Day 20: Lessons

Even with the sun shining outside this bright morning,

promising an early spring, I find myself asking:

What can I learn from the past

to prepare for COVID-19?

This new virus sweeps the country, masking us all,

frightening the elderly with statistics, new cases and death

spreading to nearly every state,

and the lack of testing, supplies, coherent policies,

panicking those who already are well-stocked,

leaving store shelves empty.

Last week, a few teenagers laughed, “We don’t need to worry.

The virus goes after the elderly.”

Today, some young men fought in a grocery store,

spilling beer and catsup on the floor.

What violence awaits us as we sit in our houses,

reluctant to go outside?

In the 1950’s, my grandfather built a bomb shelter

in his back yard. He dug the earth out under the house,

turned a bedroom into a library of bookshelves,

lined with cans of tomatoes and bags of flour.

At school, we learned

what to do when the bombs came.

We leaned over our desks, our right arms over our necks.

I was eight years old. I wondered how this would save me,

my face pressed against the wood.

Just as I wonder now how will we define community?

Who will care for us, the children locked out of school,

those who scrabble together a living from part-time jobs,

and those who are lost on the streets?

Isolation by Geralt (Pixabay)

Thanks to friends and family, near and far, who keep us connected. And to writers and poets Heather Carr-Rowe, Sue Eller, and Annette Drake for their encouragement.

Day 18: Winter Sparrows . . .

Winter sparrows and
an occasional finch still come
to the bird feeder every morning.
Already I’m forgiven for being gone a month.
Maybe for them, the seed
simply appears, and if not,
they move on.

Will we be like that when store shelves empty?

Will we move on to some unknown,

faraway place, maybe where the sky is blue,

and snow doesn’t fall in March.

Or will we simply stay

In this small apartment,

learning new ways to survive?

This morning, the birds are gone,

and the quiet is filled with doubt.

We're nearly in the last week in March, Day 18 of self-quarantine, and I'm finally back to writing -- or I should say reviewing and editing. Occasionally, I look for a poem in this land where snow falls in March. Today's poem came with watching the birds scrabble for seed.

Sparrows by suju on Pixabay

May you be well and at peace in these somehow quiet yet tumultuous days. Try not to watch too much news.

Day 16: Is staying at home just OK?

Finally nearly back to 'normal,' when nothing around us seems quite normal.

We flew back from Tucson to Spokane via Seattle on Friday, March 6, blissfully ready to be home. I was aware of the coronavirus, just enough to be a little nervous when I sat next to a man wearing a mask, one of only two on the crowded plane.

Saturday, we saw the kids and, since we'd been away for a month, did a massive restocking at a relatively normal Freddy's. I celebrated once again, knowing where the pancake turner (and other cooking utensils) in my kitchen were. Sunday, we stopped in at Trader Joe's to pick up a few favorites (chocolate bar, cinnamon bread), and were shocked by the long lines -- packed carts jumbled together at the checkout lines.

Monday, I got the cold. No high temperature, no shortness of breath, none of the other touted symptoms of coronavirus, but I had no stamina at all -- aside for grabbing for Kleenix and resting.

Tuesday, March 10, we began our stay-at-home, just a little ahead of everyone else. Just two-and-a-half weeks later, I'm beginning to feel almost normal, though dear hubby did catch the cold. He's about a week behind me. Then on Monday, March 23, Governor Jay Inslee issued a 'stay at home' order -- which leads me to today's question:

Is staying at home just OK?

My answer is except for worrying about people who're losing their jobs, those who are going hungry, and the spread of the coronavirus in general, we're doing fine. Even if the libraries are all closed. Some of my friends, though, are a little stir crazy.

Maybe writers have an advantage? So how are YOU doing? What are your strategies for coping just now? Once I recovered from my cold (which may or may not have been coronavirus), here's what's helped me:

1. ROUTINE. Follow my usual routine of up early, setting goals for the day (which have included filing taxes online, completing the Census online, rescheduling doctor appointments -- now 90 days out!). I still do keep a to-do list, one that just now is far too long.

