Poem a Day 23: One Day

The first time I made baklava,
honey and walnuts strewn between
thin layers of phyllo,
I remembered that stay in Istanbul, 
the stars shimmering as we walked

along narrow, cobblestone streets,
back to our hotel, our hearts

full of what we had seen at Topkapi Palace,

connecting rooms and gardens

where sultans and harems 

were once a way of life;

the shop where an eager salesman

held up carpets made entirely of silk

that shimmered in the morning light,

all for us to admire, perhaps to buy;

the tea seller, strolling through the gardens

across from Hagia Sophia,  

who carried hot tea all ready to serve,

with near a hundred little clear glasses 

hung with cords around his body;
and Chora Church, now an Ottoman Empire Mosque,
its walls glazed with intricate tiles,

where Muslim men wore brown felt turbans, 

their long white skirts swirling out with each turn, 

their dancing, a prayer. 

I pull out a quilt book and wonder again

if I will ever make a quilt to honor

those Iznik tiles, every shade of blue

and coral red, with shapes to capture  

those once unique Turkish flowers:

tulips, carnations, roses, peonies, and violets.

Where is that royal bird, the peacock,

whose cry resembles a shriek,

yet who turns and flashes its feathers and turns again?

Somehow all is entwined in the history of this place,

once the center of the world between East and West,

once Constantinople, now Istanbul, 

hundreds of years have passed and will pass. 

I study anew these patterns

and know I will make such a quilt, one day.

Whirling Dervish, Chora, Istanbul (2004)

Hagia Sophia, Istanbul (2004)

Construction begun 360 A.D. Completed 537 A.D.

Poem a Day 22: Repetition

Outside my window, a nameless

bird chirps and chirps,

its song a glad awakening

to blue sky and a sun-drenched day.

Winter was too long this year,

those days wrapped in snow

and cold wind that blew

hope into darkness.

I know, as sure as I stretch

into each moment of today,

that winter will return,

as the earth turns,

the moon rises,

itself turning from

crescent to full,

and turning again,

the same and not the same,

ending and not ending.

Somewhere newscasters' voices drone,

reporting anew the horror of war, 

global warming, political

angst, and we're left, bereft,

remembering the words of Dylan Thomas:  

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying

of the light."

Image by John_Nature_Photos from Pixabay

Today, NaPoWriMo's Maureen Thorson writes: "In honor of today being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things."

And then the bird chirped outside my window.

You can read Dylan Thomas' poem HERE on poets.org.

Poem a Day 21: Memories

I knew a man who died of cancer. 

I stayed by his side at hospice.

He gave me a poem, 

wavy lines on a scrap of paper,

no one could read. 

He asked me to take care of his wife,

for she could not take care of herself. 

I used to be a banker, sitting 

with other account officers

behind massive mahogany desks; 

our customers held 

a minimum of one million in deposits,

until the numbers blurred,

and I ran away with you.

We stood in line for four hours

at the San Francisco Art Institute 

to see a special exhibit of Vincent Van Gogh.

We came to a complete stop

in front of 'Starry, Starry Night"

and I began to cry.  

Why is an ordinary life,

an extraordinary life

so hard to understand? 

"Starry, Starry Night" by Don McLean

Today’s (optional) prompt from NaPoWriMo's Maureen Thorson is inspired by poet Betsy Sholl. Maureen "asks you to write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question." Whew. I needed to read Betsy Sholl's poem first, but that link was broken!

Poem a Day 20: Waiting for Summer

My fridge is half-full
of frozen food I don't want to eat.
Maybe there's a revolution,
or a sense of revulsion,
for I'd rather go out to the garden,
pretend it's late summer, and pluck
fresh leaves from lettuce,
a radish or three, two tomatoes
blush red from the sun, and
a green onion, make that two,
their stalks just high enough to add spice.
Back inside, the fridge holds promise
this time. I'll add green olives,
a sprig of parsley,
feta cheese chunks or gorgonzola,
what richness. Now mix with vinagrette,
home-made, a bit of artisan bread on the side,
liberally spread with butter, and
that sense of peace returns.

Image by MetsikGarden from Pixabay

Today’s prompt from Maureen Thorson, the host of NaPoWriMo asks us to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. Maureen says: "It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about. I feel conflicted about Black Forest Cake, for example. It always looks so pretty in a bakery window, and I want to like the combination of cherries and chocolate . . . but I don’t. But how does the cake feel about it?"  

Ah, but what about foods you don't like -- or can't easily have just now?

Poem a Day 19: Look . . .

If I could wish a poem
each day into being, those words
assembled neatly on the page,
new images that resonate with meaning,
connect with nature,
perhaps revealing what each day
means to me, that burst of pleasure
about a phrase that says
exactly what I'd like to say:

That would be enough.

But, look, what I really care about
are family and friends, dear ones all,
who face down challenges,
and I cannot change anything at all,
not really. Somehow even words 

at such a distance, a note or call,

seem not enough. Maybe prayers
would help. On my desk, 

a small jar with two hyacinths
bloom, their sweet smell
suggests hope.

