Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

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Birds On A Beach

February 2, 2019

Endless birds,
adorn the beach,
oblivious to passers-by.

I venture close,
’bout to reach,
they explode upon the sky.

In a flash,
the scene is set,
as Plovers obscure my view.

It was a glimpse,
I’ll not forget,
this dimming of daylight’s hew.

‘Twas my choice,
that morn to make,
as I walked along the shore.

Pass them by,
and make no wake,
or enjoy them all the more.

Picked the one,
that made me smile,
by my sending birds to flight.

Ask of them,
forgive my guile,”
requesting this glorious sight.

Up to us,
just what we see,
as we trek about this place.

Give a nudge,
to what will be,
and see this world with its grace.


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Happy 2019!

January 1, 2019

Today is the first day of 2019.  I’ve been away from my blog for a long time.  My writing was stale, and I found myself just repeating the same thing in different ways.  I’ve been thinking whether to keep it or not for about the last six months.  Then it occurred to me, I have the opportunity to change my writing.  I have the opportunity to be better.

For far too long, I have been focused on the impact negative events have on me.  No longer.  I am not saying I am suddenly above their impact, I am just not going to lend my energy to negativity.  Instead, 2019 will be a year of discovery for me.  Each day I intend to look for something new and positive in the world to put forward.  Will I always be successful?  Of course not.  I will simply forgive my failures and refocus on something else.

When I was growing up, I have the luxury of knowing a published author, Eugena Price. I was just a kid and she was more grandmotherly, but she still

Eugenia Price
Eugenia Price

took the time to encourage me.  I once asked her how to improve, she just said “read more, read everything good and bad.  Learn to recognize the difference.  Writing well will be a natural consequence.”  Rather than looking at my hiatus from my blog as no productive, I will say I was reading everything good and bad, and am better for it.  You, the reader, will be the ultimate judge.

One time, when I asked Ms. Price how much I should write each day, she said there is not limit but at least 300 words.  It sounded reasonable to me, but it was not until years later, after I earnestly started writing my first novel, I understood why of 300 words.  That is about the number of words per page for a novel typeset for publishing.

So, here it is, my first post for 2019.  More me reintroducing myself to you than something earthshattering.  We all must start someplace.

I wish you the best 2019 possible.  Days will be good, some bad, some in between.  Focus on the good, deal with the bad, and use the in between recharge your batteries.

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Freelance Friday: My Father’s Answer

May 25, 2012

In the summer of 2001, I was the director of engineering for a large company in eastern North Carolina; the day had been long and taxing, like most of my days during the heat of summer.  Increased power needs, to keep the plant cool, were taking our systems to the very limits.  How could I know later that night the test of my own limits would begin.

Like most boys, my father was my hero.  He was a big man physically, his personality more gentle than rough.  Given his size, it was easy for him to be that way.  For me, he always had the answer.  One day, during the first grade, he showed up at school to pick me up for a doctor’s appointment.  Filling the frame of the classroom door, I had to smile at the comments of my classmates: “He’s a giant!” exclaimed one; “Wow, is that you’re Dad?” asked another.  It was always like that with my Dad, he always commanded a calm strength, by either his size or his character.  Nothing could ever beat him in my mind.

It was 9:15PM one late August night.  I had just settled into bed, as the next day was due to start well before sunrise.  I almost did not answer when the phone started ringing; I was in no mood for another silly question from work.  I did answer.  The sound of my father’s voice gave me some concern; it was not our routine to talk on the phone much.  Someone must be sick or been hurt in some way.  My father and I had fallen into a strange distance from one another.  I guess most do, as sons become men on their own.  I braced myself and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I have lung cancer.”  The words swam around in some misty haze in my head.  I heard them; they simply could not be the truth.  After a few uncomfortable moments getting my wits about me, the questions started.  “What does this mean?”  “What are you going to do about it?”  What do you need me to do…,” I rapid-fired questions off at my father as if from the barrel of a machine gun.  “I’m going to the Mayo in Jacksonville,” he replied in a strong, calm voice.  Again, he had the answers.

