Writerquake

Friday Flash 55 & Mag 168: Lyle and Constance

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 17 May 2013 09:18:00 +0000

They always had style
but never lacked substance.
His first name is Lyle
and her name is Constance.
They love the city—
streets seem paved with gold,
unlike the gritty
country dirt roads of old.
They still smoke and talk
while waiting for the bus,
and will later walk
gray Weimaraner, Gus.

(They get along.)

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

-ALSO-

Written for The Mag: Mag 168 that inspired with the above photo prompt

(Old Couple, photo by Togan Gokbakar).

Just a Sliver

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sun, 12 May 2013 10:23:00 +0000

Image via Jabba the Hutt with Hair at tumblr

Fat and stinking, and muttering
to herself, she was the old woman
who lived in her shoes and clopped
around our house calling herself
"the housekeeper," the slob who
was given our spare room, a short-
lived experiment by worn working
parents who had no intention of
raising latch-key kids. With tongue
attached to one corner of her mouth,
she mumbled her three favorite words:
"My, my, my" overandover as her
weight thundered on the old floors,
and kittens scattered like Lilliputians
while we laughed behind her back.

After dinner my father would offer
the troll dessert— usually cake or pie.
"Just a sliver," she always said, she
always said, "Just a sliver," until
one night his disgust at the view of
this Jabba the Hutt drooling for
the large slice he always gave her
so overwhelmed him he used his
sharpest knife, his sharpest skill,
to carve from the chocolate cake
a sliver so tiny it made her cry.

Written for Poetics — It's Tempting! — at dVerse Poets, hosted

this week by Mary, whose prompt asks us to "...write about ‘temptation’

in some way. Yours or someone else’s. Factual (perhaps historical) or fictional."

Friday Flash 55 — bad day at the spa

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sat, 11 May 2013 00:42:00 +0000

At public baths for some relaxation,
many others there on vacation.
Sitting on a curved edge so slick,
she had to push with her feet to stick.
Her back began to itch and tingle —
Crap! No day to stay and mingle.
She sat a minute more and glowered,
went to the dressing room and showered.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Image: Etchings and Engravings from Fontainebleau
after primaticcio probably for lower gallery at fontainebleau
urania

via ArtServe at Australian National University

Mag 167 — Memo to Mary Cassatt

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 07 May 2013 01:53:00 +0000

Mary, Mary you must have been
in a contrary mood
the day you painted this husky
dude, made him pretty in pink
playing with pink blossoms,
twirling and tossing pretend
long scented locks, saying
"fiddle-dee-dee" and dreaming
of powdered-sugar delicacies
to have with afternoon tea.

You placed him under that tree
of knowledge to sample the fruit,
and, Mary, it appears to have
done the trick I see, for
here we witness the woot-woot!
moment when the gentle gent
blossomed in springtime as she.

Written for The Mag: Mag 167 that inspired with the above art prompt
(Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt).

Friday Flash 55 — made it to Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 03 May 2013 09:02:00 +0000

Fever by Tara Lemana

The week was long we worked hard soft
kisses might have helped time go faster but
many made it to Friday with
brief hugs
fist bumps
caffeine
will power down all that now
the weekend is here hear a calling
from deep inside your needy soul saying
get every last drop from the golden weekend.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Friday Flash 55 — I ♥ SF

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 07:56:00 +0000

Golden Gate Bridge Tower in Fog by Jim Brandano via Pixdaus

Here is the church here is the steeple...
No. That's not right.

Here is the bridge here are the people...
No. No. Not quite.

Here is my heart like a blurry tepal -
But I am not there what a pity.
Here is my love like a protective sepal -
Resting lightly over you and The City.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

To clarify that tepal and sepal stuff —

Above photo is a Lilium flower showing the tepals:

the inner three are petals and the outer three are sepals.

Tepals are elements of the perianth, or outer part of a flower, which includes the petals or sepals. The term "tepal" is applied when all the segments of the perianth are of similar shape and color, or undifferentiated. When different types of organs can be distinguished, they are referred to as sepals and petals.

For info about the secret history of 38 old nursery rhymes (The Church/Steeple rhyme is not yet included) visit Nursery Rhymes History and Songs at You Tube.
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Mag 165 - sort of so much alike

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 10:09:00 +0000

"Oh! That is so much like me!" she exclaimed, stopping fast in her tracks in front of the gallery window.