Image by Pezibear from Pixabay

Today the prompt from NaPoWriMo is simply to write a poem that starts with a command. It could be as uncomplicated as “Look,” as plaintive as “Come back,” or as silly as “Don’t you even think about putting that hot sauce in your hair.”  

The prompt itself makes me want to write something silly. Instead, I'm thinking about family and friends -- and hoping for good news tomorrow.

Poem a Day 18: Five Answers to a Question . . .

1
Got up too early,
my legs are cold,
even so, new beginnings.

2

The smell of coffee tickles

my brain, almost a memory 

of warmer days.

3

If the cherry tree with tiny buds 

just outside my window bends

with snow; spring hesitates.

4

Down by the pond,

a trio of geese lift into the sky

to flap their way north.

5

When family gathers, the grandchildren,

three cats, and a large black dog play; 

their chatter warms my bones. 

Image by Ralphs_Fotos from Pixabay

Today's poetry prompt comes from National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) and is inspired by Faisal Mohyuddin’s poem “Five Answers to the Same Question.” Today, NaPoWriMo challenges us to write a poem that provides five answers to the same question – without ever specifically identifying the question that is being answered! So, can you guess my question?

Poem a Day 17: The Butterfly

Today's poem was written by Pavel Friedman on June 4, 1942.

The Butterfly

The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing 

against a white stone…

Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to 

kiss the world goodbye.

 
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

 
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live in here,
In the ghetto.

  

Image by Kalle H. from Pixabay

The poem is preserved in typewritten copy on thin paper in the collection of poetry by Pavel Friedmann, which was donated to the National Jewish Museum during its documentation campaign. It is dated June 4, 1942 in the left corner. Pavel Friedmann was born January 7, 1921, in Prague and deported to Terezín* on April 26, 1942. He died in Oswiecim* (Auschwitz) on September 29, 1944. *Terezín was a Nazi concentration camp. Source.

Friday marked the beginning of Passover. Part of the service is to remember the Holocaust. Sunday, today, is Easter. How can we write of tragedy and hope, without being angry? For, even as we celebrate one or both of these holy days, isn't Russia continuing its war against Ukraine, displacing some 4.7 million so far and killing and/or injuring thousands more? 

I have no words today.

Join in April's Poetry Challenge with Robert Brewer of Writer's Digest. Brewer says: "For today's prompt, write a mad poem. There are things that make us mad as well as things that drive us mad. Whatever your interpretation of the word, I hope you have fun with this prompt."

Poem a Day 16: Touch me Not

I'm grumpy
when the telemarketer calls
at 6 am.
On Saturday.
Touch me not.

I'd rather be sleeping

or reaching out to friends,

our words, flowers:

Forget me not.

Image by pasja1000 from Pixabay

Catch up on all the poetry prompts from Robert Brewer at Writer's Digest! Today's Poem-A-Day Challenge asks us to write a poem about 'touch'. Actually, my feet hurt from standing too long in the kitchen, but it's the holidays! Lots of good food, family gatherings. What could be sweeter? How touching, right? Especially when my granddaughter hugs me. "Gramie, you are the best cook in the world!" And the smallest one: "This is the best day in my life. Ever!" 

Happy holidays!

Poem a Day 15: Patience is in knowing . . .

Patience is in knowing
when to listen with a calm face,
accept, endure, even forgive,
and when to fight.
Sadly, I am not the most patient person.
Forgive me for knowing and
not knowing. That inner thrum of blood
tells me I must run
or stay. The only safe place for me
is here, with you.

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Catch up on all the poetry prompts from Robert Brewer at Writer's Digest! Today's Poem-A-Day Challenge asks us to write a patience poem. Brewer says: "Your poem could be about someone or something with great patience, or it could come from the other direction (ie, impatience). One fun thing about this prompt is that it begs us to consider the various ways of measuring time: From the patience required to sit at a red light to the patience of a tree growing rings for centuries."

Poem a Day 14: Was it Scary?

Was It Scary?

The first time you lost a word while speaking, 

as if your brain hit a bump,
a convoluted map of nerve cells 

pointing to what comes next,

until sentences begin to disappear, 

was it scary?
Or did you sit with friends to joke
and fill in the blanks, 

laughter easing loss?
I only hope that I remember you,
and you remember me,
for I would rather lose every word,
almost every other memory,
even as I know what's coming.

Visiting Kilauea Volcano, March 2022

Catch up on all the poetry prompts from Robert Brewer at Writer's Digest! Today's Poem-A-Day Challenge asks us to write a scary poem. As Robert Brewer says: "Your poem could invoke monsters, release spiders, or tremble at the mystery of the night. It could contemplate taxes or the prospect of public speaking. And don't forget the dread of the blank page. There are so very many things that can be interpreted as scary. Write your interpretation today." Well, sorry, Mr. Brewer, I wanted to write a happier poem, as today feels full of promise.

