Ménage `A Trois Italia
Fiery lover Vesuvius
courted Pompeii and Herculaneum,
Sisters two
Laid out in sunny Italia
Centuries in warm embrace
Vesuvius and his consorts
Herculaneum and Pompeii,
Sisters two
Frolicked in bright Italia
Until the fiery passion of his love
erupted, ending in hot embrace of
Herculaneum and Pompeii,
Sisters two
Surrendered in heated Italia
Mighty Vesuvius covered them in
His passionate spew and
they repose there still
in sunlit Italia
Vesuvius and the Sisters two.
I awoke with enthusiasm, anxious for the previous two weeks of solid, constructive writing days to continue. They didn’t.
“Just write something, anything…” is the advice proclaimed to break out of what is referred to as writer’s block. I struggled to comply with said guidance, but soon realized I had jumbled words no one would want to read, a meandering story no one could follow, and characters flatter than…well, you get the idea.
In frustration, and with an eye on a hot cup of coffee and a long nap in my recliner, I typed the final line of a torturous page of useless prose: I cannot write today.
That’s when this poem came to me, a quick bit of composition, but writing all the same. Irony, too, I suppose. Some may argue it merely confirms “I cannot write today” but I present it anyway.
“I Cannot Write Today”
I cannot write today.
Procrastination’s forces have their way;
Deferment,
Postponement, and
Delay.
I cannot write today.
Creative abilities once held sway;
Influence,
Mastery, and
Command.
I cannot write today.
Progress corralled, kept at bay;
Captured,
Held, and
Caged.
I cannot write today.
It is with sadness, therefore, I must say:
I’m adjourning until another day.
I was pounding out another chapter for my book 2 Celtic mystery wip when this popped into my head. Didn’t get the chapter finished but at least I have another entry for my poetry book wip. And before you ask: No, this is not autobiographical.
Three Of Me
There was a Beginning Me,
Small, plump
With the aroma of baby freshness
And mother’s soothing lullabies;
An opening refrain to appease young cries.
Then came the Middle Me,
Muscled, tested
Experienced in worldly awareness.
Sixties songs covered bleak war laments;
A chorus against fresh lives so brutally spent.
Here sits the Ending Me,
Frail, pale
Weary with life’s abject unfairness.
Reminisced tune a humming, teary-eyed;
Closing exhortations before the final goodbye.
The leaves cross over our graveyards
When the cold wind blows and raves
They whirl and scatter on the frozen ground
Then settle on the sunken graves
They put me to mind of the children of the earth
The mournful condition of us all
We are fresh and green in the spring of the year
And are blown in the grave in the fall.
–Florence Elizabeth Rutherford, 1873-1889
Rutherford Cemetery, Independence County, Arkansas
*
Abby Burnett’s Gone to the Grave: Burial Customs of the Arkansas Ozarks, 1850-1950 is an interesting, intriguing read exploring the traditions surrounding death, local customs and rituals concerning bereavement, and the burial practices in the Arkansas Ozarks. It is excellent in its research, narrative, and visual presentation. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in such subject matter.
I had the pleasure to meet author Abby Burnett, a former freelance newspaper reporter, at the Books In Bloom event in Eureka Springs, Arkansas May 2015 and again this past week during her presentation at the Fayetteville, Arkansas Public Library. Her speaking and presentation abilities are every bit as impressive as her knowledge and expertise on Arkansas burial history and customs.
*
“This painstakingly researched and thoroughly engaging book is as much an anthropological and sociological study as it is a historical and folklorist account of death, dying, and burial in the Arkansas Ozarks…there is virtually no source of information that Burnett hasn’t explored—epitaphs, business ledgers, funeral home records, obituaries, WPA questionnaires, health department regulations, oral history interviews, ministers’ journals, censuses, mortality schedules, doctors’ notes, undertakers’ record books, historical photographs, museum collections, and newspaper accounts…”
–Allyn Lord, Director, Shiloh Museum of Ozark History, Springdale, Arkansas
*
I hear a voice you cannot hear
Which says I must not stay,
I see a hand you cannot see
Which beckons me away.