"I mean, it's snowing there and (brushing a thin layer off her coat shoulder) it's snowing here....except there it is on the countryside and here on the city streets. Look at the title, about a schoolteacher. I was going to become a teacher like her before I decided to major in poly sci. And I washed my hair last night and read a book too, except I didn't towel-dry my hair like she is doing. I used my blow-dryer so I could catch the news before reading before I went to bed. I bet she is reading a book that I have read too; we are so much alike! By the time I was reading I was wearing my night-T. I did look out the window while I was in the bathroom, though, and I was naked then too. Our bodies would look even more alike if she had a navel ring and tattoos on her arms like mine.

"I have a chair like that, but mine is painted glossy black and has a padded seat cover. See how she enjoys a late-night snack? That's just like me! I can't tell exactly what she is eating, bread maybe? I would have almonds instead, but I would eat them at night while reading. Then I would floss and brush my teeth. I can tell that will be the exact next thing she will do after eating her snack. How awesome!... we are practically the same person, except, of course, she is in a painting and I am outside the painting looking at her, which makes me feel like I am in the painting.........So, yeah, we are practically the same person!"

Written for The Mag: Mag 165 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(Monhegan's Schoolteacher, 2004 by Jamie Wyeth).

Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 11:00:00 +0000

door to freedom by Lothar Boris Piltz

Beyond shattered glass,
blood-spattered ash,
and fallen limbs -
Through hateful haze
after fearsome fires -
Still in a daze, a
space of numbness -

between damning curses
and blessing hymns -

is where we must race,
wheel, or crawl -
is where we must travel
alone and together
beyond shattered glass.

I'll look for your face.

Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—The Unfathomable— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Anna Elizabeth Graham, whose prompt post is a thoughtful essay on the poetry of disaster.

Want to give a shout out to the G-Man, with apologies for this 57-word poem not fitting the criteria for Friday Flash 55 this week....

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Friday Flash 55 — in blueness

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 11:37:00 +0000

Welcome home, my love by teigert

A Danish photographer’s lens captured
blues barely fluttering in blueness.
Such utter passion passing as demure -
the breathless waiting or lack thereof.
A window to a dear heart enraptured
by an old love, or perhaps a newness:
one much assured, the other one obscure.
Yet titled with universal calmness
the everlasting: Welcome home, my love.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Mag 163 — shadow

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 09:50:00 +0000

There is that moment between
languishing in a hot bath
and toweling off with dense
soft terrycloth, when, between
standing in scented moist nakedness
and slipping into a nightgown,
a shadow silhouette of
the body long lived in
appears in the lowlight,
unrecognizable.

Written for The Mag: Mag 163 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas).

Friday Flash 55 & Meeting the Bar: Irony

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 09:44:00 +0000

Drawing by Mark Powell via Tumblr, with this caption:

‘we are all clowns with too much face paint’ Bic biro drawing on 1880s US citizenship form.

Let's write a mission statement
about the Declaration of Intention
we wish we could plan to complete.
It should be transparent and
indubitably sincere,
certainly not gawdy,
and without deceit —
A manifest to describe
our strategy for invention . . .
if it were prudent, if we
were brave and true,
instead of a bawdy
and bogus tribe.

:::

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

-ALSO-

Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—Just Do What You Don't Mean: Irony— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Victoria C. Slotto, who invites us "to say what you do not mean. Write something ironic, whether it be tinged with humor or a searing commentary on the state of things."
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Mag 162 — what she was made for

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 09:16:00 +0000

So she may have given him an apple to taste. Get over it, all of you. He'd have found a way
to fall on his own anyway.

She does not keep a tidy house, but she grooms both pussies there so that should do. What the hell? She wasn't made to be a dutiful maid.
She prefers windows without shades because she has an open mind. He should appreciate that instead of asking her to report to him what the weather looks like outside. She will happily stay up inside her open mind, thank you very much, and do you think she is

some fucking weather predictor or something?

Good heavens, he has been hell to live with since his physical, something about his ribs.

Oh, good god, no....not braised ribs! You think she was created for creative cooking?

