Favorite colors and bedtime stories. The sound of her voice and a hug goodbye. Every scraped knee that taught us to walk, each awkward first kiss, and devastating first loss molded us into who we are. We draw on the simplest form of these memories each and every day. We conjure the lyrics of a song or the name of a friend without batting an eye. Yet it’s a skill we have the luxury of taking for granted. Today, we honor the 5.4 million Americans living with Alzheimer’s. According to the Fischer Center for Alzheimer’s Research Foundation, “every 68 seconds, someone develops Alzheimer’s disease. At current rates, experts believe the number of Americans living with Alzheimer’s will quadruple to as many as 16 million by the year 2050.” This is a staggering figure. This is millions of mothers who will never remember the first time she held her child. This is millions of husbands that cannot recall a wife of 20 year’s name. And it cannot be prevented. It cannot be slowed. It cannot be cured. You may wonder what purpose this has on a writing blog. Intentionally or inadvertently, memory serves as one of the most powerful components of any form of art. We pull from past experiences to create a reality in fiction that is perhaps too painful to avoid or too wonderful to forget. In this way, the elements of life trapped within our minds become a sacred resource for our creative identities. Help make Alzheimer’s just a bad memory. Stay informed. Donate for the cure. Or simply be there for a loved one on a day when all his words are scrambled. Learn more here. Rambling- a poem to my great grandfatherMy fingers have forgotten
How to hold this pen still, To pluck at ivory keys, to Touch you without trembling. Once, my love, ink never bled, Notes never choked on jolts, for Once, these hands never shook, Nor were stars so blurry. Now years have limped along to find Words sprawled across this page, Empty, no, rambling Oh, rambling, as I am told Old men ought to learn They’ve nothing left to teach. Yet you, my dear, never scorn, Though your eyes often wander, Slip away to a universe Folded in the evening news, Drowning in your coffee. But by and by, holding hands, Shudders hardly matter. As in those eyes, I see the stars Clear as once they were, and My god, how you shine. Though damn this aging wit of mine, My mind has forgotten, My darling, what’s your name?
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An article about the inevitable
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Long before he broke himself
He plucked mourning doves off the wind And trapped them in a fugue Their rapid beat of wings, the trills Their crooning, in the tremelo He pressed my hands against her heart Whispered, make her laugh, With checkered grin and sticky palms I tickled her ribs until she chuckled Now her ivory spine sags with dust Her skeleton, the splintered wood, Arches toward my slender wrist And as I knead her wounds I find I no longer know her figure For when my nails trace her skin Begging her to laugh again, I tear my fingertips to shreds, Think how, at the end, He plucked the needles Off his veins, while my hands, Pressed against his heart, Played symphonies On his straining ribs, Watched him tear his songs To feathers I scrape the bruises of her bones Enraptured at her shrieks, with hope That, somehow, in her agony A thousand doves will break free
In celebration of National Poetry Month, a moving piece:
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She sleeps amid a glassy sea Half-sunk by flanking tides Were it blood now blossoms rust Marching up her sides Had once a man held her reins, Her belly swoll'n with fire? A serpent tongue lashing forth Scortching sand and briar? Oh, the glory she once sought Tearing through this brazen beach Though shot nor spear could spare her A sephalcure so pleached Years and winds burned past her Young hands now splash her jaw If worth be earned in fight alone The mightest may fall For victor is her dying breath As land reclaims her bones The sea is her commander The glory is her own In the depths of winter, summer fades to near mythology while the cold months drag on. With a frost-nipped nose pressed to the rim of a coffee mug, we reminisce on days when the sun warmed our skin with lazy kisses or when the sand dug into the soles of our feet. This longing drew my pen to the page. Inspiration for this piece lies exactly where the title suggests: an abandoned tank on Flamenco Beach. For those of you who’ve yet to experience the pleasure, Flamenco Beach is a gorgeous strip of virgin-white sand on a small island off the coast of Puerto Rico. Beautiful and clean, it’s a hidden gem in the heart of the Caribbean. However, if you walk the length of the beach, you’ll find this unusual treasure: On an otherwise pristine landscape, a hulking tank left to rust in the sand is a bit shocking. As it turns out, American solider once used this lovely little island for training exercises before World War II. During this time, an array of equipment (including tanks) ended up on Cuelbra’s shores. However, after local protesting in the early 1970s, soldiers evacuated the base, leaving their tanks to rot where they stood. Though much of the other gear was cleaned up, the massive chunks of metal simply could not be moved.
