Inspire Me Sunday

After a While
by Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn.

Writing on Thursday

A Poem

Over the weekend my daughters and I went into an antiques store. While they looked at dated dolls, I picked up a crusty orange-bound, red-spined book. I'm always picking up books. Something about this one, as with so many, just caught my eye.

I flipped to its center, and this was what I read. It's simply titled SEVEN, for it's the seventh entry.

We touch.
Shoulder-to-shoulder.
You can't do more when crossing streets
with mannequins in windows looking back.

I try to match your step--
that way I'm sure of staying close.
You smell like love.
That must be so
for what I smell is dear to me and new.

And so a little walk through town
becomes a journey
a love vacation from ourselves
but with ourselves.

Everything you say is funny
               or beautiful.

Sometimes I forget that old material can be so current. That something written decades ago can touch me today. Until there it is in front of me.

In this poem I recognize something I've never had, but I also (hopelessly, romantically) read my future.

So I bought the book.

LISTEN TO THE WARM by Rod McKuen , copyright 1967.

Writing's Appeal (repost)

This is a poem I wrote in July of 2009. I'd been feeling particularly sedentary, and am sure this made me feel a little better, like it justified my stillness a bit. I wanted to revisit it today, because so many of us are dealing with crummy winter weather and that silly cabin fever.

Here, then, is writing's appeal:

He writes to create.
She to storytell.
It's the call of the craft,
it's a love of the skill.

But I'll tell you a secret,
if you'll lean in real close:
I've got one reason
and I like it the most.

Should I be honest?
I suppose I can say:
See, when writing,
being lazy's okay.

You just sit at your desk;
it's the easiest work.
No exercise/exertion.
No way to get hurt.

What? Yeah, you're right,
but side effects are small.
A crick in the neck
or Carpal Tunnel, is all.

I can think of worse things.
I'll give you examples.
Like, would you spot check
those dentures of Grampa's?

Work outside in the yard
on sore, bended knee,
wearing shorts (and underwear
prone to wedgie)?

Bathe the fridge.
Oh, cripes, what is that?
I'll just close the door,
hide the mold in the back.

I could dust the shelves,
ABC all the books.
Make sure all my rugs
have been vacuumed and shook.

But none of that's fun.
Don't you agree?
I'd much rather sit, lazy,
and be writerly.

Writing's Appeal

He writes to create.
She to storytell.
It's the call of the craft,
it's a love of the skill.

But I'll tell you a secret,
if you'll lean in real close:
I've got one reason
and I like it the most.

Should I be honest?
I suppose I can say:
See, when writing,
being lazy's okay.

You just sit at your desk;
it's the easiest work.
No exercise/exertion.
No way to get hurt.

What? Yeah, you're right,
but side effects are small.
A crick in the neck
or Carpal Tunnel, is all.

I can think of worse things.
I'll give you examples.
Like, would you spot check
those dentures of Grampa's?

Work outside in the yard
on sore, bended knee,
wearing shorts (and underwear
prone to wedgie)?

Bathe the fridge.
Oh, cripes, what is that?
I'll just close the door,
hide the mold in the back.

I could dust the shelves,
ABC all the books.
Make sure all my rugs
have been vacuumed and shook.

But none of that's fun.
Don't you agree?
I'd much rather sit, lazy,
and be writerly.



*After reading some great poetry from Pat, and having just declared I'm no poet in a meme, the idea for this walloped me in the head. And so I sat on my bum (of course) to write it out and share with you. *silly grins*

Witty Wednesday

On a whim, I decided I'd present a limerick today, freshly penned. (By me, not the pig in my pocket who usually writes my stuff.) And since limericks are explained on wikipedia as "witty or humorous," well... there's where the post title came from.

*ahem*

There once was girl who wrote,
Sometimes this or that or a note.
She found poetry hard,
Certain she was no Bard,
Such skills were, for her, remote.


How 'bout you? Can you offer something fun for Witty Wednesday? Try a limerick!