She has been giving much thought to what exactly it is that she was created for.

She no longer trusts the snake for advice
but she's thinking that the armadillo-mouse hiding on the counter

by the coffee grinder just might know. She'll even let him have the run of the place
if he will tell her which way to go to get out of this hellhole,
and if he gets it right he will be the apple of her eye.

___________________________________

Written for The Mag: Mag 162 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(image: Between Heaven and Hell, 1989, by Jacek Yerka).

Mag 161 — the wrong guy

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 08:33:00 +0000

Rachel's parents were beside themselves with worry about her new boyfriend. They just couldn't get a read on him, found it difficult to figure out what made him tick.

His name was Richard Rogers, but he asked that they call him Hans. He shopped at vintage clothes shops and wore suits from another era, but drove a new Prius with a big Nike swoosh detailed on the back. Hans' hair, parted on the side and waxed into place, made him look like he would be a pal of Gatsby's. But his best friend was a rastaman with dreadlocks that hung to his mid-back. Hans worked as a line manager in a slaughterhouse that specialized in bison products. He himself was, however, a rather mellow vegetarian. Before the accident at the plant when he still worked on the floor, the accident that ultimately cost him his right leg, he had studied dance on weekends with his ex-wife. After those mishaps, he picketed in front of a building in his town that was to open as a dance studio. Once, when he described himself as a "devout believer," Rachel's father had cordially asked about his religion but the young man refused to divulge more information. He had beautiful teeth (yet never smiled), but his most striking feature were his eyes: one the darkest brown, the other blue as the morning sky lit by the rising sun.

He wore an American flag pin on his lapel...yet the couple was there in Rachel's parents' living room to tell them that they were moving to Europe to live as expatriates, with no intention of visiting the U.S. ever. Rachel's parents were not the type to question their daughter about her choices in men, not even when she was living under their roof. But now they felt they were fighting against something more than simply the wrong guy or a passing phase.

"What exactly do you see in him that impresses you enough to move away with him, to leave us and your friends forever?" her mother cried.

"He is so real, Mom," Rachel explained. "With Hans, what you see is what you get."
She sighed and her gaze traveled to Hans standing at her grandmother's wall mirror.
"I am just totally sick of two-faced men."

Written for The Mag: Mag 161 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(image: Not to be Reproduced, 1937, by the Belgian surrealist René Magritte).

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Friday Flash 55 — not from my closet

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 08:44:00 +0000

The woman who wears these is
not a woman, but a little girl.
No — not a little girl, but a little
nuts.

She shows off
in her boots and takes cuts
in lines, thinking she is simply
precious.

In a way she’s right, for nuts
like her are precious and few.
And fashion forward too.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Image via Tumblr - The Shoe Girl Diaries
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Friday Flash 55 — my kind of jam

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 08:59:00 +0000

Dr. Seuss prescribed green eggs and ham,

Heartily enjoyed by Sam I Am.

There are fishermen who eat Spam!

I gave up red meat - missed rack of lamb;

Now I love pasta, olive oil, garlicky clam.

Of all the root vegies the sweetest is yam -

Speaking of sweet, this is my kind of jam . . .

Langhorne Slim & The Lumineers Sing, I Held Her In My Arms by Violent Femmes
shot in the Brixton Academy, London 3/12/13

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Mag 159 — Summer Love(s)

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 11:59:00 +0000

Tell me. What did you see there,
across the sea from me?

Were her ears like shells, pearly
pink and did you taste them, did
you hear the future through them?
Did you really hear her —
Could you still hear me?

Did you really see her? Were you
visible to her there at the
ocean — Did you two then
sea as one?

Were the sands this white; did
the sun make you light up and
reach for her, and did she
shine for you?

Were the waves this gentle, this
soft aqua blue? Did the color match
her eyes when she squinted in the
sun at you?

While in the tropical forests
did your thoughts from time to time
run a magic zip-line to these
green-brown eyes of mine?

Did you envision me there or did
you feel Us oceans apart, while
you were in my own dreams of
the sea, and in my heart?

What do you now see? Tell me.

Written for The Mag: Mag 159 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(image: Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall).