2. WRITING. Work on some aspect of writing every day. The biggest completed yesterday was reviewing 57 chapters for the final audiobook before pushing that button, "Ready for Publication." Now I get back to work on my current wip and get ready for National Poetry Month, the goal to write a poem a day through April.

3. HOUSEKEEPING. We do order groceries online about every 2 weeks. Is anyone else doing the wipe-down on everything, including that mild soap and water wash for all fruits and vegetables? Aargh. There's always laundry and general upkeep, but not so much to worry about when we've downsized to a small 2-bedroom apartment.

4. NURTURING. Yes, we probably watch way too much news about the coronavirus. We do walk every day up to the pond and back. The redwinged blackbirds have returned. And I'm quilting as well. Finished enough blocks for another comfort quilt. We have movie night about every other day (free movies!), and we're reading. I'm also connecting with friends online and by phone, happy to hear their voices and to know, even when they struggle, they are all doing well.

This morning, a light snow blankets our patio, but the finches are happy. Their feeder is full. I wonder if this is the last snow before true spring and what our world will be like when winter rolls around again.

May you and yours be well. Cherish each day!

IWSG #3 March: Cactus and Commitment

This last month, I’ve been in Tucson, surrounded by the Catalina Mountains and miles of cacti and hiking trails, museums, unforgettable restaurants (Greek, Iranian, ‘Mercian, and Mexican). A lovely vacation. We leave for home this coming Friday, back to the land of steady internet and concerns about Coronavirus. Snow is predicted for Saturday back in Spokane, a long stretch from 82F this Thursday.

Because of iffy internet connections, and hours of frustration, I’ve set aside my writing commitments. As a new owner of an iPad, I have learned I cannot work (that is draft AND save) on my wip unless I’m connected to the internet. So try revision on a first draft and skipping writing every other day. Doesn’t lead to consistency. I switched to writing scenes. That didn’t work either. How about by hand? Didn’t writers work this way BEFORE technology? And write great stuff? But where is that quiet corner, nearly impossible to find when traveling in a group.

I have renewed appreciation for — my writing room at home, an internet connection that works 24/7, and uninterrupted writing time each morning. DH doesn’t care if I get up at 5am to write. So, the muse has been on her own vacation — We learned of healing baskets, the quiet of the desert, and the surprise of sun and birdsong during the winter.

Lesson for this month not at all connected to IWSG? Remember, my daughter said, that when you fly long distances, you’ll need some time before your soul catches up with you. So, the muse and I will wait a few days after unpacking — and then, we’ll write!

The Insecure Writer’s Support Group offers a monthly challenge, to share our challenges, successes, and doubts — to encourage each of us with our writing. This month’s challenge (optional) was to write about how different holidays may have inspired our writing. Nearly 200 writers participate in this monthly challenge. Why not visit our HOME PAGE at www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com to see what others have written — and to thank this month’s hosts!

May your writing go well. Or, at least, better than my iPad skills!

Near Sabino Canyon, Tucson

WEP Challenge: Cafe Terrace

Waiting for Van Gogh

Cobblestones make walking tricky as I wander far
from our hotel in this small town
under a dark, star-spangled sky.
I said I would not wait
for you. Your paintings shimmer in my memories,
like sad songs without promise, reminding me
of what we once had, precious friendship diluted
by screaming fights, the drinking, the slide
to oblivion. You laughed when you cut off your ear.
I could not hear your pain then.
Yet you painted again and again
what you saw around you, crows rising from a wheat field
and me.

NOTE: I’m writing this poem while on the road, far from home and with iffy internet on an iPad I don’t quite know how to use . . . which means I can’t post the lovely poster for this February writing challenge from WEP, Write—Edit—Publish.

Please go HERE to read what others have written for Cafe Terrace, inspired by Van Gogh’s painting, Cafe Terrace at Night (1888). Source: Wikipedia.

80 words. Any comments appreciated.

Feb IWSG: A little about critiques and stars

Wednesday night, and it's time to post on my blog as  part of  the Insecure Writer's Support Group's monthly challenge!

