Slipping Away

I have a twofer (two for one) for you today. I wrote these poems about 25 years apart and although the styles are quite different the message is pretty much the same. I’d like to think I’ve matured a bit as a poet over the years - what do you think?


SLIPPING AWAY

Regrets for things I’ve never done
Sad sighs for words I’ve never said
Dreams of battles not yet won
Escape - my future’s filled with dread

Wishes, longings, fantasies.
This world of mine is not quite real.
Cold and dark obscurities
Confuse my vision with their steel.

Myths and legends come to life,
Yet I bury things that are.
Sorrow cuts me like a knife,
And yet this road has led me far.

Worlds of people take their toll.
The music slips away.
Loki comes to steal my soul,
There goes my sanity.



SLIPPING AWAY – REDUX

I’m slipping away
losing myself
in what others demand
of me

I’m losing myself
my dreams
popping one by one like
soap bubbles

I’m vanishing
disregarded
just an afterthought in
others’ lives

I’m like a ghost
insubstantial
that face in the mirror
isn’t mine

I’m slipping away
bits and pieces
scattering behind me until
I’m gone

Doing the Math

I was in the shower this morning (the best ideas always come to you in the shower, don’t you know) and I starting doing some math to try and figure out where all my time goes. The shower is a terrible place to be if you’re trying to write things down, so I clung to the idea like a limpet to a rock until I was dried off and sitting at my lap top.

We start with 24 hours in a single day, multiplied by 7 days in a week, which is 168 hours. So…let’s break down the rest of it so it’s easier to see, shall we?

Sleep – lately I’ve been in bed by 11:30 and I’m up between 6 and 6:30, so that makes 6 ½ to 7 hours a night. Times 7 nights puts about 49 hours lost to sleep.

Morning Routine – feeding the cats, feeding the fish, exercise, shower and breakfast – this takes between 1 ½ and 2 hours every day, depending on how ambitious I am with the exercising and breakfast. We’ll say 2 hours, which makes it 14 hours a week.

Babysitting – most people have a job outside of the home, mine is babysitting on week days. The times vary, but on average I spend 24 hours a week at this.

Meals – this includes prep time as well as eating time. Breakfast was included in my morning routine, so we’re just talking lunch and supper. Lunches are usually easier, except on Wednesdays and Fridays when the grandbaby has lunch with us, so I’m going to average it out to an hour a day. Dinners…a little more time consuming, especially Sunday dinners when I like to serve a proper meal. During the week, however, I sometimes get away with something that just basically needs to be thrown into the toaster oven so I’m averaging it out to be between 1 ½ to 2 hours, which gives us a total of 21 hours a week.

That brings us to a grand total of 108 hours a week. When you subtract that from the original 168 hours, I’m still left with 60 hours unaccounted for. What else do I do?

Well, there’s grocery shopping on Fridays, that’s good for at least 2 hours. There are always errands to run – I’m going to allow about 10 hours for this. This past weekend I went thrift store shopping with a friend (4 hours), and the movies (2 hours), and I have my writing group on Thursdays (4 hours including travel time). I’m not really all that sociable, so I’m going to say 10 hours a week total for being sociable. Then there’s T.V. watching with the hubby – he says probably 20 hours a week. Altogether, that adds another 42 hours, bringing the grand total of accounted for hours to 150, leaving me with 18 hours unaccounted for.

Except they’re not really unaccounted for, I know exactly what I’ve been doing with them – online games, particularly the mindless ones. Lately it’s been playing solitaire on www.solitaireonline.com. I especially love the Tripeaks and Pyramid solitaire games, and there’s a Secret Double Klondike that is a little challenging.

Playing mindless games is my go-to activity for when I want to relax my mind. The problem is, I also have an addictive personality, so once my mind is relaxed I just keep going until my eyes are burning. I know I play a lot more than just 18 hours a week – I play when I’m watching T.V., or while I’m eating breakfast or dinner. This is why I stay away from the more complex, role playing games online. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to give them a try, but I’ve seen what they can do to normal people, I just don’t trust myself enough to be able to stop once I get hooked by them.

So this week’s goal is to try and break out of the solitaire addiction so I can get back to the writing. I have been writing (although not enough to include it in my time usage breakdown), I just need to be writing more.

I swear, this is going to be harder than cutting back on my snacking!

Jungle Realm

Last Friday I introduced you to my seven realms series, starting with the desert realm. This week I’m sharing the beginning of the jungle realm. It’s the same premise, just a different setting.

Three friends were on their way to a vacation when they caught some teenagers hassling a little old lady – of course they came to her rescue. But it turns out the little old lady was a fairy godmother and granted them a wish as their reward. It was to be used for something personal, and the three wished to meet the men of their deepest desires.

Evangeline Covington couldn't remember the last time she'd had such a wicked hangover. She groaned, but didn't feel up to opening her eyes yet. It wasn't like they'd had that much to drink last night, two bottles of wine between the three of them - she must be getting old.

