- Lexulous (online scrabble) that frustrates me sometimes to the point of screaming but keeps me in touch with my Broad Stroke sister, Laura who saved my life in North Carolina.
- Dear, dear close friends I keep in my heart. You know who you are. I hurt when you do. I’m full of joy when you are.
- POD where my errors in publishing a book can be corrected ASAP.
- KDP where I can order one book or a hundred at the same cost.
- SSS six sentence story prompt from GirlieOnTheEdge, sent weekly for such fun to do.
- My biological family who don’t understand me but should know that I love them anyway.
- My interesting ancestors who gave me a base to start from. I desperately need to write your stories.
- My precious years lived in Bordentown, New Jersey. They were so happy and full. I will always consider it my town.
- Costco that keeps Amazon from being the only choice. People need choice to keep everyone from getting too greedy.
- My thesaurus that picks up when Bacopa doesn’t.
Before all this quarantine began, a group of writers gathered together at a coffee house for a rare morning gabfest about books, magazines, journals, and writing in particular and in general.
One of the questions always asked when wordsmiths get together is the usual but always interesting query of “what is your earliest memory of when you became aware of reading being something special to you?”
Ahhh, an easy one for me, i spoke up quickly without even having to think about it since it hangs close to my heart where i can touch it if need be.
“In first grade of grammar school i recall once a week a reading lady came into our classroom and while standing in front of us, she would thumb through a large size magazine to find a story in it that she read to us.
While we had library books and 10 cent comic books that were traded back, forth and back again, there was no room in Mom’s budget to have magazines mailed to our home.”
What is it about memories of reading and writing that create such exciting energy to fill any room where scribblers congregate?
A word for the step-dads
on Father’s Day
men who stepped into shoes
emptied leaving a big gap
hard to fill
Joe was one of those
stepping into my father’s boots
when Dad became terminally ill
removing fear of failure from
Mom’s list of worries
filling our refrigerator
trips to the farmers’ market
a case of beer a week for Mom
replacing the octopus of a coal
heating system so he could
remodel the basement for us
the list is a long one
he released my oldest brother of
financial obligations, allowing
him to fly away to his dream plans
placed presents under the tree
candy in the Easter basket
baseball bat and bike for Bobby
tap shoes & a catcher’s mitt for me
when a near-spilt came
we rooted for Joe
he got new respect from Mom
Bobby got college
i got a movie-star wedding
Joe got a family and all it entailed
including the love and deep respect
- A quiet place of peace nearby to feed my writing.
- Time to read for knowledge and pleasure everyday.
- Classical music to soothe and nurture my mind
- A computer that brings the world to me.
- Writers who seek the truth no matter what.
- Dark chocolate of quality.
- Reconnecting with long-ago friends, if only by phone.
- My wonderful teenage years.
- Love that floats through the air to bind us.
- Spirits in the afterlife that stay in touch. ~asb
In days long-passed life was different than we know today; when men were commissioned to form swords, shields and body armor to use in the defense of one’s family, friends and property through the use of steel. Ahhh, such longing of the romanticism of yesteryear when knights were bold and women were feminine tickles my fancy as I read. Those stories of daring challenges were written down for us to enjoy today without the painful loss of hot and cold running water, luxurious bathrooms, kitchens where anyone can create gourmet meals, not to mention central heating.
Most of all in reading is the uncovering of enigmas tucked away in the backs of cupboards, in hidden drawers built in massive oak desks and cemented up in the walls of convents where they lay for centuries waiting for my favorite authors to find and reveal for all to see. To hide these objects of sequestered history one had to enter through the uncovered doorway where once you needed the code word to enter. The door was found down the garden pathway, tucked in behind the dense growth of bushes, spotting the cast iron fancywork hammered onto thick slabs of mahogany where you absolutely knew was the mysterious doorway to all those secrets.
arlene s bice
Bringing back memories
before my time began
my father’s music, written
for him by the
sung & arranged
for me by Rod Stewart
thoughts come forth
if Father’s dreams
were the same as my dreams
was his creativity passed down to me
his words come from my hands
come to me from him
love of the written word
of art, nature, even cooking
from my father
love of education
tho late, was his dream
and mine, too
it took many years, changing
record labels for
to succeed in recording
his father’s music
The Great American Songbook yet
his dreams were not his father’s.
I walked into the nursery, plant and flower nursery that is, enjoying each inhaled, distinctive scent that floated under my nose.
Ah-h-h my blood pressure was dropping down to a normal level even after the unhappy morning at work where the boss was way out of line with his demands, red-faced shouts at everyone about everything that was wrong in the office.
We all knew it was really wrong in his home but none of us were about to speak up or even look him in the eye because good advice about divorces might slip out.
The man wasn’t living a decent life and wouldn’t be living a life at all if he didn’t seek some therapy to get him over the bumps in a disastrous marriage.
I cringed inside for the man and his suffering ignoring how he was making us suffer because of his choice of bride.
Then again, my therapy is in place with the cat that waits for me to come home to be the perfect companion to me.
The House of She – Ellie Newbauer
It’s a curiosity,
Where all these Shes come from
Who rent space inside the house of me
Where do they stay through the day
As they peek from behind the curtain of my mind
Waiting to show their idiosyncrasies
I am a house full of acquaintances
Each one hiding behind their title,
Wife, Mother, Friend, Teacher, Artist, Monk,
So many more
All faces nodding to one another in passing
Occasionally a purposeful-She
Will stride forward demanding that
This minute serve her alone as others
Hide behind their imaginary walls
read the rest of the poem in:
What it is to be a Woman
Sitting in front of my computer I began to deflate, almost crumbling into a fetal position in a chair, if that is possible. It seemed like yesterday that I began with excitement, enthusiasm and pure joy to be writing this story that was building a fire within me for what seemed like a lifetime. For sure it was a lifetime because there were so many bits and pieces of me scattered throughout the words that lay on the page after page after page unfolding before me.
The excitement of something new and challenging changed in time to plodding along with questions burning inside me; like should I include this or would it be better left out. The plodding along changed to struggling, feeling like pushing a ball uphill, not being able to see the sun setting on the horizon to complete this all-consuming project. Finally the flow of words fizzled down to a few that stumbled along until I tapped the last letter of the last word and my passion died a heavyweight dead, letting me know it was over.