Have you ever felt overwhelmed by the scope of your writing project? perhaps deadlines? Today is a day to talk about those creeping insecurities that we somehow find a way to face down and persevere.

This pic shows dear hubby on an amazing hike trip we took in the Atacama Desert in Northern Peru a few years back. Our tour guide took us down sand dunes that stretched to the horizon and then to this narrow canyon. Before we began, though, two younger women looked at us and said, "They'll never make it. They'll hold us back." Guess who fell behind? Wasn't us. I'll never forget that sense of freedom as we rolled down those gigantic sand dunes.

Hiking the Atacama Desert, Chile

What does this have to do with writing? Well, we writers do so appreciate a good critique. But what happens when the crit doesn't inspire us to keep writing? In fact, what if a critique makes us stop writing?

Do we learn what we can from that critique, then let go and simply return to our writing? Sometimes.

A writing friend reminded me that we need to recognize that we are telling OUR story, the story we love, the story that won't let us go. This may be the story that we can't finish in a few months or even a year. Maybe our characters talk to us -- and maybe they don't. But something keeps pulling us back to this story. We can circle around, study our favorite writing gurus, and recognize we may never make every reader happy. We can simply persevere with our writing.

So, this month, I've worked through those critiques, done some research, and revised for more effective use of inner dialogue, and now I'm setting those critiques aside and focusing on the story itself. BTW, here's a short summary of what I learned about inner dialogue:

1) Not everyone thinks in their head!
2) Shorter is better, especially when my character is under stress.
3) Watch out for narrator's intrusion AKA back story!
4) It's ok to use italics for inner dialogue. Some very famous writers do -- and many others don't.

Just so you know, I'm back to writing . . . and happy to be here, talking to you as part of this month's IWSG.

Here's IWSG's February 5 question - Has a single photo or work of art ever inspired a story? What was it and did you finish it?

When I lived in San Francisco, I stood in line for four hours to see a traveling exhibit of Van Gogh's work. I can't say his paintings inspired a specific story of mine, but his life and work have affirmed the importance of creativity to each of us. I cannot watch this wonderful video of Don McLean's "Starry, Starry Night," illustrated with Van Gogh's work, without tears.




So, no matter what form it takes, poetry, short stories, novels, or painting, I wish you a joyful end-of-the-winter month ahead to explore YOUR creativity.

Part of participating in the Insecure Writer's Support Group's monthly challenge is to check in, find out what others are thinking about. Why not click on over!

Thanks go to co-hosts for the February 5 posting of the IWSG are Lee Lowery, Ronel Janse van Vuuren, Jennifer Hawes, Cathrina Constantine, and Tyrean Martinson!  And a special thank you to Alex J.  Cavanaugh for starting this all.

IWSG: On the Road Again . . .

We're on the road again, traveling from snow zone to sun, a wonderful way to begin the new year, sharing time with old friends and then, suitcases in hand, jumping onto a plane, south to Mexico.

We're a little older, walking not quite as fast or as far, but still ready to appreciate the ambiance of some place that's totally new, this January to the west coast of Mexico, a tourist destination: Puerto Vallarta, a small condo walking distance to the beach and sunny days of 85F.

Part of the pleasure of leaving is simply letting go of what is non-essential, those tangible 'gifts' that surround us, pictures, books, quilt-making supplies. I asked Allen if I should leave my netbook at home since our trip is only 14 days. His reply, "What! Are you nuts?" I have my travel journal, but I do love looking out the window at a strange vista and writing into the morning. That means I'll have my current story with me and, as always, hope for insight and progress.

Part of the pleasure of returning home is understanding anew what is good about this home and this place, for at some point, we won't travel at all.

Casa de Pilatos, Seville
Begun in 1492

I regret nothing about the trips we've taken, the worlds of art and culture we've seen and tasted and dreamed of, most recently, last spring, a month in Seville, a city that brings Moorish and Christian history alive, a tradition of sitting on companionable little patios, enjoying tapas ('little bites') with sangria.

At home, we're nurtured through the seasons by closeness to family -- and the hope of the next journey -- with netbook!

