May Morning: A Poem

Two ravens soared
down from the sky this morning,
hopping atop the thick green spring grass,
heads twisting as they hunted;
their beaks flicked through pink cherry blossoms
scattered by my walkway.
They did not see me, yet I wondered
what message they brought,
these hardy warriors of the sky,
as they hopped in this moment,
their croaking cry a reminder
these are talking birds. Some believe
ravens connect this world with the next.

Perhaps this small patch of grass

didn't hold enough for their meditations,

for in a flash of black,

they were gone, and I was left

with cherry trees still in bloom, petals falling,

and green, green grass around me,

a sunny morning now too quiet,

as if even the morning waited

for what will come next.

Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

You can read this fascinating summary of cultural beliefs about ravens  to understand its complex history. In the same family as crows, these birds are intelligent, perhaps the Creator/Trickster these stories reveal.

Update: Now that that month-long challenge of writing a poem each day is over, I'm back to writing and revising Scattered Stones, feeling I have "miles to go before I sleep," and hoping each Wednesday to post a little something, like today's poem. 

May Spring bring you warmer days.

IWSG: Balanced between the best of times . . .

Today marks the first Wednesday of the month with a writing challenge, the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Nearly 140 writers, including me, post our thoughts today to celebrate writing in some way -- maybe sharing doubts or concerns, maybe celebrating our writing achievements, or offering encouragement to each other.

If you'd like to participate, please sign up, post your own thoughts on your blog, check out the guidelines on the IWSG LINK, and visit about 12 other writers! Why not start with our co-hosts for this month: Kim Elliott, Melissa Maygrove, Chemist Ken, Lee Lowery, and Nancy Gideon.

Now, here's the May 4 question: It's the best of times; it's the worst of times. What are your writer highs (the good times)? And what are your writer lows (the crappy times)?

The best of times: Spring. I can almost truly believe that winter's snows will not reappear this year -- at least not until Thanksgiving. Every day, new flowers bloom, trees greener than yesterday, and the sun a little warmer, a little more present. 

The best of times as a writer, for me, are when:

• The words simply fly off my keyboard into scenes that truly work.  
• A reader sends me a note, even about a typo, that connects to my story's intentions. 
• I can see steady progress towards my writing goals.
• I finish a major project and hover over the new story, researching and building possibilities.
• I write in the morning so the echo of ideas and new information follows me all day.

And those worst of times are when:

• I wait and wait and wait for feedback from beta readers, wondering if my story really works the way I hope.
• I doubt every marketing decision or step taken (and not taken).
• I accidentally delete that new scene.
• I can't write because my 'to do' list is far too long.

When I don't write, I almost feel as if something important is missing. I have so many blessings to enjoy that I don't need to write. I could quilt, instead. Or read, or plan a family dinner, or play with the grandkids (we've downsized, so no garden to nurture). Yet the writing anchors me. There's some small kernal of stubborness that says: I will write because it truly gives me an excuse to explore ideas, create something new, and connect with others in unexpected ways.

Given our current political arguments, the war in Ukraine, global warming, I find much that is depressing. Yes, I feel helpless to 'fix' or 'change' much of anything at that level. And so I write, paragraph by paragraph, and quilt, block by block, just because it helps me find meaning. In the process, I try to cherish each day, cook meals, clean house mostly, and  love my family. What more is there?

Block 3 of Jason Yenter's "Enchanted Garden"

May the coming month be good to us all. Write on!

And just a little plug: If you enjoy reading art crime mysteries,

check out The Seventh Tapestry, set in Scotland.

May 1: May we begin . . .

How do we begin a new month? Especially in the first blush of spring? (I'm remembering snow on the ground just two weeks ago!) With optimism and planning, yes?

About the writing: While waiting for comments from beta readers (holding my breath), I've stepped away from writing, focusing instead on April's challenge to write a poem a day. Now, inspired by Anne R. Allen's newsletter/blog, I'm asking:

• Do I have a SERIES BIBLE for my art crime mysteries that began with The Seventh Tapestry, set in Edinburgh, Scotland? The short answer is no, and I'm poised to begin research on book 2, The Lost Sarcophagus. According to Anne R. Allen, a series bible will help keep track of key characters, plot lines, conflicts, and settings -- for each book. Sounds helpful when the two lead characters encounter their next art crime set in Egypt. 
• When drafting, how can I bring SECONDARY CHARACTERS to life? Again, Anne R. Allen suggests defining their goals and motivation as these shape dialogue, action, and even images.
• I'm working on FINAL REVISIONS for Scattered Stones, that last story (?) in my historical series that began with Standing Stones. You know, waiting for beta reader comments is really hard, even with writing gurus suggesting I put aside that final draft for a month. So, I'm now working on launch plans and lining up advance reviewers. If you are interested in receiving an ARC (advance review copy) of Scattered Stones, please drop me an e-mail!