She felt damp. There was something digging into her back and the distinct smell of greenery in the air. She had a sneaking suspicion of where she was. Cracking her eyes open slightly, she slammed them tightly shut again, her suspicions confirmed. They hadn't made it back to the cabin last night - she'd slept outside.

"Fi? Taylor? You guys awake?" Even the sound of her own voice made her wince.

There was no answer. With another groan she rolled to her side so the sun wasn't in her face and tried opening her eyes again.

Frowning, she stared at the bright red flower in front of her nose. She didn't remember there being flowers blooming in the woods, especially not such exotic looking ones.

Feeling a slight chill, she levered herself into a sitting position and took a good look around. "What the hell?"

Hangover forgotten, Eva got to her feet and stared around in disbelief. This was not the woods full of pine trees surrounding the cabin on the lake. In fact, this wasn't a forest at all, it was more like a jungle.

Several different varieties of palm and other exotic trees towered upwards, hung with trailing vines. The undergrowth seemed to be filled with broad-leafed shrubs and ferns. An endless variety of colorful blossoms rioted around her.

Eva staggered, reaching out to steady herself by holding on to the trunk of a palm. "Where am I?" she whispered.

More importantly, how did she get here? The last thing she remembered was sitting around the camp fire with Fiona and Taylor. They were drinking wine and made a toast to friendship. Then she'd spotted the evening star and . . .

"Esmeralda!"

She remembered hearing the old woman's voice, something about making a wish. They'd treated it like a joke and decided to wish for their perfect mate.

All her life Eva had loved adventure stories, especially ones set in exotic locations. Her favorites were by the old romantic fantasy writers - Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. Rider Haggard, A. A. Merritt - with their tales of lost cities set in the jungles of the world. In her deepest fantasies, ones she'd never shared with even Fiona or Taylor, she'd dreamed of being swept away by her very own jungle lord.

"This is crazy!" she said firmly. "Hello? Anyone?"

People didn't just wish for something like that and have it happen. Someone was playing a joke on her. A very bad, practical joke. There must have been something in the wine that knocked her out so someone, or a couple of someones, could transport her to the nearest zoo and leave her in the middle of the African exhibit.

Eva leaned against the palm tree for support. Which was just as likely as being transported to an actual jungle. What else had Esmeralda told them?

"I'm a fairy godmother, but no one believes in magic anymore, more's the pity."

"Magic," Eva repeated, trying the word on for size. Esmeralda was right. People didn't believe in magic any more. Maybe if they did she wouldn't have such a hard time believing in it now.

A cool breeze swept through the jungle and she shivered, her damp clothing amplifying the chill. The tops of the trees were starting to wave and when she looked up she caught a glimpse of dark clouds building.

"This is so not fair!"

She needed shelter from the oncoming storm and fast, judging by the smell of rain in the air. With any luck she could curl up and go to sleep, awakening to find this was nothing more than an alcohol induced, very vivid, dream.

Birds of Passage

I’m making a slight change to the line-up here. Two reasons: 1. It’s my blog and I can do what I want, and 2. After four days off I found myself unprepared to present a new form today. So, starting today, the first Wednesday of the month I will share a favorite poem written by someone else, and the last Wednesday of the month will be a new form.

That being said, I have to admit that this was not the poem I had planned on presenting today. There is a poem that was written about what it was like to be the child of a merman, but I could not for the life of me remember who wrote it. This is going to frustrate the heck out of me, and I swear I will find it someday, just not today.

Instead I will offer this one from one of my all-time favorite poets, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I love the lyrical quality of his poems and the way they flow. I even used a quote from one of his poems at the beginning of the first book I ever attempted to write. This is not that poem. ;-)

Birds of Passage

Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
Against the southern sky;

And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms
A tide-like darkness overwhelm
The fields that round us lie.

But the night is fair,
And everywhere
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
And distant sounds seem near;

And above, in the light
Of the star-lit night,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
Through the dewy atmosphere.

I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
As from the land of snow and sleet
They seek a southern lea.

I hear the cry
Of their voices high
Falling dreamily through the sky,
But their forms I cannot see.

Oh, say not so!
Those sounds that flow
In murmurs of delight and woe
Come not from wings of birds.

They are the throngs
Of the poet's songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.

This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime.

From their distant flight
Through realms of light
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Home Again, Home Again

Yup, I'm home again. When the daughter was little we used to take her up to Owen Sound a lot (up north/west of here) and when we got home we'd always tell her: Home again, home again, hot diggity dog! Which was our version of the rhyme:

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig
Home again, home again, jiggity jig
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog
Home again, home again, jiggity jog

I had a wonderful four days (which was really only two full days) visiting my sister. It's amazing how much you can do in just four days. I think I'm going to do a separate page to chronicle my visit (since vacations away from home happen all too rarely) so I'll save all the good stuff for that. Keep watching for either the page tab at the top or the link to it.