Creative locals have taken the time to paint the sides of these tank with lively graffiti, giving an oddly cheerful air to the ruined bones of war. Certainly, nowhere else in the world will you find a perfectly jarring juxtaposition of ruin and beauty. From this gorgeous chaos of ruin and life, my words took flight. So as you curl under blankets, keep a pen firmly in hand. Think back to wondrous places (or those you've yet to tread) and pluck from them the inspiration you need to keep the ink flowing. Let your travels be your guide! On the first day... Juniper’s in blossom. Tears of dew unbutton branches, trace gnarled fingers on the glass. Perfume rides in on bittered breeze, But no one dares to close the window. We shrink at strangers’ eyes we find, caught in the reflection. On the saddest day… Bittersweets are blooming. Seems their scents ensconce us all, drip bruises on our ribs. Every breath swells sore. Exhales leave us hollow. I hear another’s sigh, then quickly turn away. In this silence I have learned how much emptiness can fill. On the lost day... Orchids soon are wilting. We snip each other’s wings, too angry to ask names. Long ago we lost our reasons. Yet as I hold a hand of feathers, the same chipped nails Belong to eyes of blue and green and grey. We have forgotten in our lust, Fear prefers no color. On the best day... Poppies lose their petals. To my surprise, a mother nursed her babe. Sorrow never told us children bide here too. A dark man with lonely skin broke his lips in smile. He called the child beautiful and never asked If she held a daughter or a son. On the last day... Something is succulent today. Though when I open my eyes, I find I see no flowers in the dark. I wonder for how long I have been blind. Soft fingers grasp my wrist, press my palm against the glass. A woman whispers a lovely word in my ear. Strange I never knew the color of her hand. So fortunate to learn this piece awarded me third place as one of the 2016 INTERNATIONAL POETRY AND STORYTELLING CONTEST WINNERS!
The World Affairs Council of Harrisburg does a smashing job of connecting local students to the world. From climate change resources to internship programs, they offer excellent resources at absolutely no cost. Check out their site for information on cash prizes for high school students writing within the theme of peacekeeping! Oh, we your loving children Suckled oil from your breast Drained you from your crust And burned the crumbs we left We gouged out your body You, a gaping fish to gut Drilled machines like butcher’s blade As bony trees fell cut We dipped our metal claws Deep in your leafy skin Tearing chunks of boulder flesh With greed our pleasured sin We rigged and fracked and stripped you Straight down to your core Then stamped our cement feet and Demanding you give more Oh, mother you are hurting Your pain and rage are wild If only I could heal you I, your loving child Delighted that my poetry collection with this piece won a Scholastic Silver Key! Check out their site for more information on guidelines and deadlines. Excellent opportunities for aspiring artists and authors alike!
When you were a child You tried to eat the sky You swore that you could even Poke out your shadow’s eyes If someone let you down You climbed the old oak tree You climbed too high for sorrow To catch and set you free And when you were a girl You swore you were a bird You flew straight through the leaves On wings of naïve words When your hips grew wider To hold your child-mind You sang among the branches Silly empty rhymes When you carved initials You swore that you were grown Birds were children’s stories And long ago they’d flown When you scratched them out You wept into your tree You climbed until you scraped the sky And waited to be free When your womb grew full You lay in speckled shade You whispered silly empty rhymes Though they didn’t sound the same And when you were empty You tried to climb again But it seemed you had forgotten And lost your oldest friend When your hair grew grey You swore you were a bird You flew straight through the leaves On wings of jaded words Delighted that my poetry collection with this piece won a Scholastic Silver Key! Check out their site for more information on guidelines and deadlines. Excellent opportunities for aspiring artists and authors alike!
Life drips from your inky tongue Or perhaps just silly words Things of feathers and old fears Things you scream from trembling hand A trail of murky ink as Your sweat, blood, and tears In the light you weep aloud Crawling through trenchant margins To the issue of a page Inching on ballpoint belly Perhaps towards the Nobel Prize Or a crumpled ball your grave You, the gun of fighting words The distant lovers’ kiss, such Love and hate have held you in You, the voice of the mute and Sword for broken hands You cannot comprehend The life your tongue has trapped Delighted that my poetry collection with this piece won a Scholastic Silver Key! Check out their site for more information on guidelines and deadlines. Excellent opportunities for aspiring artists and authors alike!
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AuthorWith ink dripping in my veins & stories dancing in my head, I spend my time untangling poetry & getting perfectly lost Archives
April 2017
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