Chances Are

CHANCES ARE if you enjoy reading poetry, you’ll believe you understand how to write it. Chances are if you try writing it, you’ll realize you have no idea what you’re doing.

Chances are if you respect yourself, as well as others, you’ll hide it in the desk drawer.

That’s the reason I stopped writing haiku last September. That’s the reason you’re not reading the poem I’ve been sweating over the past two days.

That’s the reason I will be sticking to prose.

All kidding aside, though, I’ve been busy during my three-month hiatus. I found a new computer that I call HAL-2010, a not-so-good replacement for my long-lost love, HAL. Unfortunately HAL-2010  also had serious issues although they had nothing to do with his hardware. After months of struggle, though, he was finally straightened out last week by Harrison B. (a nice computer man with a glow-in-the-dark plate in his head).

So what else have I been up to? Well, I finished my latest book. Yes, really. It’s entitled Nonessential: The Expansion Paradox, and you can read the first page here. It’s in the design stages now and will be available for purchase in the next couple of months.

All right, so you’re wanting to know what my poem was about. Tell you what, I’ll let you read the last three lines if you promise not to laugh. I’ve laughed enough for the both of us.

The last three lines of my awful poem:

Bang bang from the hall
shooting at the iron clock
nailed upon the wall.

See? I told you it was bad.

 

*** As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading and smiling, It’s contagious.

Seanachaí's News

On the last Sunday of each month, I compile "Seanachaí's News," a status report that assesses my work during the current month and also formulates my plans for the upcoming months. It will also give you a peek at my works in progress.

My Work During the Current Month

1. Do you enjoy the simplicity and beauty of haiku? Don't miss Part IV of  my continuing series, "Murmuring That Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul."
2. Read about a haunted woman's brave attempt to face the future in my latest short-short, "I Saw You."
3. Are you a writer or artist looking for great software? Check out these five must-have free programs!

 

My Plans for the Upcoming Months

1. If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I've been working diligently on my new book. What you may not know is that you've already read the first page. Yes, really. Read the first page of my new novel here!
2. Don't forget, all of my short stories and poetry are now available at Scribd. You can download my work and subscribe to my feed by following this link. 

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

Murmuring That Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul, Part IV

6/3/10  Actually, a spring sky . . . shhh! ;^)

Lemonade and laughter subside and the warm summer sun gives way to an amber autumn sky.

This week's feature is Part IV of my continuing series of haiku entitled "Murmuring That Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul."  

Enjoy!

***

nothing so mournful as a dove in the morning silenced by motors hear wagon wheels crunch a pair of red sunglasses reflecting the road blinding lights at night pilot dropping loud bombs inside flashing garbage truck watch the waxing moon large and bright in the night sky falling to the sea speckled blackbirds cry and the song of a sparrow hides in a pillow warm summer sun shifts blue jays in the corn crying silent crickets soon somewhere in the world she swims out too far and sings a sad melody thoughts of yesterday cry louder than mourning trains waking you at dawn small seeds scattering on the walk and in the cracks last song of summer heavy mist and cold winds frosting a whimsical leaf cooling on a rack

*** As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

Murmuring that Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul, Part III

You know the drill by now. Besides, I cut my finger this morning, so typing is a challenge.

Enjoy!

***

 whisper to the trees

and watch the blushing flowers

fall onto the snow

still, grey sky above

scent of rain from my guitar

ginger in a jar

stand alone in sand

the sun burns the painted egg

dancing in a glass

A haiku for Tina
berries on the vine

blood flowing from my fingers

taste the warm, ripe fruit

5/19/10  The Moon

crooning in the night closes his eyes and hammers a hole in the moon

nails jam in wet earth

last song of spring pools in fields

bleeds onto my hands

click of the shutter

and the scent of lavender

beneath the bright moon

dog barks at the moon
man growls and grabs club to strike 
frogs croaking at night

his hat's in the trash

she's alone and free tonight

no tears--just a fox

drains the coffee cup
picks up his pencil and breathes
life in the tired world

***

If you enjoyed the moon photo, you can view more from my moon album.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you're in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It's contagious.

Murmuring that Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul, Part II

Taken on 3/30/10. Though overexposed, I like the effect.

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you know that occasionally I post a haiku I've written to start my day. For me, the melody of a short wandering into nature inspires my creativity and curiosity, essential qualities when writing is the order of the day.

So, picking up where the "Murmuring that Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul" left off in November, here is Part II which tiptoes into, sometimes sloshes through, my journey this past autumn and winter. Each one inspired me to write, to dream, and to contemplate. I hope they do the same for you.

you cannot see me

count autumn seeds as I weave

snowflakes on the pond

can you hear the wind?

come away from the window

when gears fray my mind

I have forgotten

whispers that I did not hear

hide but do not lie

cold and innocent

when I think of our childhood

snow melts on my tongue

white blanket glistens

hear the sparkling madness cry

moonlight on the snow

hide from the sunlight

and heed the moonbeams that cry

angels in the snow

snow does not glisten

when seeds rot upon the ground

the juncos have gone

ice runs as rivers

and the sky sheds thawed tears

do not speak of spring

snow melts on maples

and tiny golden speckles

weep onto the field

I dreamed of darkness

man with painted face chased me

then I thought of you

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

An Ode to Slacking

Dear Reader,

I didn't write anything for this week's blog. I was too busy playing in the snow.