MeetingTheBar: Critique and Craft — Salem, Oregon

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 00:19:00 +0000

Salem, Oregon

Absorb Salem in the morning
     steeping in fresh dawn.
It is lush here where spiders thrive.
     Brittle are they who make homes of dreams
     we don't remember weaving through the night.

Some weeds, thorny and stretched,
deserve their space.
     Bitter vibrant blossoms are their compromise
     for pushing out a landscaped place.

A moment is preserved in this valley
where those delicate float on sugared air
     as Salem mornings serve breakfast
     for the soul,
where the green of the land is foremost caressed
     and we are second blessed.

The life of this town is encapsulated now
so a bigcity person must plot carefully
to save the energy morning brings.
     Nightpulse is offered at a slight pace
     and beehive people who cannot dance through
     sunrise feel smothered.

But the secrets found while walking alone
and shaking fronds with a fern half-human size
bring a crazy peaceful prayer to mind.

A waif could be caught here in morning
     leaving at eve
     mothered.

Written for MeetingTheBar: Critique and Craft ~ Oh, the Places we Live! — at dVerse Poets. Pamela Sayers is our host this week. From her beautiful home in Mexico she asks us to write about the places where we live. My poem is an old one, written in 1977 after I first moved from Nevada to Salem, Oregon (the state capitol).

The original title of this poem was "For a Stop-Over Place," because I did not intend to stay long. Ultimately, however, I lived there for eight years before moving on to Portland and then eventually to my beloved Silverton, Oregon, 15-miles away from Salem. (I do not think I could do justice to Silverton in a poem, at least not today.)

Images of Salem and countryside via: Bing
Image of youth in downtown Salem via: Wikipedia

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Mag 158 — Raindrops on Lisa

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 10:17:00 +0000

You know that scene in The Sound of Music where Fraulein Maria has just joined the household and is praying in her bedroom that she will be able to do right by the Von Trapp children as their governess, when the oldest child, beautiful Liesl, sneaks in through Maria's window, soaking wet, having just enjoyed moments of innocent romance with a boy in the middle of a rainstorm, and Maria is understanding of the circumstances and allows Liesl to dry off there in her room, and then they are joined by the other children who are frightened by the storm, and Maria soothes them all by singing "My Favorite Things"?

Well, it didn't happen that way for Lisa, shown here after being date-raped following her junior prom. She selected that silvery-gray dress to match her amazing gray-blue eyes (more striking than Megan Fox's, even) and had her first professional manicure the day of the event. She worked with her thick mane of hair until it was a perfect example of that classic been-to-bed tousled up-sweep, and wore a new pair of silver earrings, one powdery dove on each lobe that looked so tender and, she thought, rather exotic.

The sound of music prevailed at the prom, of course, but there was also the sound of her date's heavy breathing in her ear. It intoxicated Lisa, making her glad that she had invited the class "bad boy" to accompany her after having been dumped by her longtime boyfriend only a month before. When Lisa's date begged her to leave the prom before it was over she agreed, trading the option for some passion for the final half-hour of sociability with friends.

They were running in the rain across the lot toward his car when he powered Lisa onto the landscaped area, gripping her shoulders, ripping her dress, stripping off her panties, and—skipping all romantic formalities—raping her in a storm of fury. Rain dropped on roses and his whiskers shredded her face and neck. In no way were these a few of her favorite things...

Written for The Mag: Mag 158 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image by TheFoxAndTheRaven).

Poetics: An Evening of Short Verse

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 11:09:00 +0000

cats eye by Keith Stanosz

The old stone bridge, another springtime,
gentle creek flows on in shadows and light:
Together reflecting an imperfect circle.
A solitary youth cycles along over cracks,
whistling another imperfect springsong.

:::

Written for Poetics — An Evening of Short Verse — at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Fred Rutherford, aka Hobgoblin2011, whose prompt asks us to consider short verse and to even break rules as we write. I chose to try the Gogyohka (5-line) poetic form. Not sure if I broke any rules with my Gogyohka, but while working on the draft something in my Blogger formatting "broke" and I am now editing in some miniscule view (about the size I see on my tablet) that I cannot get out of.....arggggh.