Poem a Day 13: How to Write a Poem

I don't have any advice

on how to write

a poem. After nearly fifty years

of setting words to paper,

I only know what works for me,

that sense of settling within,

opening up to some intuitive leap

that knits together word by word,

a fresh awareness of every breath,

a gift, this flesh, this mind, this heart:

all plays together 

to create something new.

Rather different than other writing,

no blundering through research

linking dates and people,

letters long forgotten,

or even fiction, all the work

behind creating that imaginary realm

of characters, setting, conflict,

and happy ever after,

or not so happily ever after.

The writer's journey is never quite complete.

Yet with a poem, that steady concentration

brings us to an awareness, a celebration,

a beginning and an ending,

words on the page that just might

satisfy some yearning. 

Now, can you say 

you know how to write a poem?

Pick up that pen or poise your fingers over the keyboard

and listen to your most hidden, innermost self.

Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay

Catch up on all the poetry prompts from Robert Brewer at Writer's Digest! Today's Poem-A-Day Challenge prompt asks us to take the phrase "How to (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: "How to Win at Life," "How to Cook Lasagna," "How to Fall in Love," and/or "How to Write a Poem." Yes, I took that last prompt as if I knew how to write a poem.

Poem a Day 12: Not Counting . . .

Not Counting

Robins don't count
how many days to spring,
or wonder if their eggs will hatch.
I've seen three robins so far,
though snow fell like grackle
from the sky this week,
little white reminders
of winter.
I won't count how many winters I've seen
or how many winters are left.
I'd rather celebrate spring-to-come
with each uncurling blossom of early
hyacinth, snowdrop, and tulip,
an end to bundling up with shaggy layers.
Yet my feet remain cold, even
coddled with socks. The earth tips,
revolves, moves forward, not counting
its spin, its glaciers melting, perhaps
the coming of another Ice Age,
sometime within the next 1,500 years.
But I'm not counting.

Image by jggrz from Pixabay

Catch up on all the poetry prompts from Robert Brewer at Writer's Digest! Today's Poem-A-Day Challenge prompt is simply to write either a counting poem and/or not counting poem.

Poem a Day 11: Power Play . . .

Today, Robert Brewer of Writer's Digest, asks us to: "Write a power poem. Your poem could somehow involve electricity, solar power, fossil fuels, wind, or water. It could illustrate a power play or someone exerting their power over someone else. Of course, you could also write about a power outage. You alone have the power to poem your way through this prompt."

Power Play . . .

Not sure I can find a poem today,
tucked somewhere between naps
and brunch, that second cup of tea,
and mental crunches over tax papers, 

a deadline looming. Where is poetry

when even the prompt speaks
of power? My turn to pick.
My turn to choose.

I choose not to watch the news today
as Russian tanks encircle yet another city,
Western nations and our own White House
debate and delay and delay,
innocents die. War rages.
How do we stop a bully? 
Just walk away and keep walking?
Ask a buddy for help? Ask anyone for help,
but never fight back? For that will escalate?
Is that another power play?
Zelensky has followed all these steps, 

again and again. His people fight; 

his impassioned pleas to the West

resonate with horror. With honor.
We send words and arms but stay
on this side of the line. Do we feel safe?
For how long do we feel safe?

Sanctions, our leaders propose, will limit

the war, will encourage negotiations.

When has talk ended bullying? killing? 

the atrocities of an all out war?

This is not a poem.

This stalemate that sidesteps an ending to war

is simply power feeding power,

an unending circle,

while we remain on the outside, unsure,

unwilling to risk what could lead

to nuclear war.

But we are not at peace.

Image of Kiev, Ukraine, home to 2.9 million people

by ELG21 from Pixabay

Poem a Day 10: Smell This . . .

Today Robert Brewer suggests we dive back into the senses to write a poem using 'smell' in some way. Check out more at Writer's Digest! I hope you enjoy.

Smell This!

Just sometimes, I'll enter a restaurant
or my kitchen, filled with want: 

the rich smells assault my nose;
I'm drawn right in, head to toes,
Mexican, Chinese, Indonesian, or Thai,
I do not question why
that first taste makes me get that suitcase out
ready for walkabout, guided by my snout.

In self-defense, it's not really about smell,
for that would be it's own hell,
to not see or taste? What a waste!
I invite you to come for just a taste,
when all else begins to unravel
and we can't quite travel,
I'll make a special dish
to satisfy your every wish
and we'll seek a simple bliss,

together, with all our senses unleashed,

we'll feed the beast.

Image by Matteo Orlandi from Pixabay

Poem a Day 9: Breaking/Not Broken

Today's prompt from Robert Brewer, of Writer's Digest, for National Poetry Month is to write a breaking poem. Brewer says that "the poem could be about breaking down walls, break dancing, breaking up, or breaking stuff. However you'd like to break it down and then write your poem."