Your friend,

J.E.

P.S. Have you ever gone out after midnight? Last night the moon shined its gentle white light upon the new-fallen snow that tasted like minerals and laughter and childhood and memories that made me want to cry. I dug a tunnel in the snow to hide. 

Remember how we used to run and hide? They did not find us till after midnight. You held my hand and told me not to cry when blankets were burned by a naked light.

In that dark closet I left a childhood never again to be held or tasted.

Must fruit be ripe and red before tasted? Sometimes little seeds stuck in teeth to hide and made those fake molars from your childhood crawl under your pillow after midnight. My bedroom is dark with the brightest light, but I won't submit to the lie or cry. 

Don't you listen to words or hear me cry? Sometimes I thought you laughed as I tasted those salty sprinkles in the warm sunlight. The golden sphere fell and wanted to hide from the shadows of the trees at midnight. 

Do not forgive memories of childhood.

Why do I care about our lost childhood? Why does the bright sun grow dark when I cry? Why do the children leave after midnight? Why did he sin when his death was tasted? Why did that girl with long hair want to hide? They were sick of feeling the cold white light. 

Smell the dust from the small bulb's dirty light? Remove the untainted shade of childhood and find the silent truth that cannot hide or hear the screams of voices that will cry. It does not pack lunches to be tasted, nor does it watch TV after midnight.

You shrug and ask why I hide at midnight. 

If you don't know why I cry in the light, your childhood died in the snow not tasted.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.
 

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

A Cool Sunday Morning

What do I write about on this cool Sunday morning since you have taken no notice of me?  I could tell you about the tinkling of raindrops against the window panes or let you feel the chill that seeps between my calloused fingers.  I might remark on my sleepless nights or ignore you as I watch the juncos fight over cracked corn. 

Would you like me to share with you the bundle of private letters that I read?  If you're not too busy, I could come over and read a poem aloud to you that made me want to cry.

Hush.  Did you hear it?  Did you hear it? 

Perhaps I will slip a photo of my Christmas tree into a yellowed card and imagine that you care.

*** 

All kidding aside (never take yourself or anyone else that seriously), I want to encourage you to read the "bundle of private letters" that I mentioned.  It's a preview of Levi Montgomery's forthcoming novel, Jillian's Gold.  I was up until 1 a.m. reading it, and it was one of the best late-night reads I've encountered in a long time.

If you like poetry as much a I do, check out Winslow Eliot's "Remembering," that was posted today.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.

Murmuring that Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul...

Haiku is a wad of yellowed paper with cheesy drawings.

When I was cleaning a closet several months ago, I happened upon a dog-eared folder. Tucked inside was a jumble of mismatched poems (mostly haiku) printed neatly with a rainbow of colored pencils. Each yellowed page was accented with childish doodles that frolicked around the edges. Ah, youth!

As I grew older, haiku became a way to express my imaginings and explore my journey through life, thought, and maturation. Walk with me now down a narrow path edged with silver-sprigged lavender and listen to the murmuring that creeps into the life of a wandering soul...

Cool morning and breeze
Lavender hangs in the air
Don't close the window

Characters, play nice
stop wandering in white space
imagination

Straining my brown eyes
by the light of green lilies
See how they flicker?

I inflate the tires
as weeds choke the spindly fern
A toad hears the hiss

The white morning mist
and the scent of an aged sun
write old tales, new dreams

Rain tickles the screens
As I peer through the window
Tears flow steadily

The shimmering dew
beneath the aged coral sun
cries upon my shoes.

Crickets in the night
chirp to be heard in the crowd
We are all insects

I remember when
the seasons held no purpose
tears rained from our lies

How many people
write frosty words in the snow,
dreading the warm sun?

The window is closed,
trapping me in this stale box
of dried memories

When I was little
I thought notions not spoken
were words in a cloud

What am I doing?
Ignoring hunger pangs and
feeding my vision

Autumn shakes the trees
as tense leaves contrive to bare
their dying splendor

Autumn trickles down
parched window panes, melting like
snow on timid tongues.

Brown leaves cry beneath
bored feet, victimized by the
synthetic souls' stride

Morning will not come;
the light of initiative
was smothered by doubt.

I lay down my head
and hide behind watchful eyes
The harvest has died

The snow will not fall upon the shadows of trees Think of me and breathe

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighbourhood, drop me a line. In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling. It’s contagious.