–S. N. Lyle, 1875-1932
Lowes Creek Cemetery, Franklin County, Arkansas
I recently wrote a short story about a young man, his high school sweetheart, and their less-than-desirable marriages (they tied the knot twice with each other before it all fell apart for good). The story, despite its description, is actually humorous and ends well. However, in some dark corner of my mind, I wondered: what if it hadn’t ended well? What if the man couldn’t handle the fact his one true love was unfaithful? That’s when this poem came to me.
Goodbye My Love, Goodbye
Retreating inward from the pain,
I smell the sweetness of her hair
As we move along the path. I strain
Uphill, dragging muddied weight to where
Headstones squat like sacred peaks between
Mowed grass where walked mourning crones.
Stoic statues weathered, weeping, still serene,
Guarding lengthy rows of buried bones.
We halt. Crows pass, loud caws abating.
A portal beyond the pale awaits, silent.
The gaping hole lies open, waiting, waiting
For my dearest here quiet, broken, spent.
Farewell, sweet beauty, unfaithful miss.
I weep. Red lipstick on blue, icy lips
Beckons. Entranced, I take one final kiss
Before tossing splendor into the dark abyss.
Goodbye my love, goodbye.
One of my many ongoing projects is compiling and sorting my poetry for publication. I came across this one recently in an old three-ring binder that also contained my homework from a writing course at McMurry University in Texas. Written (scribbled in pencil on faded, lined notebook paper, actually) in 1984, it is a rather tongue-in-cheek, simple doodle and not meant for anything but a smile, really. Prior to posting it on this blog, I made two changes. The original presentation was all text alignment left with no breaks between verses so I tweaked it a bit for visual interest to give it movement as you move from destination to destination as if actually traveling. Secondly, I changed the old city name of Bombay to the current Mumbai and altered the verse slightly to accommodate the name change. Without a great deal of editing and rewrite, this work will not (in all probability) make the final cut for inclusion in the poetry book so I thought I’d put it here in its current state. Why not? As someone before me so famously said, what’s life without a little whimsy?
Quirkiness Traveled
Does whimsy bounce at Wimbledon?
Shall we have that spot of tea?
No mad hatters haunting me.
What cold gremlins occupy the Kremlin?
Swig a shot of vodka down.
Laughter comes before a frown.
Do bells ring in old Belfast?
Can we hear them chime?
Their silence isn’t worth a dime.
How many rows to get to Cairo?
Paddle the blue Nile River.
Mummies make me shiver.
Do toucans fly high above Tucumcari?
Is there often pouring rain?
Praying for it’s all in vain.
How many girls named Lulu in Honolulu?
Grass skirts sway and wiggle.
Shaved ice makes me giggle.
How many tokes abound in Tokyo?
Crowded city’s sushi bars,
Anime and compact cars.
Is there good vanilla out in Manila?
John the Baptist, patron saint
Frequents bordellos do you think?
How many bays shimmer in Beijing?
Not many ‘round with poodles
Feasting on delicious noodles.
Is there mumbling in Mumbai?
Saffron colored serving stalls;
Hear the vendor’s barking calls.
Can we marry in Marrakesh?
Yes, certainly among the red halls
Just inside the ancient Ochre Walls.
How united is United Airlines?
Wonder if I will be fed?
Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed
And end my quirky travel.
In a new work in progress (WIP), a character of some many years—feisty and notorious for speaking his mind—becomes disenchanted, disappointed, and bitter.
He is asked to write a eulogy on the passing of a longtime friend. The friend was an active, loved church member, associate, and—unbeknownst to the small community where they retired to escape their less-than-virtuous lives—an arch criminal.
The result is a shocking, less-than-glowing list of evil deeds to be revealed at the funeral. He is urged to rewrite the scathing expose. He refuses, believing honesty more important than conventional good manners.
The following poem recorded in his personal diary captures his new belief.
Do not speak ill of the dead!
That having said, I shall
flap my lips, wag candid tongue,
hoist the verbiage black and read,
speak truth about the dead.
Outline all the right and wrong,
unblemished reputation splattered.
Far better now to say instead,
it’s only truth that matters, go ahead.
If it’s not lies, speak unpleasantness,
illuminated veracity,
impolite accuracy.
Thus having said, I shall
speak ill of the dead.