Breaking/Not Broken

There is no broken glass
No shattered door, no screaming
in the night, no, we did not hold
our breath, waiting
for what we did not know
was possible,
until the skies exploded
and buildings fell
around us, and we died.
Leaders in council rooms
gather to vote,
yay or nay, the risks greater
than one life or two,

or several hundred.
After all, they nod 

and nod again. 

Putin has gone too far.

We must draw a line,

take a stand, but . . .

they pause. 

Our resistance may take us all
to a nuclear world war. For now,
the bombs fall only in Ukraine.

For now.

Just this morning, the Guardian released news that Boris Johnson's took a surprise visit to meet with Zelensky in Kyiv. Johnson promised: "We will provide support so that Ukraine is never invaded again." Also in the news, Sweden and Finland, with its 800 mile border next to Russia, may join NATO by summer. All this complicates those ongoing talks in public meetings and behind closed doors as well as life in Ukraine as Russian attacks continue.

https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2022-april-pad-challenge-day-9

Poem a Day 8: What They Never Tell You

Today's prompt from Robert Brewer for Day 8 of the Poem a Day Challenge is to write a 'what they never tell you' poem. 

Robert Brewer says: "I'm not sure who "they" are, but "they" talk a lot, and there are things people tell you, and there are things you just have to learn on your own, because "they" (them again) never tell you ahead of time. Like, for instance, "they" never told me that I'd still feel like a teenager in my 40s, but here we are. Think about what "they" never tell (or told) you, and write that poem."

What They Never Tell You

I don't know what every mother feels
that moment when her new child
is born, and she holds that infant
in her arms for the first time.
I only know my world seemed to stop
and start anew, for you were here,

my daughter,
a force entirely unto yourself,
yet shaped by dreams and hope,

and now, unexpected change.

I tried to tell you over the years

what that moment meant.

I'm not sure my words ever held

that sense of surprise and delight,

until that day, your own daughters

nearby, you said to me,

your face easing into a heartfelt smile,

"Now I know what you meant."

Image by Yashwanth Madhu from Pixabay

Poem a Day 7: Too Much

Today's prompt by Robert Brewer for Day 7 of the Poem a Day Challenge is simply to write about abundance. 

Perhaps 'having abundance' means having more than we need. A quick check Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines abundance as "1. an ample quantity : an abundant amount : profusion a city that has an abundance of fine restaurants. 2 : affluence, wealth a life of abundance." 

But further down the search page, GoodNet offers a slightly different definition: "In a spiritual context, the notion of abundance or plenty is less about material conditions, revolving instead (once basic needs are met), around an appreciation of life in its fullness, joy and strength of mind, body and soul."

Too Much

This morning brings a profusion of choices,
words on the page prolific, lush,
too much. 

There is no surplus when
you live close to the bone.
Too many families know nothing of plenty,
each day a dash to balance what is there
with what is not. Just for today,
I want to walk under a sheer blue sky,
grateful for shoes that don't pinch.

We hold hands,
the sweet smell of spring around us,
the tiniest buds opening everywhere;

overhead, geese fly south,

the snow on nearby mountains melts,

and I feel as if

I could breathe in abundance.

Image by Anrita1705 from Pixabay

IWSG and A Poem a Day 6: Words in the Air

Today's prompt by Robert Brewer for Day 6 of the Poem a Day Challenge is to take the phrase "a (blank) in the (blank)," replace the blanks with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: "Poem in the Pocket," or "Skin in the Game," or whatever phrase you find appealing.

Words in the Air

If ever a writer wrote
a story, a poem, a book, then
faced down the challenge of reading those words
into a microphone or in front of an audience,
those words that floated once in imagination,
that took shape on paper, on a computer screen,
slowly emerged from dreams into scenes,
somehow now hover in the air
to beguile, to transform into something,
something entirely new.
Was that the goal? To bring to life
that first gasp of an almost word,

a heart's cry shaped to air,
ever after irrevocably here?

Those words take on their own direction,

their own meaning as others

repeat them: What brings change

as we listen? How are we changed?

Which words, which lines resonate for us,

forever fixed in our own imagination?

Zelensky's pleas yet echo.

As Robert Frost wrote, 

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

and sorry I could not travel both . . . ."

Sometimes we hear and do not listen.

We do not change.

We do not act.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Today also marks the first Wednesday of the month, another writing challenge, the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Nearly 140 writers, including me, post our thoughts on our blogs 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, why not sign up, post your own thoughts on your blog, check out the guidelines on the IWSG LINK, and visit about 12 other writers! 

Stop by our co-hosts for this month and say thank you to: Joylene Nowell Butler, Jemima Pett, Patricia Josephine, Louise - Fundy Blue, and Kim Lajevardi.

This month's IWSG optional question is: Have any of your books been made into audio books? If so, what is the main challenge in producing an audiobook? (And now you know where today's poem began . . . )

Yes, two of my books have been made into audiobooks. Most challenging was finding a reader for the process is time-consuming and expensive. You can pay upfront (typically hundreds of dollars per hour) or create a royalty share. Either way, the recompense to author or voice actor is small and slow. Some people suggest that listeners would like to hear the author voice her own story. That requires special equipment and possibly renting a studio (or creating one in a closet with blankets).