About travel: Our family is gathering near Banff and Lake Louise, Canada, in late June to celebrate a combination reunion/anniversary/graduation. We'll drive up and along the way, stop in a few favorite hiking spots. Meanwhile, I'm daydreaming about another stay in Merida, off the beaten tourist path on the east coast of Mexico, and planning ahead for a stay in Las Cruces, New Mexico next winter (avoid the snow). Rattle those suitcases!

Image by Jörg Vieli from Pixabay

And other preoccupations: Well, health could be that first preoccupation, but we all face health challenges at one time or another. Plug along, do what the doc says, and hope for a good outcome. I'm feeling grateful for loving hugs from family and friends -- and coffee! Would love to have a kitty to pet, but then I'd have to give up those suitcases.

Quilting update: After drooling for nearly a year over his gorgeous pattern, I've finally started Seattle quilt designer Jason Yenter's "Enchanted Garden." Oh, those tiny pieces, a lovely distraction. Here's the first block, with 11 more to create.

I'm wishing you a happy spring, one with many satisfying projects, time with family and those you love, and most of all, appreciation for each beautiful sunny day, even gardens -- all without snow!

Poem a Day 30: I Dare You . . .

When I was nine years old,

or maybe ten,
my mom, my sister, and me
went to live with my aunt.
Everything seemed crazy.
We didn't know, my sister and me,
why we were there, on this small island,
just outside Seattle, living in this
tiny house with a crooked fireplace

and a winding path down to the beach.

My two cousins greeted us with straight faces.
Jimmy, the oldest at 12, walked us

over to a group of nettles rising up out of the earth.
"How do I know you will be brave?"
He glared at me. "Pick one of these nettles

and strip the leaves off. I dare you."

Did you ever wonder what you would do if
someone dared you to do something,
and you knew, deep in your heart that this
was stupid? And you did it? 

Because you wanted more than anything

to belong, to be accepted, to be loved?
Blisters blasted up both hands as I twisted
that nettle and pulled it straight.

The rest of that summer, the island was ours.

We ran wild along the beaches,

climbed logs, built sand castles,

left secret messages in that stone fireplace.

For those few months, I was just a kid.

Bainbridge Island, about 1953.

Today's the very last day of the national challenge to write a poem every day for the month of April. I'm not quite sure this is a poem. I did want to write something beautiful, something about nature, maybe hope in these tumultuous times. But instead, this memory came of a time long ago, when I was just a kid. All I can tell you is that I'm still stubborn -- and, it's time to get back to writing! 

Has anyone ever dared you to do something? What did YOU do?

I am hoping that May will be a better month for us all.

Poem a Day 29: X marks a spot . . .

X marks a spot on the map, 

perchance more 

than arriving at a destination, 

a meandering toward the end,
really, a whole month 

of a form of meditation,

writing poetry, 

trying to define the unknown,
x-related, not x-rated,
multi-directional, 

within, 

without, 

unexpectedly connecting to endless skies
and those I love, 

all as the earth turns,
another day, 

another mark on the calendar,
and, for now, spring.

Image by Brigitte JAUFFRINEAU from Pixabay

Only one more day left in this month-long challenge to write a poem each day. Somewhat at random, I found a lovely site that posted A to Z prompts for this  month. I'm a little late, though very appreciative of having found a few words this morning. May will begin with a return to story writing, and just maybe, I'm ready!

Thank you for reading, for being a part of my blog. Are you ready for May? 

Poem a Day 28: Friends

Where are you this morning?
Looking out over your garden with plans,
a cup of hot tea ready to sip,
crossword puzzle folded nearby for later?
Early spring means those first
weeds are shooting up 

next to bulbs now sprouting, 

sprigs of red, yellow, purple, 

all the flowers you have nurtured,
and green everywhere,
as if the deer won't notice.
The days have finally turned warmer.
Once again, we'll gather
in your backyard,

hoping for a glimpse 

of this year's fawns,

and remembering

all our times together, stories told,

far away places shared,

and now, good memories,

dear friends to cherish.

Backyard deer, Redmond 

Poem a Day 27: Family History

Only once have I chipped ice
off the top of a pail
to get to the water beneath,
camped near the top of a mountain,
waking to snow on the ground,
a rough trail ahead.

My mother grew up in a logging camp,
back in the 1920's, apples saved
under the bed through winter.
She brought water to their cabin,
in heavy pails, snow or no snow.
Gramie cut their hair so they

almost looked like boys,
eased their cuts and bruises with
a home-made poultice, and cooked
venison over the fire, tasty when
you could get it. Grandad ran a crew

and cut logs wider than they were tall,

out in the wilderness. Only the railroad

linked them to town, that and trails

so remote, even a trackker could get lost,

and they did, get lost and somehow survive

until Grandad got a better job.

They moved to town, one of those

small cottages in a row, yes, 

a white picket fence in front

like I've dreamed of. All was well,

until my mother became beautiful.

Frances and Marion, Anderson Camp, 1928

Marion, Hollywood, 1941

Only three more days in this month-long poetry challenge. I must confess, writing a poem a day has not been easy, but still, starting most mornings by just reflecting, letting words and images bubble up has taken me in unexpected directions. Thank you for reading along.