Each decade presents us with questions: What is essential? What requires courage or change? What will we continue to embrace? What will we let go of?

IWSG's January question asked us to explore how we began writing -- if we always knew one day we'd write, regardless of challenges along the way. I choose to focus on what's ahead, for after a lifetime of writing poetry, telling stories, and, at retirement, finally, finally writing novels, I realize that what once began as a vow to myself when I was 10, is now a reality.

Happy New Year ahead! May all your dreams come true! May you cherish each day.

Thank you to the intrepid group of writers, including host Alex J. Kavanaugh, and co-hosts for the January 8 posting of the Insecure Writer's Support Group: T. Powell Coltrin, Victoria Marie Lees, Stephen Tremp, Renee Scattergood, and J.H. Moncrieff!

IWSG December: Living the Dream

November's National Novel Writing Month is now over, as is Thanksgiving as we tunnel through winter to the end of the year.

Outside my apartment window, rain, instead of snow, pelts an amazing pile of abandoned furniture next to the community garage, a stranger's untold story.

Today, this Wednesday, as part of IWSG's monthly challenge, we're asked to describe our future writer's self -- what it looks and feels like -- IF we are living the dream. Or, we could talk about what our life as a writer is like IF we are already there. And what would we change or improve?

I'm never sure about these questions or where they'll take me. As an older than average writer, I am, like many, poised between becoming a better writer and being, that is, practicing the craft of writing every day.  Simply put, that's my dream, and I'm living it.

Last month's NaNoWriMo pushed me to face stories I've never told as I took a mini-break from my current novel to begin a memoir. Some 35K words later, I'm pleased by my start, to look critically at those events I've wrestled with in my fiction, but never easily talked about.

Yes, I read pretty voraciously. Do you? This week, I forced myself to finish a book that will remain nameless, for it disgusted me. The novel, this month's selection for a book club, read as if it were a memoir, but without grace or insight. The main character divulged an atrocious childhood and then transformed into a money-grubbing, amoral, self-obsessed individual. The book ended with no transformation of the character's many flaws, no hint of change or redemption, but promised this was Book 1 of more to come.

Aargh! I may not know where my writing will take me, but please, I hope to write stories that encourage us to face evil with courage, despite many obstacles within and without.

For many writers, the dream is recognition and perhaps more than a livable wage. I'm retired with few wants. Do you remember Hemingway's very famous short story, "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"?  Hemingway shows us, with bare prose, the value of simple acts. How we choose to live with empathy and courage. For we know, don't we, that some -- even us, at times -- despair, and this leads us right back to bedrock: that regardless of circumstance, we have the freedom to choose how we live and what we do. 

That's my dream: To live and write with a sense of harmony and grace, regardless of circumstance. I think I'm living the dream. That could be an illusion, but it's one that sustains me.

That's me with my cousin,
Bainbridge Island,
about 1953

One last note: It's too close to Thanksgiving not to truly be thankful for much -- my family and friends, my life companion, and, not least, those readers, primarily from the States, Scotland, Australia, and Canada, who read my stuff.

And a special thank you to the  co-hosts for the December 4 posting of the IWSG are Tonja Drecker, Beverly Stowe McClure, Nicki Elson, Fundy Blue, and Tyrean Martinson!

May you all live your dream in the year ahead.

IWSG November: Researching the Unimaginable . . .

Each month, the Insecure Writer's Support Group posts a question for writers to ponder and write about. This November's question: What's the strangest thing you've ever Googled in researching a story?

I've done my fair share of researching serial killers, the mafia, how quickly rigor mortis takes effect, and royal intrigue, among many other topics. Today's response is inspired by Google research about a bar in Edinburgh and about a fish that lives on the bottom of the sea.

BACKGROUND: While living in Edinburgh to research Standing Stones, we lived in a 5th floor walk-up apartment overlooking a 16th Century Writer's Museum, located in the  courtyard in Lady Stair's Close. About half a block away, on the corner, we passed by many times a very famous bar called Deacon Brodie's Tavern. Sadly, we never visited there until I began my current romantic suspense novel.