The process itself is no less daunting, for after the voice actor completes his or her work, the author must review every sound bite, send corrections, and review those corrections. Both times, this part of the process took months. I hope to hear more positive experiences from other IWSG writers.

And an update on my writing: Covid still affects us all in unexpected ways. My beta reader happily is recovering, but I'm still holding my breath a bit as I wait for her comments on the final, hopefully final draft of Scattered Stones, my next historical novel set in Scotland in the 1840s, set to launch at the end of April. 

I'm still looking for a few more readers who are willing to read and review in exchange for a free advance copy of Scattered Stones. Please do e-mail me if you are interested! 

Poem a Day 5: Make Sense?

Today's prompt by Robert Brewer for Day 5 of the Poem a Day Challenge is a 'Two for Tuesday' poem. That is, two prompts to write either one or combine, as you wish. Prompt 1: Make sense. Prompt 2: Don't make sense. Robert Brewer always includes his own response to inspire us. Today, his poem (see link above) is heartfelt.

Make Sense?

Why do we strive for order each day,
our calendars full, priorities set, 
as if our belief in what makes sense could be touched.

Scientists know this: 

They note the spider's web turning with purpose,

truly only one goal: to survive.

Neanderthals knew this: 

the men hunted; the women gathered.

If needed, the women hunted; the men gathered.

We take each day and survive. 

If bills are paid, no one can evict us?

If we fill out all the papers, 

if we wear masks, we will be safe?

Promises are made and kept, or not. 

No matter the loud noises in the night 

or the terror of bombs.

This world makes no sense at all.

I'm not sure what lines are drawn,

or when they will be crossed

as I sip my hot tea and listen to the news,

each day recounting atrocities.

I wait for some good resolution,

without much hope, knowing

somehow we will survive this,

even if it makes no sense at all.

Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay

Poem a Day 4: Catch Up

Today's prompt by Robert Brewer for Day 4 of the Poem a Day Challenge is simply to write a 'catch up' poem.

Each morning, still and observant,

quiet and receptive, I sing my own

daily not-routine, as others rush
to work, their watches ticking, 

their schedules masked over
with unending lists of urgent 'to do'. 

Instead, I ponder the craft 

that led to this tiny, delicate carving of a raven,
black obsidian, about as big as my index finger,

and wonder at the memory
of walking through a lava tube on Kona, so eerily large,
easily twenty feet high and several hundred feet long.
Once hot lava rushed like commuters to the sea, 

building new land,
as it flowed on its own schedule.

Perhaps I'm grateful each day for this quiet time,

perhaps I do miss working at times.

These days, retired, I create my own sense of order,

and choose when to catch up.  

 

Sunset at Kona (2022)

Poem a Day 3: Walking the Seasons

Today's prompt for the third day of A Poem a Day (PAD) Challenge invites us to write a poem somehow inspired by smell. Well, I do enjoy cooking and could have fun with that, but instead, I'm drawn outside and cannot tell you which is my favorite season.

Winter bites my nose. 

Even snow blinds the senses. 

Yet we walk, sometimes slipping, 

our feet crunch tiny crystals into powder,

mixed with pine needles,

a hint of wood smoke now and then 

as we turn home.
Spring brings hope with every blossom,
new and fragile. Delicate yellow daffodils waver,

then bloom. Hyacinths, slow to bud, 
burst open. A riot of purple scent tickles
our way into those longer days of summer
and roses, red and peach and pink petals
unfolding until fall.
Maple and crabapple trees transform themselves,

dark orange and darker red, 

their leaves dry and twist in the wind,

releasing a brisk and crisp hint

of coming cold.  

We watch the geese fly south,

taking a last turn around the pond,

nearly glazed with ice,

and winter returns.

Image by Ricardo Capdepón from Pixabay

Poem a Day 2: Second Chance

Robert Brewer's suggested topic for the second day of A Poem a Day (PAD) Challenge is a doozy.  I can only share my poem, knowing it came from my first reaction to his prompt.

Second Chance

If I stumble, if I fall,
after all these years we've shared,

and now in our eighth decade,
would you give me a second chance?
I don't even have to ask.
Your morning smile says 'Yes!'

And yet doubt remains: for one day,
you will leave me.
Or I will leave you.
I really don't know how I would live without you.

That hard-won belief we'd meet again,

in a second life or heaven, doesn't hold true.

I only believe there is a beginning

and an end.

For now, the sun rises each  morning,

you smile, and I hope

to cherish each day.

Image by jplenio on Pixabay

Poem a Day 1: Dreaming into Spring

Today marks the very first day of April. Last night, temperatures lurked near freezing, but on the way to the pond, we saw budding hyacinths, daffodils, and the first leaves of tulips pushing their way out of the ground.