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Friday Flash 55 — Fall into me

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 12:12:00 +0000

Deeper by Scott Ferman

Fall into me while I am
still nested in this life.
I am layers of comfort
crafted by seasons.
I have thick skin
(the heart has reasons).
My shell is grounded-
my soul, like a feather.
You can fall heavy here-
I’ll bow to your light.
But if you cannot fall
I’ll honor your flight.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
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Half a decade

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 13:14:00 +0000

GOTHIC # 5 , RED by Various Artists

Writerquake was five years old on Feb. 25th, and I felt like it was time for a new blog design.
I am desiring change and a fresh perspective. Deeper sleep. Less stress. Spicy recipes. A change of scenery. Inner peace and composure. Greater insight. Spontaneous laughter. More love.

Anniversaries are just great for contemplation and celebration.....even blog anniversaries.

Friday Flash 55 — A sheepherder at morn

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 08:39:00 +0000

Image via Facebook: My Romania-Vlad Dumitrescu

Slipping from my dreams to

Hail a moment of consciousness —

Even singing out from the image,

Even clip-clopping and bleeting to

Prove to me that such a scene, such

Heady heavenly simplicity still

Exists this very day under

Romanian morning light —

Does little to stop me from

Envisioning this becoming

Raptus memorious all too soon.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Mag 156 — Colonial for sale

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 10:27:00 +0000

For sale: 17 acres w/ 19th-Century center hall colonial.

Parcel includes colonial house that is the shell and needs renovation inside. The rolling pastures make this an excellent property for cattle or horses. Land contains large spring fed pond; mature oak orchard and small family graveyard in back; vintage property gate with remnants of bluestone walks laid by original builder/owner; original living room with deep fireplace once used for cooking as well as heating the home. Library/music room has original chandelier, always lit.

Written for The Mag: Mag 156 that inspired with the above photo prompt (Wind of History by Jacek Yerka).

Poetics: Leonard Cohen at The Theater of the Clouds

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 10:37:00 +0000

The legend from the tower of song and verse
Now seventy-six, maybe still five-feet-eight,
With the limber long legs of the lover he is
And storied long face of the friar he was,
Began most songs on his knees.

That hat: a sartorial punctuation mark, cool
Tipped down, shaded twinkling eyes, then raised
Up to dance 'midst three light beams spotting
Just him raising his hat against the bright shafts --
Just to see us high in the third tier, to thank us
Just for being there, and to caution his fans in
Steep places not to lean too far forward,
Else we set in motion "an avalanche."

Later, before the third encore would see his
Final bow, unable to contain his gratitude, he
Pressed that hat against his chest and dropped
To his knees, bowing fully to the floor.
Then the limber long legs of the lover and
Expressive long face of the mountain friar --
Tucked serenely in child's pose with
A child's kind of soaring joy --
Rode an avalanche of applause.

MLydiaM ~ December 2010

Written for Poetics — Leonard Cohen and Place at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Mary, whose prompt post asks us to consider the poetry of Leonard Cohen, and our memory of a place such as his memory song about The Chelsea Hotel. I hope you will forgive me for republishing an older post, which was my tribute to Leonard Cohen ...but is also a memory of the place where I have been fortunate to see him twice in my life.

Note: I first published this post in December 2010 in response to the photo prompt (image of sled at top) provided at Magpie Tales. It was written following the first time I saw Leonard Cohen in concert, and it was the best concert I'd everever seen.......until he returned to Portland in November 2012, and he eclipsed the 2010 concert!

That second time our seats were were about 20 rows back from the stage and not in the "nosebleed section" near the ceiling as described in this poem. Among other memorable moments from the second concert was Leonard Cohen and Hattie Webb of The Webb Sisters singing their tour debut of his old song "Joan of Arc" that night in Portland (see video recorded by someone in audience here). I sat there and wept. I adore this man, his poetry and his music.

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Friday Flash 55 — Wabi-sabi shampoo

noreply@blogger.com (Lydia) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 10:39:00 +0000

Let's shampoo in this sink, I said.

After napping on a gracious bed

(used the comforter as a spread —

left the room wearing not a thread).

We entered a bath where stress was shed.

The space was hewn gray stone, wood red:

Wabi-sabi imperfection purebred.

When shadows nudged light fled —

Then shadows on stillness fed.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.