Tag Archives: poetry

RIP Paul Squires

Paul, who posted brilliant poetry on his gingatao blog, is dead as the result of an accidental fall.  He was only 46 years old — a tragic loss to the world of a wise and stunningly gifted human being who was dedicated to art, ethics, and high principles.

How well I recall when blog buddies and I crowned Paul Poet Laureate of the Universe. He will always have that title in my mind and my heart. And how I appreciated how sweet he was, encouraging my fledgling poems on my blog. He inspired me with his wise and wonderful, freewheeling, brilliantly creative style. A comment from Paul always made my day.

I went for a hike yesterday in my beloved nearby mountains. And I, a veteran hiker, saw a flower that I had never before seen in the woods — a gorgeous orange flower, the only one visible.

It spoke to me of Paul, the beauty of his heart and soul, his delightfully startling uniqueness, the essence of Paul who will live forever in the minds and hearts of all of us who will always love and admire him. His inspiration and example lives in a flower on an East Tennessee mountain and will continue to live through everyone and everything in this world that shines in beauty, originality, and goodness.

Catching Up (or trying to)

I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long.  Time has really gotten away from me.  *blinks*, is 2010 already half-gone?  Or nearly so?  It simply can’t be!

Sigh.  Plea to time:  SLOW DOWN, why don’t ya!?

Let’s see — first off, my friend Gwen Mitchell bestowed upon me the Soulmate Award.  Thanks, Gwennie!

It comes with four rules:

1. Five recipients.
2. Make up something about the people you give the award to.
3. Link to the people you give it to.
4. Link back to the original award post.

Bwahahaha. *rubbing hands together*  Here we go:

Dorothy Bumber.  She and I, kindred spirits, both have faeries who live in our gardens and tend our flowers and veggies.

Ann Pino.  Her rabbit, Cadbury, and my cat, MaoMao, are one and the same, and their secret lies in shapeshifting.  And in all seriousness, please check out Ann’s newly released novel, Maelstrom.  It rocks — quite literally. One heck of a fun read.

Susan Helene Gottfried.  Trevor and Mitchell, from her fictional band ShapeShifter, are actually real people, and they like to come over and jam with me while I play my piano.

Jannie Funster.  She and I are twins separated at birth — storytellers and musicians who tell stories through our music and make music via our stories, and we commune on projects whilst we dream.

Leah Utas.  We are both ardent mountain climbers and are looking forward to the challenge of Mt. Everest.

And speaking of awards, my friend Paige gave me the Happiness 101 Award.  Cool beans, and thank you!

As part and parcel of this award, I must tell ten things that make me happy.  Not hard at all, I assure you.  I’ll even provide photo illustrations, where appropriate. ;)

1.  Watching the garden grow.  Or should I say, explode.  We used fertilizer this year, and well… talk about some huge vegetation.  The cabbage plants are enormous, and the potato plants are twice as tall this year as last.  And though I feared we’d have a dry spring, we’ve gotten fairly decent rain.

Check out this garden.  Soon we’ll be getting all kinds of yummies, and in the meantime, we’ll keep picking the bugs off the potato plants.

Our potato plants (hopefully, you can’t see the bugs):

Broccoli plant working on a floret:

Ginormous cabbage plants:

Green bean plants that are already climbing their wires:

Tomato plants, already hanging full of developing tomatoes:

And sprouting corn:

2.  Hiking.  I’m not a writer who can do constant BIC (butt-in-chair).  I consider myself productive, actually quite driven, but I’ve got to get out and shake off the mold on a regular basis.  No, on a frequent basis.  And for me, that means going to the mountain.  Every hike is different.  There’s always something new to see.  For example, fresh ghost flowers, growing in the same location as the old ones from last year, which are still standing like mummified matchsticks.  As you can see, the new ones are just now pushing themselves out of the dirt.  Ghost flowers are fascinating — rare and strange and lovely.  You can read more about them here.

Thanks to recent rain, the tadpoles on the mountain are thriving and still have a well-watered pond.  Here’s a tadpole hanging out in a skeletonized leaf:

Soon, there’ll be scrumptious snacking on the mountain — behold, blackberries in development.  In my appetite for blackberries, I rival any black bear.

The forest looks particularly lush after a spring rain.

The mountain laurel is starting to bloom.  Here are the first blossoms I’ve seen, this warm season.  The rest of the laurel will soon follow suit.

And no series of spring-on-the-mountain pictures would be complete without a dazzling drift of daisies.

3.  Writing novels.  I’m proud of myself, having recently completed first-pass revisions to Heart’s Chalice.  But much work remains to be done on that novel.  I’m going to let it bake for the rest of June, then come July, I will dive, in earnest, into second-pass revisions.  This story has been a long time coming together, but I believe — hope — it’ll be worth the wait.

During June, I’ll brainstorm rewrites to House on Bear Branch, to be retitled Deirdre of the Sorrows.  I also have a completed novel, Patchwork Stained Glass, on my plate, on which I have put final polish.  And more novels are bubbling in the constantly-churning stew of my mind.  Stay tuned for updates.