Over the next few months, I made it a point to visit with my Dad.  Making time when something as this happens to a family member is understandable.  Reflecting now, I can only regret not doing more of that all along; we always make time when time is the commodity we see running out.  A surprise trip for Father’s Day was the first time I noticed something was different.  It was nothing overt or dramatic.  More the little things only noticed by someone that has distance between visits.  For the first time, true fear swelled inside me.  I would not allow myself to feel in my heart what my head was telling me.  It was not something I wanted to talk with my Dad about; but my head won out.  With his quiet dignity, he answered my concerns and reassured me.  I believed that if anyone would beat cancer, it would be him.

As the year went on, the heat of the new summer was approaching.  Things with Dad were going as well as anyone expected.  My fears began to subside.  Dad even joked at how the chemo was doing just the opposite of what he was told it would do.  Instead of losing his hair, a snow-white abundance covered his head.  No appetite?  Not my Dad!  He was eating everything in sight.  As late July arrived, I was hopeful about life.  My job was doing great; Dad was doing great.  Maybe the last year had produced for Daddy the result he has said.  He would beat this.  I was not surprised – Daddy always had the answers.

Again, a phone call in the night would change all that.  This time it was my Aunt, “You need to come see your Dad.”  This time there was no confusion.  It was something in her voice.  “He is in the hospital and wants you to come see him.”  The same call was made to my brother and sisters.  Daddy was calling the family close to him.

I talked with my boss and explained the situation.  To his credit, he simply told me to take all the time I needed so I was off on the six-hour drive home.  I went right to the hospital.  Finding my way through the labyrinth of wings, halls, and floors, I found Daddy’s room.  My stepmother was in the room with him.  I grew up with the fortune of four patents, my father and mother divorced before I was even in grade school and both remarried.  I had four good, strong role models in my life.  Daddy was sleeping so I greeted my stepmother, Pat.  She looked tired.

As a nurse, Pat was well accustomed to the routine of a hospital.  This was both a blessing and curse.  She could resolve any minor problems but it also gave insight into what was not being said.  She knew then my Dad’s time was limited and it showed.  She had spent the last few days at his side and that too showed.  She did not want him to be alone.  Looking at her and my Dad, I made up my mind then – I called work and told them I was not going to be back for some time.

Daddy needed constant care.  Pat had been that care day and night.  She would not go home to sleep.  Taking my father’s example, I calmly told her I would stay with Daddy each night so she could go home and sleep.  At first, she was against the idea.  I further explained that it would do no one any good, especially Daddy, if she became sick also.  Pat reluctantly agreed.

I spent that night in a chair by Dad’s side.  I gained a fuller appreciation of Pat’s exhaustion.  Hospitals are full of activity day and night.  Everything from the nurse making rounds to the person cleaning the hall seemed loud.  Looking back, I was being overly sensitive.  I have a deep respect for hospitals and the work they do, but it is not a good place to die, at least not for Daddy.  We all understood that was the road we were on.  The first order of business was to get Dad out of there.

The next morning, when Pat arrived, she asked me to visit a local hospice and see what I thought of it.  She had been by before she came to the hospital that morning and they were expecting me.  For most of us, judging the relative decency of a hospice is about as familiar as quantum physics, I had no idea what to look for or what kind of questions to ask.  Thank God, the staff at the hospice understood.  In a short time, I was convinced this was the place for my Dad.  By the time I relieved Pat for the night, Daddy was resting comfortable in a nice room at the hospice.  It even had a view.

My father needed assistance walking and was very weak.  He was in little pain and his mind very alert.  I truly think it was only the loss of his self-reliance that bothered him.  He did not like to ask for help.  Over the next few days, we came to an understanding of how we would operate in the environment of the hospice.  Each evening Pat would leave us with instructions for the night, we agreed to them but as soon as the coast was clear, Daddy set the schedule for the night.

Most of my life I knew my Father as a stoic man.  He did not suffer his problems on others.  Showing emotions did not come easy for him.  Now, within the confines of that room, our relationship changed.  Still not complaining, Daddy became more open with me about his feelings and life.  Not one time did I hear my Father complain about his situation.  I stated how unfair it was for him to have lung cancer; after all, he quit smoking over 30 years before.  He simply reminded me that life is all about choices.  He made his the best he could with what he knew at the time and was not going to regret it now.  Moreover, he did not want me to show him the sadness I felt.  He needed me to simply enjoy his company.  From that moment on, that is how it was.