From The Seventh Tapestry. 

So, I'll let my hero, Neil McDonnell, art crimes investigator, describe the history of this very special tavern, as he meets with my heroine, Sandra Robertson, curator at an Edinburgh medieval arts museum, over lunch at Deacon Brodie's Tavern:
---
   “Ah,” said Neil. “Now, we enjoy. So, did I tell you about Deacon Brodie?” 
    Sandra shook her head, too busy with her salad to talk. The scallops, embellished with crunchy bacon and a light vinaigrette, were perfectly cooked and chilled.
    “Brodie lived in this neighborhood back in the 1700’s, a pretty well-respected cabinet maker and locksmith. At least by day. At night, he gambled. Got into debt. Turned his locksmith skills into copying keys to mansions.” Neil paused. “Rather like today. Somebody at your museum might have been tempted for some easy money. Maybe got in over his or her head with gambling, just like Brodie. ‘Tis as much a problem today as it was then.”
    He nudged his oatcake with a fork. “Anyway, Brodie continued to steal for the next twenty years, hiding in plain sight. Until he was finally discovered and then hanged. Pretty gruesome talk for lunch.” He smiled. “Did you notice the slogan on the front of the bar?”
    “No, too noisy and too many people. But it’s nice and quiet up here.”
    “Well, the slogan is one that every Scot knows. ‘In love and life I hath no fear, as I was born of Scottish blood.’”
    “‘In love and life, I have no fear.’ I like that. I think my father would like it too.”
-----

And now a grim, little poem, inspired entirely by research! I no longer remember why I researched hagfish. Perhaps I found a mention somewhere, but here's the resulting poem.

Hagfish

Almost as long as my thigh bone,
she burrows into the bottom of the ocean floor.
Spineless, she circles and scavenges
her way into the bodies of the dead and dying
and eats her way out.
She sucks life through her skin;
at the same moment she swallows,
her cartilage-teeth move horizontally in and out
on two plates, and her whiskers quiver,
catfish-like, her pink skin deepens to purple,
her skull defined as if some sluggish, evolutionary
brain were trapped within,
some mindless, predestined intelligence
behind her eyespots.
She carries her eggs casually.
If caught, she covers herself with gill-clogging slime
and twists herself into knots to escape.
I would say this hagfish is a survivor,
550 million years old,
with dark lessons for us all.

May November bring you good reading and good writing!

Why not visit what other writers have written this month, for the purpose behind the Insecure Writer's Support Group  is for writers at all stages and genres to connect with each other, sharing our doubts and celebrating the writing life.

Special thanks go to November's co-hosts: Sadira Stone, Patricia Josephine, Lisa Buie-Collard, Erika Beebe, and C. Lee McKenzie!

OctPoWriMo #31: Peace

Forest Walk (pixabay)

It doesn't matter where we are.
Truly. The young ones grow up;
we elders pass like seasons;
every decade brings its own challenge,
and, at the end, a few memories
remain: the birth of our child,
a hike around a mountain lake
shimmering blue in the sun.
We did climb the heights at Macchu Picchu,
gasping for each breath,
sitting on stones,
contemplating ruins of stone
made in another time long before us.
What will I remember
when memory fails me?
Will we hold hands,
fully at peace?
Will the world, so full of chaos,
be at peace as well?
I am at once filled with doubt
and hope.

Morning Fog (Pixabay)

Today is the last day for this challenge to write a poem each day for the month of October. You can still visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and perhaps comment. 

Thank you so much, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge. You have given us all gifts of language and feeling -- poetry!

OctPoWriMo #30: Me

These are my hands, not privileged,
gnarled with seven and a half decades of living,
maybe at a slightly slower pace, yet
ready to work, reach out, embrace,
not alone, but connected
to circles of family, writers, quilters,
and that sense that cherishes
each morning: for I am still here,

facing down that blank page

and writing.

Hand of an Elderly Woman (Pixabay)

Tomorrow's prompt: Finding Peace.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and for writing prompts for tomorrow's poem. Why not join in? You still have one more day!