Today also marks the beginning of the National Poetry Month with a challenge: To write a poem a day through the month of April. As we cautiously move past Covid restrictions, I'm not quite sure I'm ready. Perhaps this month will bring more haiku forms than longer verses, but that exercise each day of opening up to the possibility of a poem is intriguing. Writing poetry can be an act of reflection, of becoming more aware of what is around you and what is within. I shall begin. Will you join me?

Dreaming into Spring

Was winter this year and last 

so long that I could not remember 

the color of the pond 

underneath all that ice?

Even the sun seemed frozen in the sky.

Time stopped, as I counted the days

into weeks, hoping that routine would ease

our self-imposed isolation.

Now masks off, like the first flowers of spring,

long dormant, we stick out our heads, 

wrinkle our noses, and sniff in all directions,

celebrating anew old friends and old places revisited,

exploring what once carried such risk. 

Yesterday, we simply stayed at home. 

Today and tomorrow, all the tomorrows ahead,

we dream of possibility. 

Check out resources for National Poetry Month at the Academy of American Poets. Join Robert Brewer, of Writer's Digest, and learn more about his poetry challenge (PAD poem-a-day!) by going HERE or to discover his Day 1 poetry prompt, go HERE.  Explore and share your poems! Spring is nearly here.

Seagrass from Pixabay

Call for Reviewers!

Yesterday, as I was working on final revisions on the very last chapter of Scattered Stones, I stopped, realizing that the story was finished! What a moment.

Now the book is off to beta readers. I'm hoping in another month to have it ready to publish. Hooray! 

If you would like to be a member of my Advance Review Team, you can receive a free copy of Scattered Stones in exchange for your honest review. 

Just e-mail me to let me know you'd like to join my team!

bluebethley@yahoo.com 

Hot Rocks on Hawaii

We drove from Hilo, all the way down to the National Volcano Park, stopping to admire the lava fields along the way; in places, they stretched from the skyline, all the way to the ocean. I was intrigued by the signs of life, for even the darkest lava fields were spotted with new growth. I'm guessing delicate ferns aren't so delicate if they could survive here! I could trace great swirls on the rocks that showed how the lava cooled.

As we stood at the rim of the volcano caldera, we could see an active pool far below, marked by steam vents and, once in a while, a tiny flare of fire. 

"Come back at night," the park guide said. "You'll see amazing views." I thought of the two and a half hour drive back to Kona that was ahead of us. We did have a peanut butter sandwich in the car, and we were tempted. For a moment.

We passed signs that reminded us when we reentered the "No Fault Zone." Of course, Allen said it wasn't my fault, but I confess to feeling a little better when we were further away from that simmering volcano. We also saw many closed shops in several small towns as we drove north once again. Covid remains rather like the lava, seemingly permanent, changing all in its path. Most people wear masks, inside and out here, more an accepted routine.  

Now in our temporary home for the next week, we swam in the pool, soaked our feet in the hot tub, watched doves settle in nearby palms, and wondered what it will feel like to go back home.

WRITING UPDATE: Not much to report. I'm working on the very last chapter of Scattered Stones, waiting for that moment that says, "Aha! I'm done!" Still feeling thankful that I can write still -- and that readers like my stories enough to leave a review now and then. 

Every once in awhile, I check Amazon to see new reviews have been posted. That brightens the morning. Brings a smile to my face, and reminds me to leave reviews for those stories I enjoy. Dear readers, THANK YOU for reading and for letting me know what you think!

READING UPDATE: Allen just finished Jason Mott's Hell of a Book, calling it an exceptional read, well written, creative, witty, and immensely satisfying. I'm reading that next!

Have a wonderful week ahead!

Visiting Pu’uhonua (A Place of Refuge)

Not quite recovered from jet lag, we ventured out to Pu’uhonua, the Royal Grounds, a kind of living history in the summer but quiet just now.  Here, we wandered past rich murals and attended a lecture that explained a little of Hawaii’s history and culture.

Sometime between 1100 and 1400, the Hawaiian people came to these islands in boats from Polynesia and Tahiti. Between 1400-1600, the chiefs created a separate and sacred place to live. 

All followed strict rules (kapu); violating kapu could mean death — even as simple as a man and a woman eating a meal together, or eating a certain type of fish at the wrong time of year. 

View of Great Wall and Royal Mausoleum (Hale o Keawe)

Here, the first temple was created, and here also, a place of refuge for those who violated kapu — if they could reach it! Our guide talked of people fleeing through the jungle or swimming across the bay, hunted all the way. Not everyone who sought refuge made it to safety.

These wooden images represent Hawaiian gods called ki’i and protect the bones of ancestors buried here, a place of great mana (spiritual power).

Everything began to change when Captain Cook sailed to Hawaii in 1779. All this history makes me want to run to the library for more information after walking on these beautiful grounds under a very warm sun, just made bearable by a cooling ocean breeze! Aloha!