Over the next week, my father was getting weaker and weaker.  More than assisting him now, I was carrying him to the bathroom.  I promised Pat I would not leave him for a moment, but I had to allow my Father the dignity of privacy when I could, he did not ask, it was something I just knew to do.  It is hard to convey how you can have such joy while feeling such total pain in your soul.  It was time for me to be there for my father.  I have wished my whole life to make my father proud of me, every boy does.  One bad night, that became the subject of our talk.

It was sometime after 2:00AM, Daddy needed to go to the restroom.  I was having a hard time by this point and he knew it.  When we finally got him back into bed and all tucked in he told he was very proud of me.  “I want you to know I am proud of you,” he started.  “Not for all this,” referring to staying with him at night.  “I am proud of you for who you are.”  Without saying a word, I sat in the chair and placed my head on his bed.  To say I was crying does not cover it.  I was sobbing.  Daddy simply put his hand on my head and told me it was OK.  Lying on that bed, dying, he still had the answers I needed to hear.

The next night things had worsened.  No longer would we be making trips to the bathroom.  No longer was his mind sharp.  It seems he had accomplished all that he needed to and was now ready to slip away from us.  We made it through that night without speaking.  The next day, Pat had arranged for Dad to get a bath.  They have a special one there for people that cannot take one on their own.  I arrived to find Daddy calm and relaxed from it.  He had said his goodbyes to everyone and no longer wanted visitors.  It was Pat and I now for the most part.  Daddy’s time was very near; Patty knew it more than me.  I still had that small part of me that refused to think this could be happening to him.  We settled in for the night.

I had been bringing a book with me for the last few days as Daddy mostly slept now.  I think I had read every book the hospice had to offer so now I was adding to their selection.  It was sometime after 8:00PM and Daddy’s breathing became labored.  I called the family caregiver (I am sure that is not the right term, but they do so much for people it fits much more than nurse),  he did not have to say it was time – I knew it.  I held Daddy’s hand for the last time and told him that I loved him and that it was OK, everything was done and he need not worry any more.  Even though I said it, it was more like him talking to me, trying to make me understand.  I did understand.  He gripped my hand, with that took one more breath, and was gone.

I called home to tell Pat and she came right away.  Strangely, I did not cry.  I thought I would.  I had calmness about me.  I had not yet understood the gift my father had given me over the past two weeks.  Now I simply felt at peace with him.  I think about that time now often.  Everyday something from it inspires me to do better.  I am so thankful to have had the privilege of spending that time with my father.  More than watching him die, I watched him live until the very end.  With his last breath, he gave me one last answer – everything is OK.

 

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Poetry Sunday: Personal Poems

May 13, 2012

It is one thing to find a poem that fits a situation perfectly for you.  Imagine writing a poem for that occasion.  That is one of the best things about being a poet, the ability to express emotions in a way that reach others.  Of course, that assumes the poet is willing to share their poems.  In reality, sometimes you are and sometimes you are not.  For me, I am willing to publish most every poem unless to do so would cause some sort of indiscretion for another.

Now, personal poems are about much more than just romance.  While romance does fall into this category, it includes things like feeling a specific emotion, seeing something special, or having an epiphany of some sort.  The point is the feeling behind a personal poem is just that, personal to the poet.  Sometimes it is not easy to tell if a poem is personal or just the poet waxing on.  For me, any poem that makes someone wonder about it will have a personal connection.  It is how I write.

Even famous poets create personal poems.  Take Edgar Allan Poe, many of his poems are personal in nature.   Annabel Lee comes to mind.  We can speculate just who Annabel Lee was but we will never really know.  The best candidate is Poe’s wife, Virginia.  Here are the first two stanzas of Poe’s masterpiece:

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

Just reading these two stanzas fills my mind with wonder.  Of course, I wonder about Annabel but also about the kingdom by the sea.  It is the magic of personal poems, we know there is some truth there, but we get to fill-in the blanks for ourselves.

In this next poem, it is personal but in a light-hearted way.  I was thinking about the duality of the situations life put before me.  I often tell people “if you get this poem, you get me.”  Of course, I do not know if that clears things up for them or makes it worse.  In the end, the poem is not so much about the choices presented to you, as it is about the choice you make.  Nothing says you have to accept things as they are, and I seldom do.