Seriously, you didn't really expect me to get any writing in while I was gone, did you? Silly you!

So today's post is just a short one, but if I get back on track the way I'd like this week, then watch out next Monday!

Seven Realms

Nothing new this week I’m afraid, but I’ve been revisiting a series I started developing a couple of years ago with the idea of it being the next WIP after I finish the Moonstone Chronicles and the Ardraci Elementals. Or maybe I might even start working on it before I’m done with the others.

At any rate, I thought you might like a preview. To set this excerpt up…Taylor and her two friends were on their way to a vacation when they caught some teenagers hassling a little old lady – of course they came to her rescue. But it turned out the little old lady was a fairy godmother and granted them a wish as their reward. It was to be used for something personal, and the three wished to meet the men of their deepest desires.

The sound of a bird screeching brought Taylor awake with a start. She sat up cautiously, expecting a shaft of hangover pain, but nothing happened. Not that she was trying to borrow trouble, but if she drank enough wine that she passed out on some beach somewhere, why didn't she have a hangover? It was as puzzling as to the fact she'd passed out in the first place. They'd only had two bottles of wine between the three of them.

"Somebody must have spiked one of those bottles," she said, getting to her feet. "It's the only possible--where the heck am I?"

With the sand beneath her she'd assumed she'd wandered onto the beach at the resort about half a mile from the cottage, but looking around herself all she could see was sand. There was no hotel, no water, no ... anything. Just sand.

Taylor sat down again. She must still be drunk. The nearest desert was hundreds of miles away. There was no way she could just magically appear in the middle of one.

Magic! What was it that little old lady they'd helped said? Something about being a fairy godmother and no one believing in such things any more.

There was more ... she remembered sitting by the fire, passing the bottle of wine around, and she'd been just about to get up to get the makings for some s'mores when Eva spotted the evening star.

"No, that's ridiculous!"

When they saw the star they heard the old woman's voice again: "... whatever wish you make tonight upon that star will come true. But mind it's a personal wish, something frivolous that will benefit only you. None of that world peace nonsense. You will be touched by magic."

"Touched by magic," she repeated. They decided then and there to wish for their perfect mates. "No way!" she said, a little louder.

If there was one thing Taylor loved, it was old black and white movies, the older the better. And her absolute favourites were the silent movies. Douglas Fairbanks, Lillian Gish, Buster Keaton ... but the one she'd had the biggest crush on was Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik. So without even thinking about it, when it came time to make her wish she wished to be swept away by a desert prince.

"This can't be real," she said, getting to her feet for a better look around. There were no deserts in Canada, nothing even resembling a desert in the woods she had started out in. But there was no denying the fact that she was in the middle of an unknown desert. No sheik in sight, she was utterly alone.

Found Poem

Yes, I know I said I’d post my purple “not quite as creepy as the story poem” but I’ve decided it’s a work in progress so you’re just going to have to wait until I finish playing around with it.

In the meantime, I found a Found Poem that I wrote a few years ago. A Found Poem is pretty much what it sounds like – a poem that’s “found” in other writings. It’s created by taking words, sentences, or whole sections from prose sources and making changes in spacing lines, turning them into a poem.

My poem was “found” in the introduction of a psychology textbook called Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D. It’s a really fascinating book, and I’m not normally a fan of non-fiction. Anyway, this is the poem that spoke to me from those words:

The Wild Woman

We may have forgotten her names,
we may not answer when she calls ours,
but in our bones we know her,
we yearn toward her;
we know she belongs to us and we to her.

A sense of her comes through vision;
through sights of great beauty.
I have felt her when I see
what we call in the woodlands
a Jesus-God sunset.
I have felt her move in me
from seeing the fishermen
come up from the lake at dusk
with lanterns lit,
and also from seeing my newborn baby’s toes
all lined up like a row of sweet corn.
We see her where we see her,
which is everywhere.

She comes to us through sound as well;
through music which vibrates the sternum,
excites the heart;
it comes through the drum,
the whistle, the call, and the cry.
It comes through the written and the spoken word;
sometimes a word, a sentence or a poem or a story,
is so resonant, so right,
it causes us to remember,
at least for an instant,
what substance we are really made from,
and where is our true home.

The longing for her comes
when one happens across someone
who has secured this wildish relationship.
The longing comes
when one realizes one has given scant time
to the mystic cookfire
or to the dreamtime,
too little time to one’s own creative life,
one’s life work or one’s true loves.

We eventually must pursue the wildish nature.
Then we leap into that forest
or into the desert
or into the snow
and run hard,
our eyes scanning the ground,
our hearing sharply tuned,
searching under,
searching over,
searching for a clue,
a remnant,
a sign that she still lives,
that we have not lost our chance.

The Wild Woman has no name,
for she is so vast.