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #29: Lightness of Being

If I could be one
with nature, 

I would be here at dawn, 

rising with those mystery birds,

like leaves blown free
from that tree,
the horizon edged with blue,
the last of night
fading into this fresh today
with you.

Dawn (Pixabay)

Not enough time, I chant to myself as I start today’s writing, inspired by this lovely picture from Pixabay, reminded again of the importance of cherishing each day. You sleep. I type on the computer. Today begins.

Tomorrow's prompt: Me or Who I am.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and for writing prompts for tomorrow's poem. Why not join in?

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #28: Mending the Broken Places

This fog-bound broken place I know,
abandoned cottages, their stones
scattered in the hills, deep
in the highlands, along the coasts.

In the 1840's, families left, 

carrying their belongings in blankets 

when they could, 

in that time when factories sprang up in cities,
when crofters were replaced by sheep,
the lairds comfortable in their manse or
down in London, counting receipts.

Some of the people left entirely, a Scottish
diaspora to new places, Australia, Canada, and India,
not lost and not broken, 

but fierce carriers of culture, tales of
the old country to bolster their courage
on dark, hungry nights and stormy seas.

In time, these tenacious people mended.

One day at a time, one lost child to mourn, 

each new birth creating the world anew,

their homes, their history not forgotten. 

Abandoned stone cottage (Pixabay)

NOTE: A college class about the economic history of Great Britain led me to study the Industrial Revolution and its impact on average people whose lives were transformed by events they could not control. My fascination with mermaids inspired my earliest storytelling, about Finnish men in tiny, seal boats who plied the coasts of northern Scotland, in search of wives; locals called them 'mermen'. 

These two improbable events combined in my first book, Standing Stones. We were fortunate to take a two-month research trip to northern Scotland, where one can still see those abandoned cottages, their stones strewn in fields and abandoned. But, their history is not forgotten.

Tomorrow's prompt: Lightness of Being.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and for writing prompts for tomorrow's poem. Why not join in?

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #27: How Did I Get Here?

I am still that little girl with glasses
looking on from the outside,
the new kid in a different school,
happy to hide in the curtains
at sudden noises or find quiet solace
in any book.
Once I came down the stairs,
dressed like a goddess in someone else’s gown,
and saw you, stunned to silence.
I am the earth to your sun,
forty-four years circling,
following you to desert valleys and lakeside mountains.
Once, we slept on a night train up the Nile Valley,
your shoes were my pillow,
we stared in awe, breathless at temples in Macchu Piccu,
made homes in whatever state or country we felt like stopping,
until our daughter came along, an anchor,
slowing us down to one place until she was grown,
our desire to give her what we never quite had,
a home. For now, we are here, downsized,
bookcases crammed with just our favorites,
a corner for quiltmaking, and on every wall,
photos, textiles, and paintings that remind us,
how we got here. 

Rachel and me, 1978

Tomorrow's prompt: Mending the Broken Pieces.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and for writing prompts for tomorrow's poem. Why not join in?

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWrMo #26: What has been unspoken . . .

Baked a spaghetti pie this morning,
sweet smell of basil and tomatoes,
saved for supper. Made sandwiches for him:
one for breakfast,
one for lunch.
Last night we watched TV,
Ken Burns' country music special,
companionable,
Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash.
music from the 1960's, the Vietnam era.
He told me a few stories,
and I remember when we first met,
that flash of understanding,
night terrors we both knew.
We listened with tears in our eyes,
each in our Lazy-Boy recliners,
far from war.

.

Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash sing "Girl from the North Country."

Tomorrow's prompt: How Did I Get Here.


You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written and for writing prompts for tomorrow's poem. Why not join in?

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWrMo #25: White

I've been given advice.
Haven't always followed
what well-wishing loved ones say.
Maybe that's why mice
have swallowed
all the food in my fridge today.

Meme found on the internet
which matches my mood precisely.
Concisely.
Nicely.

The year before we moved to Spokane, Washington, it snowed so much that roofs collapsed at some of the big name shopping centers around the city. Our apartment building was safe, but when winter comes, I now tend to watch how much snow is falling

Winter at Manito Park, Spokane

Tomorrow's prompt: What has been unspoken.