Life can be a turnip or a rose

Life can be a turnip or a rose –
One can give sustenance or beauty.
Life can be a feather or a brick –
One can go gently or break a window.
Life can be red or blue –
One can have passion or compassion.
Life can be a fox or a rabbit –
One can hunt or be hunted.
Life can be phone call or a letter –
One is right away, but then what have you got?

Life can be…
All things being equal, I’d rather be an apple.

That is an example of a poem that has a less than obvious personal connection.  Others are extremely obvious.  For example, you can pen a poem about something personal but it is personal in the same way to all of us.  We might use different words or choose to express a thought somewhat differently but we all understand the emotion as well as understand the poet was writing from personal feeling.  Given that today is Mother’s Day, here is a poem I wrote for my mom a few years back to which everyone can relate.

To Mom:

You are a lady,
that, you will always be.
You are sunshine,
there to brighten my day.
You are happiness,
to make sadness fade away.
You are wisdom,
to show me – when I stray.
You are my teacher,
to follow along the way.
You are my mother,
for that, I thank God each day.

 

While it is wrong to speak in generalities, I think in this case it is pretty safe to say everyone gets it.  It is an example of a personal poem everyone could use as their own, not that you want to, but you could.

That leaves the personal poems poets write for a singular occasion or person.  While we may recognize it is personal, we do not understand the context of the poem.  Still, it makes us wonder and that in itself make them worth reading.  We can imagine the circumstance and ponder at a name or other hint as to the identity of some unnamed person.

The Day I Found You

We sat upon a swing that day
and made the world our own
We talked with more than words could say
with seeds our thoughts had sown

For love began upon that swing
our souls became as one
For us the world had joys to bring
through this life that we’ve run

I look back now, that day I see
and know I found my soul
It’s from life’s dark you set me free
and with your love made whole

I love you for you, but really much more
you taught me to love, you opened love’s door

In this example for instance, you may wonder just who I wrote this for?  Where was the swing?  Whatever became of the relationship?  I could answer the questions but what fun would that be?

So, you see personal poems hold a special magic with poets.  You get to peek into our lives, to share our feelings and emotions.  While you may not know the who, what, or where, you will understand the personal nature of the emotions involved.

 

 

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Freelace Friday: I Answered Yes

April 27, 2012

This is a story I wrote a few years back that recounts on of the major turning points in my life.  I often wonder how my life would differ had I made different choices back then.  Don’t get me wrong, I would not change a thing, just something to ponder at times.  I think most people have similar stories in their lives, but most will not take the time to write them down.  That is a true shame too, as seeing events others face helps us see we are not as alone in life as we might think.  Besides, it’s sort of fun for people to see a side that is not always visible in the adult version of us.  

 

I Answered Yes!

“Yes,” I replied after a moment of reflection.  The damage was done; there was no use in caving in at that point.  Now looking back, it seems strange that, even at seventeen, I understood how such a mistake would turn into a blessing.  At well past forty, I see it as the pivotal turning point in my life – I answered “yes” in a loud clear voice.

To say I was independent as a teenager is being kind.  The truth is I was horribly rebellious and self-centered.  Ok, all teens are to a point but what I ended up doing took it to a completely new level.  No one could have guessed that by the end of the school year, so much would change.  I had always been one to push the limits, this time I simply blew past the limits like an Indy race care driver rounding the last turn and heading for the checkered flag.  You have to keep in mind, this was a time before classroom shootings, and such horrible events would dwarf anything I would do.  It was the last days of innocence all the way around.

The year started off pretty well, I was a junior, and things looked bright.  No longer was I on the bottom half of the feeding pool.  High school does have its pecking order, not only within the grade you’re in but between grades too.  Being in the first two years just makes you all the more a target.  I did not run with the “in” crowd to begin with, so now at least, I had a few years behind me.

In school, I did not have to apply myself much to get by.  Studying was easy for me but I found it to be boring.  Boring was something I did not do; besides, I was just arrogant enough to think I knew everything there was to know by that point in life.  What I needed was excitement, something to make life interesting.  Soon I would have all the “interesting” I could handle.

On that first day, Katrina caught my eye.  She was tall, beautiful and spoke with a heavy German accent, which made her even more exotic to me, sort of like Marlene Dietrich.  She was an exchange student attending that year.  We only had one class together – chemistry with Dr. Lamb.  I made my mind up then to see if she was the interesting bit I was looking for.