WRITING UPDATE: Morning quiet means the final revisions are going well. I'm working on the very last section of Scattered Stones. Exciting to see this story almost finished. And, yet, here we are in Hawaii, bringing me thoughts of Jamie, Moira's youngest brother, who at just a little over 10 years old, left her in Inverness to join a ship bound for China -- stopping at Hawaii along the way. 

Is that the next story? Or should I begin work on that second art crimes story set in Egypt?

HELP? I am looking for folks who might be interested in joining my Advance Reviewer team! Please send me an e-mail if YOU are interested!

On the road at the Big Island

 We survived the long plane ride (only some 7.5 hours, flight time to Kailua/Kona on the big island of Hawaii), the long lines for Covid protocols (skipped because I did homework before we left to get pre-cleared), and the time change (3 hours earlier). My body is not sure even now, one day after landing, whether we're 3 hours earlier or 3 hours later! But we do have two full weeks here before returning home to the land of snow.

This morning we woke to no food in our lovely condo. Scary. First drive into town with our rented car (first time using a keyless car with no how-to manual). Our mission? To find a breakfast spot, a lovely cafe with veranda seating overlooking the ocean -- and coffee! Lots of folks walking along the beachfront wearing shorts (84F) and it's 9am. I guess they were smart because that sun got a little warmer in the afternoon, but I'm not complaining.

But maybe the birds were complaining because they kept close watch over our breakfast! We spotted two Yellow Billed Cardinals (actually 'hunting' for snacks very close to our table), and a Mynah bird. You can check out pictures HERE or admire my blurry picture below! And, yes, that's a smidge of the ocean just a few steps away!

More on our adventures tomorrow -- and maybe an update on the writing!

May you have a lovely day -- and thank YOU for visiting!

IWSG: How do we write when change comes?

Welcome to the first Wednesday in March 2022. No question about it. This last week has led to many dismaying hours in front of the television. Yet, today, honors Insecure Writer's Support Group. Nearly 140 writers, including me, post our thoughts on our blogs to celebrate writing in some way -- maybe sharing doubts or concerns, maybe celebrating our writing achievements, or offering encouragement. 

If you'd like to participate, why not sign up, post your own thoughts on your blog, sign up (see guidelines on the IWSG LINK, and visit about 12 other writers! Stop by our co-hosts for this month and say thank you to: Janet Alcorn, Pat Garcia, Natalie Aguirre, and Shannon Lawrence!

This month's IWSG optional question is: Have you ever been conflicted about writing a story or adding a scene to a story? How did you decide to write it or not?

I like to write stories about people in difficult situations who somehow find their way to a better life, whether with a loved one or not. I do believe in that 'happy ever after' for my characters. Sometimes my stories take me to darker times. For example, my three-book series (now almost four books!) that began with Standing Stones set in 1840s Scotland, begins when Lord Gordon, eager to profit from the Industrial Revolution, evicts traditional farmers from their homes, replacing them with sheep. The history is brutal; the struggles were real for far too many.

Where do people find courage and hope when faced with catastrophic change?

Loss can be measured in so many different ways.

We only need to turn on the television to see another tragedy unfolding.

This month, I'm working on final revisions for Scattered Stones, the last book in my series. I had hoped to be finished by the end of March -- but I'm feeling so distracted, not even line editing catches my attention. 

So, an invitation arrived. To fly away to Hawaii for two weeks -- in just 6 days. Are we going? Yes. Am I taking the writing and hope to reconnect with my muse? Yes. Will I sit quietly in wonder at sunsets in this quiet place? Maybe simply walk along the beach, grateful for each moment that feels like a respite from what's to come? 

Will I continue to watch and pray for those affected by Russia's aggrandizement? Yes. Will I hope that the U.S. and NATO and those demonstrations around the world can stop the tanks, the bombardments, the intrusions that bring fear to so many? Dare we hope that Putin's nuclear threats and strategic aggressions will end?  

                                    Kona, Hawaii by Ennea2 on Pixabay

Scattered Stones: A Hint of What's to Come . . .

You won't be surprised that I'm working on final revisions for Scattered Stones. This week, I'm inviting you to meet Rose.

As Standing Stones ended, Dylan left Moira behind on Foulksay Island in March of 1842 to seek work in Inverness. Moira thought she might be pregnant, but she wasn't sure, so she said nothing. Despite his best efforts, Dylan couldn't find work on the mainland of Scotland, winding up in Edinburgh and missing Moira terribly.

Moira could no longer stay on Foulksay Island, for there was nothing there for her and the coming baby. She also traveled to Inverness, looking for Dylan. She wound up at a home for unwed mothers, where Rose was born in August of 1842.

Right now I'm working on those baby milestones. Exactly how old is a baby when she starts to crawl? to laugh? to babble and almost talk? Here's a picture of Rose at about one year old that's inspired me along the way. You can see that Rose has her daddy's dark hair and dark eyes. 