Why not join in? For your daily poetry prompt, visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/  Post your poem on your website and read what others have written. 

Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #24: Breathing

If I could breathe underwater,
I would swim beneath ice mountains,
chase narwhals,
sink to the bottom of the sea,
befriend a mermaid.
Far from the ocean, I can dream
of glaciers that don't melt,
of tomorrows without end.

Underwater Polar Bear (Pixabay)

Imagine a Halloween party with fifty or so parents and kids, many aged from 5 to 7 in amazing costumes. I came home early, even though it was fun. Tomorrow's a rest day, and tomorrow's prompt: White. Ooops. Should have saved this last-minute prompt for tomorrow.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written. Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #23: Fur Babies

If you had a mouse
Living in your house,
Would you set a trap?
Snap!

If a bat settled in your eaves,
Would you pull down your sleeves,
think of vampires?
Hot wires!

If a furry baby cat,
Brought you the dead body of a rat,
Would you feed him a treat?
Sweet!

If you found a deer,
Drinking all your beer,
Would you hesitate?
Desolate?

If a lion set up residence,
Would you commence
to worry?
Sorry!

Lion sleeping in a tree (Tasmania, 2012)

Today's prompt led me somewhere quite unexpected. Too much work to do and not enough time for poetry. So, inspired by the mice trying to find a warm place for winter in our house (and my debate over whether to set a 'real' trap), I found this poem.

Tomorrow's prompt: Breathing.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written. Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #22: Broken Pieces

A large brooch with a sedate row of trees
and three junks on a calm river
in conventional blue and white ceramic
was placed next to a row of pillboxes,
each differently, delicately colored,
no dates, no names.
The placard simply read:
"Poetry shard: Cultural Revolution."

I knew what these bits of Chinese ceramics meant
as they lay before me:
Remnants of sanctioned violence,
a pillaging of lives, of history and art,
visible symbols
of a rampage against artists and intellectuals,
the military boot crushing
tiny thousand-year-old tea cups,
‘decadent art’ students and soldiers
could tear down, rip, smash, kick, and destroy;
this cultural legacy lost just fifty years ago.

How did this pin come here, to this small museum store?
The slope of the pin holds the shape of the large urn that once was,
its slight belly bulging outward, rimmed in silver.
The ceramic piece is thick, yet I can see through
its traditional milk-blue stone.
Did its owner survive? 

Did some Chinese entrepreneur bake these shards

last month, last week, 

manufacturing fake artifacts
to feed nostalgic capitalism, a knock-off
of early 20th Century trade goods?

Of course, I wear it.
I really don’t care if the pin is authentic or not.
Wearing it affirms what was lost.
For a few years more, this shard will be treasured.
The barbarians at the gate can’t destroy everything.
An artist’s work has its own meaning
and makes its own transformations.

The Chinese brooch, found at a small museum store.

Tomorrow's prompt: Fur babies.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written. Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.

OctPoWriMo #21: Don't Go Screaming . . .

Don’t go screaming into the wind.
Boundaries and routines are meant to be tested,
and we test them.
Van Gogh knew this as he painted his way
into what others could not see.
Sometimes if we cross a line,
we can’t go back.
Perhaps we'll be measured by what we can accomplish,
by our failures, and by those times,
we give into sorrow and joy.

Vincent Van Gogh (Wikipedia)

I remember standing in the rain for three hours to see an exhibit of Vincent Van Gogh's works at the de Young Museum in San Francisco, several decades ago. Perhaps Don McLean's song, "Vincent," captures the essence of this artist's life and works, what it took to create his paintings, and his influence that crosses so many boundaries.

https://youtu.be/oxHnRfhDmrk

Tomorrow's prompt: Broken pieces.

You can visit OctPoWriMo at http://www.octpowrimo.com/ to read what others have written. Thank you, Morgan Dragonwillow, Michelle Vecchitto, Esther Jones, and Maria L. Berg for hosting this month-long poetry challenge.