Without question, Dr. Lamb was a fascinating man and one of the most influential teachers in my life.  As a young man, he worked his way though college playing jazz piano in New Orleans.  To look at him you would not think it as he was round, bald, with fat little fingers and covered from chest to knee in chalk dust all the time.  He was the quintessential “lab coat nerd” one would expect to teach chemistry.  That is until he sat behind a piano.  He blew us away one day at a pep rally.  At first, we could not believe he was really playing like that, but he was.  I heard him play many times after that and he never fell short of being perfect.  He was amazing.  Dr. Lamb was one of the few people I had any respect for then.  Seeing his abilities in more than one area of interest opened my eyes to my own possibilities, without regard to the boundaries other might set.  I mean if this overweight, nerdy, white guy could earn his chops with the hard-nosed jazzmen of Greater New Orleans, I figured the door for whatever I wanted was open too.

Back in Dr. Lamb’s chemistry class, with some quick maneuvering on my part, I wound up at the lab table with Katrina.  I knew that meant we would be lab partners.  Katrina not only was attractive, she was smart, smart enough to read me right from the start, that point notwithstanding, we soon became an item and she did look good in my letter jacket.  Katrina stayed with a family a few houses down from us on East Beach.  St. Simons Island back then was not the place it is today.  It had more woods than homes.  Children had the freedom to roam the island at will and there was lots of room.  The beach was a major travel route for teens and a good place to raise some hell and not get too much attention.  I loved living on the beach.

In chemistry, we all had to pick projects to take on and had to keep lab books we would turn in each week for review.  We had to do a write up on the project we wanted and have it approved.  My first idea was a chemical form of perpetual motion.  Of course, I knew it would work but Dr. Lamb had his doubts.  As he put it, “I don’t think it will work, but right now for the life of me I can’t figure out why so you can give it a try.”  Turns out, he was right, but it did start the ball rolling for later events.

As the year went on, I was constantly in trouble over Katrina.  More than once, we were caught in compromising situations at both her home and mine and one time on the beach by the police.  Of course, I was grounded but as I had a balcony outside my window, it was an easy jump to the sand and I was on my way down the beach to see her again.  It had gotten to the point where the school was going to send her home for fear of her becoming pregnant.  Then, Dr. Lamb took me aside and put some reality in my mind.  Rather than speak to me with authority, he simply laid out the facts and told me to make a judgment on how my behavior would affect Katrina the rest of her life.  This was the first time anyone left it to me to figure something like that out.  They agreed that she could stay, if I would stop seeing her.  Neither of us was happy about it and I do not think she really understood why I agreed to it.  I’m not sure I did either; I just knew I had to.

So, I was unhappy with breaking up with Katrina, unhappy with the school, pretty much unhappy with life.  That is about the time my chemistry project finally fell apart, Dr. Lamb suggested I look over all the research and see if any part could be used for other purposes.  He said most progress came from the ruins of other ideas.  For me, it was at least a glimmer of hope.  Not may people can put their finger on an even that changed their life.  Turns out, this failure was the starting point of an even that would drastically change mine.

One aspect of my research involved better energy transfer in chemical processes.  I thought there might be something interesting to look for there, the nerd in me coming out.  Soon, I had reshaped my project for such improvements.  All chemical reactions release some form of energy.  That is basically how nuclear power works, albeit with physics.  Reactors make heat, heat makes steam, and steam runs turbines to make electricity.  I was looking to apply the same logic to chemical reactions.  It did not take people long to understand that nuclear energy had another use, a darker use – nuclear bombs.  Nor did it take me long to come to the same conclusion about my work.

I was pretty impressed with how quickly Dr. Lamb figured out what I was up too.  I did not refer to chemical bombs, explosions, or anything like that in my notes but by the end of the first week of my reshaped project, he was giving me another talking to, this time, he forbid from even designing the equations for such things.  He warned me it was simply too dangerous.  In hindsight, that may not have been the best thing to tell me.  I started a duel project in secret.  I would apply what I learned in class and worked out the equations and formulas on my own.  In the end, I could only do the research as the materials needed for such things were under lock and key in the chemistry lab.

