my heart, that sign that life was standing still, and I wouldn't have hope again until I heard another plane fly overhead.  I wanted to be with all the people that meant the most in my life.  I wanted to see my boys smile, but I couldn't keep myself away from the news reports.  I knew our world was now changed, and I finally finished my prayer.  I knelt on the living room floor and bent across the couch with clasped hands, and I asked the Lord for answers, for resolution, for peace, for blessings bestowed on all those who lost their lives and for their loved ones who had to carry on without them, for my children's safety and happiness in a world that was now turned upside-down.

Where were you on September 11, 2001?

Good News!

Please check out my book review (posted today!) at http://thenewbookreview.blogspot.com/.  AND checkout my writers' tid-bit article (posted today!) at http://penandprosper.blogspot.com/.  What a day!