Hello, how are you?

It sure has been a long time. I wanted to tell you

I met a colleague of yours today and we shared

stories about you over a glass of wine.

Anyway, he seemed to know you well,

(shocked to meet me)

and he filled me in on the recent chapters

of your (storybook) life as he took me on a casual stroll down

(your) memory lane. Lovely it was, full of sheets

of white canvas, of sailboat journeys off Cape Cod

and Perrier with a (surprising) twist…

It seems that in writing your memoirs

You neglected three rather significant

obstacles you had to overcome. Now, I know

you are a perfectionist, and the fruit doesn’t fall

far from the tree, so I was only too happy to correct your failing

memory and set the story straight.

(Memoirs are non-fiction, as you’ll recall

from your English Lit college days.)

So not to worry. Between the telling of the white

doves and multiple judicial decrees,

(no charge–consider it a gift)

where you should have mentioned

your aversion

to diapers and bed-time stories,

I took the liberty to correct your oversight

and preserve the honesty and integrity of your story

by adding the words

this page, intentionally left                ____________.

It’s Friday–laugh a little!  I love this…..

 

Finally–a sestina has been written. Not a great one, maybe not even a “correct” one ( I have seen so many definitions I am utterly confused) but a first effort. Thank you, Jaymie for prompting me to get this flipping thing done. It was..umm…fun.

Oh–and I’m online–at least for now:)

 

 

 

Unteachable was her verdict, as she shook hands

With the mother, and patted the silent child

On her shoulder-a tap tap tap that was heard

Only by the girl who did not speak.

The wise teacher did not understand

The weight of her scholarly voice.

 

The girl would often remember that voice

At night, when hiding in her room clutching hope in her hands.

She would hear them arguing, using words she didn’t understand–

Phrases that were mercifully foreign to a frightened child.

During these shrill nights she would softly speak

To Jesus, hoping her small voice would be heard.

 

But she knew children should be seen and not heard,

So she learned not to sound her voice

And instead whispered, letting her empty eyes speak

Volumes, as she searched for gentle, guiding hands

To lead her, a lonely, lost and wordless child

Collecting sentence fragments she’d have to one day understand.

 

Years of silent suffering coaxed her to understand

They must be true, those words she heard

That day from her teacher’s lips when she was a child—

That to be noticed and to succeed, she needed a steady voice

That carried weight, as if iron in her hands.

She knew she must learn to speak.

 

How difficult it was trying to speak

With confidence, loud enough so that people would understand.

With trembling, sweating, restless, wringing hands

She stumbled over words, longing to be heard,

Searching desperately for the voice

She abandoned like an unfaithful friend as a child.

 

It came to her one day as she held her own child–

An infant, an innocent who could not speak;

Still too young to have received the coveted gift of voice,

Yet it was impossible not to clearly understand

The stories she was told, the lesson that she heard

From those tiny, limitless hands.

 

And in that quiet moment, her child helped her understand

She could always speak, and she finally heard

Her voice within her hands.

 

I took a wrong turn today

Down a new road.

No–not wrong, really—

Just different, and not new,

Really—just new for me.

Clearly others have taken this turn for ages.

It has all of the familiar markings of a road

Well traveled. I suppose I was feeling

A bit adventurous, maybe? Or maybe,

A bit hopeless?  I’m not sure, sometimes

They are one and the same feeling.

Or maybe it was just that

I knew at some point I would need to find

Another school I was told is down this road

Because my daughters will go there

Eventually. I guess it doesn’t matter

How or why I got there.  Anyway,

It was a good turn because it made me

Realize my world really isn’t

So big and complicated

And home is closer than I thought.

Val, an extremely talented writer who has just published a children’s book.  Congratulations Val!   I am super excited to have the opportunity to purchase one for my daughter–and to be able to tell her I am acquainted with the author…she’ll just think that’s so way cool 🙂  I just had to let others know…it’s always so wonderful to hear of fellow writers publishing work.  🙂

Take a moment and stop by Val’s place to find out more, and to read some great writing. You won’t be disappointed…

http://valbrussell.wordpress.com/2009/06/02/for-sale-wanna-buy-a-book/

 

Cheers!

A little humor to start my day. This is about as poetic as I can get today.  Dedicated to frustrated parents of “tweens.” You know who you are.  To the tune of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond. (Well, it drifts away but oh well. This isn’t meant to be iconic.) Yes I’m getting old.  Ahem….

Tween Sizes

 

You don’t fit in Children’s

You’re too young for Junior’s…

Can fit no more through this dressing room door

I even ripped clothes off of every display

 

I remember when….

You used to love your Carter’s

Osh Kosh B’Gosh would thrill you…

Now you want skirts half-way up your backside…..

“Mom you just have no style…

You still say “outta sight!”

“Honey, I’m not that old– and my taste doesn’t “bite”….

Why must you make clothes shopping such a chore?”

 

Now I know what friends meant–

They said my day was coming….

Now every shopping trip ends in a fight

“Mom I just have to have these!”

“Child those jeans are too tight!”

“No they fit fine, I swear it…I’m just bloated tonight!”

“Honey I don’t think you’ll lose 15 pounds in one night—

So hang them on the “NO” hook, on the door.”

 

Can’t wait to get the hell out

Of this store…

And I won’t bring you shopping….

anymore….