Again, there I was, seventeen years old, frustrated over the loss of Katrina, frustrated with the school, frustrated with being grounded (without Katrina, there was little point in sneaking out), and frustrated that the only thing that had my interest seemed beyond my reach.  Funny thing about frustration, it too is like a chemical reaction, it builds up energy until it has to be released.  That release came one night during a school basketball game.

Earlier that day, I had devised a plan to leave one of the windows open in the chemistry lab.  It was easy to make the window look locked while it was still open.  I did need an accomplice at that point, as I was too large to shimmy over the wall and through the dropped ceiling tiles between the lab and the locked supply room.  I will not name my accomplice here (you’re welcome, M-), but had he known what I was up to, I don’t think he would have gone along with it.  The stage was set.

During the game, we slipped into the lab, then into the supply closet and soon my device (let’s call it a device) was finished, all we needed – a place to test it.  I did not know just how powerful the device would be.  I mean I knew the numbers from my calculations, but to what end?  Numbers can only take you so far, until you put a tangible scale to them, numbers mean nothing.  That scale was coming.

We went to the near by pond and without much thinking, threw it in.  What happened next was beyond my wildest expectations.  The device went off with the loudest explosion I have ever heard.  Later in my military life, the explosions in combat came a close second to what I heard that night.  Of course, I was much closer to mine than I ever was in combat.  The blast took us off our feet, a water plume rose at least 75 feet high, there was a blinding light of every color possible, the percussion took the air from our lungs, and we felt like a boulder had hit us.  After the steam cleared and we picked ourselves up, the water level in the pond was down about a foot or so.  What was worse, we could not hear.  Thank God, that cleared up.  Later we learned the basketball game, some half-mile away, stopped to find out what had happened.

Needless to say, we did not get away clean.  It did not take long at all for the truth of the matter to come out.  So there I was, if front of a peer review board (that’s how they do it in private school, they gather your friends together and they throw you out!) of four students and four teachers.  I took the lion share of the blame as that was fair.  Besides, Dr. Lamb knew the truth of it and I dared not disappoint him more than I had already.  At my hearing, for lack of a better word, Dr. Lamb spoke in my defense.  He said it would be wrong to end my scholastic career for being overly exuberant.  Here’s where a difference of opinion came in.  Dr. Lamb and I saw it as simply an unauthorized experiment gone wrong, everyone else saw it as breaking and entering with intent to destroy.  Luckily, for me, it was a different time back then.  If today, I am sure the FBI would want to have chatted, as it was, school was enough.

In school, I had two teachers I really admired; of course, Dr. Lamb and the other was William “Wild Bill” Coursey.  I owe my interest in writing to him.  I had the pleasure of being in Mr. Coursey’s English and literature classes all thought high school.  His classes were anything but boring; he looked like Walt Whitman in his younger years and could bring the driest classic to life.  Shakespeare was even a hit with teenaged boys under his guidance; he referred to Bard as “Good ol’ Bill Shakespeare.”

It was Mr. Coursey who presided over the day’s events, somehow that made the whole of it tolerable to me.  After all was said and a short deliberation, Mr. Coursey delivered the news – I was no longer welcome as a student.  Rather than belittling me or trying to make some moralistic point, he simply asked me one more question, “Do you think it was worth it?”  After taking my moment, I replied “yes!”  Then explained that right then the answer was no, but I was sure as years past, it would be absolutely yes.

Now as my life has moved on to many wonderful places and adventures, I can honestly say being kicked out of school was the watershed event that made me whom I am today.  I would not trade it for anything.  Mr. Coursey, I was right, the answer is still a strong, loud, absolute “Yes!”

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Freelance Friday: The Bucket that Never Empties

April 20, 2012

As I structure my blog more, I need a place to put random thoughts and posts that just don’t fit in particular topics.  Friday is the day for that.  They might be short, little snippets or long, thought-out blogs.  It all depends on my mood.  

Of course, there is the danger that I have nothing of interest on a given Friday.  If that is the case, I will have to get creative with something to post.  While not sort on ideas, last night I was reminded of a short story I penned a few years back.  Is reads like a fairytale or parable.  Today, I am going to post it for my Friday offering.  It is rather short; I was limited to 1200 words.  I am thinking of expanding it.  Would love to know if everyone thinks I should.