4.  Writing short fiction.  Check out my story blog, Grace Notes, to read flash fiction based on my novel-in-progress, Heart’s Chalice.  I haven’t updated Grace Notes in a while, because I’ve been focused on revising the actual novel.  Another consideration — I don’t want to tap out Heart’s Chalice short fiction before the book can come out.  But I will be writing short fiction again, you can count on it — whether about Heart’s Chalice, or another novel.

5. Playing piano and writing music.  While my inner editor has been ruthlessly whacking at my novel, my muse has come out to indulge my other great artistic passion:  music.  I’m entering a new songwriting phase, and I’m finding it particularly delightful.  At some point (hopefully soon), I plan on recording my music and making it available online.

6.  Ballicai.  In other words, my much-loved cats.

Marilyn MonREOW:

Dorydoo:

Brainball and MaoMao:

7.  Writing and reading poetry.  Often, my poems become song lyrics.  If they’re sufficiently lyrical and rhythmic, that is.

8.  Studying philosophy.  I’ve been doing quite a bit of that lately.  Everything from ancient Greek thought to modern philosophers.  The meaning of philosophy is “love of wisdom”, and that’s a direction I seek to grow: in wisdom.

9. Blogging.  Yes, I still enjoy blogging, even if time is passing too quickly, I keep crazy-busy, and I don’t wind up blogging as often as I would like.  I’m fairly active on Facebook, and from time to time, on Twitter.

10.  Love and friendship.  Speak for themselves, in a way which can’t be done justice in words.

Teacher

(This poem was written for Three Word Wednesday – in it, I use the last three weeks’ worth of word triads, and I’ve put the words in bold.)

Oh Teacher! My teacher!
Humble thou art:
thine art be humble
when spun from the heart.
Dancing in spirals
high above fear,
soars wisdom of ages
from sages and seers.
Sages will flower
with parsley and thyme,
unfolding seers
hear life as a rhyme.

Oh Teacher! My teacher!
Spiritus sanctus:
flow through me gently,
weightless, my aegis.
Fingers of dread
ignore, they’re but phantoms –
grasp only that which
we offer as bedlam.
Phantoms transmute
to imagination,
bedlam becomes
a verdant vacation.

Oh Teacher! My teacher!
Ground, grass, and faerie:
pacify saplings
and red-tailed hawk aeries.
Abandon no hopes
all ye who enter
the blessings of now
and well-strengthened center,
which gradually move in
free-flowing precision
to grand sea of mystery
and peace – timeless fusion.

In the Garden

(These haikus were written for Three Word Wednesday — since they’re poetry, I’ve posted them here instead of on Grace Notes, my short story blog.)

irises escape
late April frost, bloom and get
cozy with ivy

broccoli shoot hums
with dreams of lofty florets
while stretching sunward

beneath vibrant leaves
grow tasty underground roots
to dig as treasure

Tadpole Rap

Tiny black periods
don’t end thoughts
but begin lives
in jelly clumps. We
lengthen to dashes,
with no legs to
hop or dash
because first
we need our tails.

Once we hatch,
we move our tails
and swim in
a world of water
with earth beneath us,
light above us,
and air as ripples,
creating movement
in which we flow.

“Little lives”
some might say,
but this pond is ours;
it’s all we know.
And as we grow,
we see as shadows
things that fly, things that walk,
but how can they be real
outside our world?

Someday, it’s said,
we won’t have tails but
things called legs to
hop and dash on
something called land.
What is this “solid,”
“earth,” and “ground?”
Our world is water.
We don’t understand.

But what if…
Oh, what if…
air moves more than water?
And what if…
Oh, what if…
green is more than shimmering dreams?
Someday, perhaps, we will know
but for now,
we will grow.

Source

(This prose poem was written for Three Word Wednesday — since it’s poetry, I’ve posted it here instead of on Grace Notes, my short story blog.)

Rotten
mis-begotten
mind,” she carps,
forgetting that creativity
has its circles and cycles,
and some are smaller
than others.

Riding on the periphery
of a circle or a cycle
(she can’t tell which;
an errant muse stole her glasses),
she searches for a spark
and finds nothing
but dull, stifling gray.

Below her line of vision
burns a fire
whose copious smoke
rises, coils, and teases,
confusing
obfuscating
and stinging her vision.

It’s up to her to see
(no one can do it for her)
that the gray isn’t a cloak
but a clue:
a product of its source,
the promise of a new cycle
which is deeper, broader, hotter.

When the smoke gets warm,
maybe she’ll feel,
see,
ignite.
Then she’ll depart:
jumping off the periphery
into freefall.

Deadline

(This prose poem was written for Sunday Scribblings and Weekend Writer’s Retreat — since it’s poetry, I’ve posted it here instead of on Grace Notes, my short story blog.)

No dead lines:
Rather, dots in motion.
With limited sight,
lines look straight,
but over time,
they curve
around and
complete a circle.
On reaching the point
of origin,
a nascent dot
is born
from the motion
of the prior,
and traces
then enlarges
the underlying
spiral.