Do I have a deadline? Yes, but it keeps shifting as I revise. I'm hoping final revisions will be done sometime this spring.

Now for a snippet of a scene as Moira becomes a mother:

     “You have a daughter,” said Mrs. Harcourt. “A beautiful little girl.”

     Moira’s eyes filled with tears. “Let me hold her?”
     “Yes,” said Mrs. Harcourt. “Ellen, clean her up a little first, and then give the baby to Moira. For now.”
     Ellen washed the infant gently and wrapped her in a white blanket, laying her on Moira’s chest. “She’s beautiful.”
     “Aye, she is.” All Moira wanted was to hold her baby. She held her breath as she looked at that tiny pink face, the baby’s dark eyes now open, and her little fingers moving. Moira touched the baby’s warm cheek. The baby closed her eyes and slept.
     Mrs. Harcourt checked Moira’s forehead again. “Ellen, you know what to do here. Let me know right away if anything changes.”
     Once Mrs. Harcourt left, Ellen changed the bedding, flinging the used sheets out the window, down into the courtyard. “Wish you could help me wash these, but you’ll be busy here with the little one. I’ll check back later. Just rest, all right?”
     Moira nodded. She couldn’t stop staring at the perfect infant she held so close, hardly noticing when Ellen left the room. My life has changed irrevocably, she thought. I’m a mother now. A feeling of wonder filled her. Dylan, I wish you were here to share this moment. 

     “Rose,” whispered Moira. “Your name shall be Rose.”

 

As it's terribly cold here (a low of 10F with snow still on the ground), I'm sending you wishes for a warm, happy, peaceful and productive week ahead!

Poems: Process and Challenge?

Is writing a poem so very different from writing a story or a novel?

When I'm working on a story, I feel immersed in my characters' lives, their problems, hopes, and dreams. Outlines, scaffolding, drafting, and rounds of revision occur as the story slowly develops.

When I write a poem, the whole process seems so different. I sink into a feeling, an image, perhaps a photograph -- or a poetry prompt -- and words begin to take shape.

I do write a poem, now and then. Each April, National Poetry Month challenges writers to write a poem a day -- for all 30 days! Last year, mostly because of Covid, I didn't participate. Somehow, this year, the world seems brighter. Here's a poem I wrote in April, 2021, for you to enjoy. 

Lessons from an Elephant

I'd rather be third
in a line of elephants
ambling somewhere
in that endless, grassy savanna,
or the next wet wadi
where I could roll in the warm mud
and not think about change.

Something about elephants
makes me calm.
Their eyes aslant,
their bodies slow to move,
their ears flutter and
their trunks wave
in a language of touch,
close to their companions or
to herd that little one.

I saw an elephant in Tanzania strip bark
from a tree with his expressive trunk
and lift his head to trumpet a warning.
They twist and rip grasses
from the land, as they follow each other,
a measured pace, close together
for protection, undulating across the land.

Never underestimate the creativity
or change that hunger brings.
In times of drought, those tusks
can dig the earth to find water.
Female elephants don't discriminate:
they mother any baby in their herd.
We could learn much from elephants,
though I'd rather not weigh up to ten tons.

"Elephants" by Alex Strachan (Pixabay)

April gives writers a chance to play with poetry. I hope you will check out the poetry prompts created by Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame. He posts a poetry prompt every day (PAD) for National Poetry Month, and you can check out his poetry prompts posted every Wednesday at Writer's Digest.  

Meanwhile, happy Wednesday. May your writing go well. 

Will you join me in April for National Poetry Month?

About Maps and a Bar . . .

Just checking in on Wednesday to give you an update of writing on the road. Truly, I can only say thank goodness for the internet!

I didn't think I'd need a map to find my way around Edinburgh for Scattered Stones. After all, we had stayed in Old Town for about a month several years back. But as the story unfolds to final draft, that bar where Murphy holds court needed a specific location. The old street name (Cockburn Street) I'd pulled off a map months ago simply didn't work. What was I thinking? I can see my readers blushing even now.

So, this morning's writing session began with that great Search feature on Google Maps as I worked the neighborhoods between the two oldest railway stations in Edinburgh (Waverley and Haymarket) where Dylan and Michael worked and lived. I felt like I fell down a rat hole! After an hour of searching (and drawing a rough map), I finally found my neighborhood bar in Old Town, just off Cowgate Street, and aptly named The Three Sisters. Sadly, we never visited, but we definitely will on our next visit to Scotland. 

The Three Sisters is perfect! Nestled in a courtyard with 19th Century cobblestoned tenements on all sides, complete with tables out in the courtyard (exactly as I have described in my story) and with a stone arch, this popular bar (see picture to the right) is precisely the place where Murphy, the wardman for City Centre, would hold sway. 

Only, in my story, the bar is named the Highland Inn. Hmm. Maybe I should rename my fictional bar The Three Sisters. I'd have to ask for permission. What do you think?

Stay well. Stay safe in these hopefully waning days of Omicron. See you next week!