 

The Bucket that Never Empties

Once upon a time, there lived a powerful wizard.  He traveled the world looking to find true love; he did not think it existed for it was the one thing he could not make with magic or tricks.  He had been told that to find it he first had to find the bucket that would never empty.  He searched and searched until it seemed the whole world had been traveled, but no bucket could be found.  He began to think it did not exist.

One day he walked into a small village he had never heard of before.  How is this, he thought to himself as he was wise and knew many things.  Yet, there it was – a town he did not know.  Walking up to the blacksmith, the wizard asked, “What town is this?  Why is it here?  I see no crossroad or river.”

Laughing a big laugh, “why we have no name here, we’ve never had the need for one.”  As the blacksmith continued fashioning a horseshoe he asked, “you must have traveled far to come to this place.  No one comes unless they are looking for something, what is it you seek?”

Feeling sure there is nothing to gain in this town, “I seek a bucket, a magic bucket that does not empty, it holds the only magic I do not have,” the wizard shares.

“Ah, the bucket!” exclaims the blacksmith with a knowing smile.  “Come have supper with me and my wife, we shall talk of the thing you seek.”  The blacksmith motions towards his house behind the shop.  “Come, my wife will make you a fine meal and we can talk.”

The wizard cannot believe this man knows of the bucket, he had searched so long and only the wisest men had even heard of it.  How could this simple man know of such things?  Waiting for a moment to think things through, “yes, yes I would be glad to dine with you – and talk!”  Entering the home the wizard feels warmth unlike felt in any other.  Surly the humble fire could not be giving such warmth, but yet he felt it.  There is something special about this place, the wizard thought, something special about these people.  Soon the meal was ready and they all sat down and enjoy it.

Watching the gentle way the man treated his wife seemed odd, him being a blacksmith and all, yet with her, he was quite the lamb.  And with the way she treated him, one might think him a king, the wizard pondered on it throughout the meal.  He waited all he could, “you say you know where this bucket is,” the wizard asked.

“Do you mean the bucket that will not empty?” the wife asked in reply, it seemed even she knew of it.

“Yes, yes, I have searched so long for it,” the wizard said almost begging to know more.

“Oh, I did not think one so wise believed in such things,” she said as she cleared the table.

“Pay her no mind,” the smith said as he too cleared things away.  “She believes in it right enough, we all do,” and with that he kissed her gently on the cheek.

All alone, the wizard began to understand.  They had true love!  He must have the bucket!  he thought.  No more talk of the bucket was had.  The wizard had formed a plan.  The couple offered to put their visitor up for the night and he readily agreed.  Perfect, he thought.  When they are asleep, I will search the house.  The bucket will be mine!

Soon as he was sure the couple was asleep, the wizard searched the house.  He looked at every bucket he could find.  Nothing seemed special about any of them.  It must be hidden, he told himself.  Allowing his frustration to get the better of him, the wizard gave no concern to the mess he made and pulled all sorts of things from their place.  He emptied drawers; he pulled out packing boxes.  He looked under the stairs; he looked in the root cellar – still no magic bucket. He was exhausted and sat down on the kitchen floor.  He was so tired, he fell asleep right there.

Before the sunrise, the blacksmith started his day.  Seeing his house in such a state, be began to look around.  Who did this? he thought.  Looking into the kitchen, he saw the wizard on the floor asleep.  “Friend,” he said and he shook his guest awake.  “Why have you done this?”

Looking around at what he had done, the wizard felt ashamed.  He told the blacksmith the truth, the truth about everything.

Rather than anger, the blacksmith laughed his big belly laugh, “Come my friend, help me put all this away and I will give you the secret to the bucket.”

As the two men put things away, the blacksmith explained, “the bucket is not a real bucket; it is a way to love.”  The wizard did not understand.

“You see love lives in your heart’s bucket.  You can never know just how much is in there or when it might run dry by giving your love away.  As you put yours into your lover’s bucket, they in return put theirs in yours.  That way neither ever is empty.  It is the secret to true love.  It is when love is not returned the heart is in danger.”  The wizard just smiled, it was so simple, he laughed at missing its truth all these years, he now understood.

Later that morning as the wizard left his friends, he looked back on the little town knowing he had the bucket all along.  We all have it.  We have to give love as well as receive it, only then we can know true love.  Only then will love’s bucket never empty.

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Poetry Sunday – Sonnets, A Bit Harder but Well Worth the Effort

April 1, 2012

Sonnets are one of the harder forms of poetry to master.  To make matters even more muddled, there are many forms of sonnets.  In the United States, when we think of sonnets, it is the English, otherwise known as the Shakespearean, form we think of.  Other popular sonnet styles are Italian, Occitan, Spenserian, Modern, and many others.

I like Shakespearean most, but when I write them, I modify the style a bit.  A classic Shakespearean sonnet uses three quatrains and a couplet with a rhyme scheme of ABAB CDCD EFEF GG and a meter in the iambic pentameter style.  To put that into English, each stanza rhymes every other line and no two stanzas use the same rhyming words as other stanzas.  Further, each line is ten syllables long in most cases with a natural strong stress on the even syllables.  This is where the word foot comes in.

Iambic means the syllables of a line are grouped in pairs with the stronger stress on the end syllable.  One of the best examples comes from one the Bard’s plays:

“To be, or not to be, that is the question:[i]

It is hard to read lines like this from Hamlet in anything other than its Iambic form.  The words are naturally stressed on the even syllables.  With the stressed syllables emphasized, it looks like this:

 “To be, or not to be, that is the question:”

Remember, the line is from his play and in his plays the lines do not always contain the right number of syllables. Such is the case with the example, but it does illustrate extremely well the proper use of iambic meter.

The syllable group is called a foot.  Some groups have two syllables, and some have three or more. In the Shakespearean Sonnet’s case, there are ten syllables making up five iambic pairs or five feet. The word for five feet in a line is pentameter and when the two work together it is called iambic pentameter.

While this is not the technical definition, it works for a general understanding of how Shakespearean Sonnets work.  Here is one of William Shakespeare’s famous examples, simply titled Sonnet 18:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

 

You can see Uncle Bill’s (Shakespeare is every poet’s good ol’ Uncle Bill) use of the rhyme scheme and meter.  We must give deference to the changes in language since then that makes the rhymes seem forced in some cases.

Another writing device used in most sonnet forms is the “turn,” or volta, as poets like to call it.  By the way, volta means time or turn in Italian.  This turn is a distinct change in the thought and flow of the poem.  While it is not a spelled out rule, many poets place the turn in the third quatrain (stanza) and return from the change in the ending couplet.  Shakespeare placed his volta at the couplet and so do I.  It really is up to the poet.

While Shakespeare is one of the true masters of the form, I find sticking to a constant meter (iambic pentameter for instance) does not blend well with modern though and speech patterns.  I like to break the quatrain into couplets with the first line having four feet and the last having three.  It just reads easier to me and gives the work a more song-like quality.  Here is one of my sonnets for example:

The Day I Found You

We sat upon a swing that day
and made the world our own
We talked with more than words could say
with seeds our thoughts had sown

For love began upon that swing
our souls became as one
For us the world had joys to bring
through this life that we’ve run

I look back now, that day I see
and know I found my soul
It’s from life’s dark you set me free
and with your love, made whole

I love you for you, but really much more
you taught me to love, you opened love’s door

So, why not take out your pen and give a sonnet a try.  It is the first day of National Poetry Month after all!  Pick a classic style or modify one and I did.  It is up to you.  The point is to create something that is uniquely you, something that expresses your feelings and thoughts.  I know some of you are thinking “eeew – I can’t write a mushy love poem.”  The good news is sonnets can be about anything, it is the style of the poem, no its subject matter, for example:

What Stars Know

The far off lights that paint the sky
as dark does veil the Phoebus stage
and the crescent moon’s winking eye
do know the truth of wars we wage

For land, for God, for things profound
we give as reasons why we fight
but orbs up high retort the sound
of angry words proclaiming right

Tis death and pain that man does sow
upon this home, our home – the earth
the cost exceeds what we can know
are we so vain to set life’s worth?

To learn from stars is what we must do
Live and let live is the path that’s true

 Sonnets are harder to write, that is certain.  Once you do, you will understand the fun of it.  The rules make the game fun, but like with any game you must practice before you become good at it.  Write well, write often!


[i] “Hamlet.” – Act 3, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare. Web. 01 Apr. 2012.
<http://www.shakespeare-literature.com/Hamlet/8.html>.

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