Writer's Treehouse

Writer's Treehhouse - update

Writer's Treehouse was created as a way to keep my writing and my art separate so I had two blogs, but it's easier for me, at the moment, to post from one blog until I have more time...so my writing will stay for at least a little while on the Creative Faery.  I hope you will visit me here!

Thanks for your support!

Church and the Telephone Game

Usually Sundays are to talk about my blessings, and in a way, this talks about my celebration of having a direct connection with my God...However, in a conversation this week wherein I wanted to tell my friend about a new church I wanted to visit, someone whom I don't know began spewing Thou Shalts at me because I hadn't been to church in awhile.  I got the sinking feeling I knew where this conversation was going, and stopped him.  But he inspired this poem and a lot of thought about who my God is and what my true purpose so this is my blessing.

Church & The Telephone Game

You practiced your preaching

On me today

While I was in the midst of celebrating

A new house of God.

Wagging your finger

Because I haven’t been to church.

Imposing religion on me

And spewing forth

Your “thou shalt” vomit

Of what our God wants from me.

I held up my hand to shield its splatter

And fortunately you stopped.

You see, I have a problem

When someone thumps their bible words at me

And does not LIVE the word.

Church can be a new addiction

For those recovering.

Church can be a crutch

To avoid facing your veritable purpose.

Church can be like the telephone game

Full of he said, she said, they saids

And losing full meaning of the original

Message by everyone’s interpretation.

I choose a direct connection with my God.

When He calls, I answer.

And the message is clear

When the line is not corrupt.

Then, and only then, can I be judged

By Him who hath the true message.

And now this House of God

That I wanted to visit to connect with His people

Has been challenged

For it is the judgment of those like you

That keeps me home.

The Fiery Lord of the Unicorns

Fiction Friday challenged us to use 25 words to create a story and use as many words as we could...I got all 25 words and created a very interesting story that is really kind of wild and very weird!  But it was fun to get the creative juices flowing and "Play" with words....Thanks for the challenge!

Here are the words and the story...You should try it!

barge flare harsh ordinary sore bore floor hoard rare torch carve folklore lair scorn tore fare gorge lord snare unicorn flair hare marvelous soar warn

I  paid the fare to embark a barge for an exploring adventure…as I strolled on board, I noticed a crowd gathered in awe of a stunning sight…It was a unicorn  who had been trapped in a snare.  He was tore and sore, and gorging himself on Frosted Flakes that had been scattered like leaves across the deck floor.

*

Upon closer scrutiny, this was no ordinary unicorn of folklore, but of a marvelous, rare breed of flaming beauties.   This particular unicorn was the Fiery Lord of the Unicorns of the most High and Precious.  His muscles were rippled and cut, and his crown of hair had a flair…no seriously, a flare of fire! 

I tried to warn the others to stand clear of the torch upon his head, but they insisted a creature this rare had to be captured.  Again, they tried to coo him into their lair, this time baited with hare stew.    He wasn’t impressed, because aside from the occasional Corn Flake concoction, his usual feast consisted of a soup of four leaf clovers, golden apples and sweet cherry blossoms (of which they had none.)

The Unicorn threw them a harsh, scornful look, and then I happily watched him soar into the heavens,  carving his picture in the sky to mark that he was there… He was not a prize to hoard, but a beauty to be shared. Well, this trip was certainly no bore!

*

Yes, my unicorn is orange with wings....but that is the beauty of fantasy fiction right?

Here is my first pastel of an animal...you can tell its shape!... Yes, I'm still

learning how to blend...but I like the way I weaved his mane..

Soul Spelunking

These two poems were inspired by watching to young adults take on their lives after a terrible bout with drug abuse...They graduated from drug court, a wonderful step program that provides kids with a framework of success and taking on their lives.  I witnessed them get to know themselves.  Just so you understand the switch in the poem...they showed us a "before" picture and an "after" picture...eyes are the window to the soul.  (please forgive the asterisks...I'm having trouble with spacing right now.)

For Josh

Pock marks

Scratches

Pockets for eyes

      *

Shaved head

Skinned head

Jerk head

      *

Self destruction

Self disgust

Self loathing

      *

It’s time.

      *

The cavernous journey has begun.

Rummage around those bottomless, murky places

Look, over there!

      *

Go ahead

      *

Touch it…

No, grab it…

No, rip it & chuck it!

      *

Look! There’s more!

Over there…

And there…

      *

Go deeper

This cave is filled

with oozing muck.

      *

You’re lucky..

Most people never come here

They won’t examine the evil

And eats them from the inside out

      *

Leaving just a sheath

   *

Now, my friend…

Look to your right

See that glow?

   *

Follow it.

      *

As you do

the light will glow brighter

And more purposeful

      *

Go ahead..touch it,

Embrace it…

Drink it…

      *

This is what your soul tastes like.

Sweet isn’t it?

Not the bitter cup you’ve been drinking

   *

Now, nurture it

Love it

Embrace it

   *

Bring this light with you everywhere you go

For you will find more darkness

Later in your journey

      *

it’s never completely gone..

But, my friend, this journey is different

You will always have your light.

      *

And if it begins to fade

You know it’s Source

Go there and replenish your supply.

      *

      *

For Caris  (his support system)

They never noticed you.

       You were there…a few steps back.

As a matter of fact,

Without you

The journey would not have been made.

The cave would not have been explored.

      *

You held the map.

You held the compass.

You held the bottle of courage to sip from.

      *

And when the time came…

You allowed the spelunker his cave

While you ventured into your own deep darkness

      *

You found your own treasure

And you let its radiance glow

and shine in your face..

      *

When complete,

Only one got credit for the journey.

You deserved it

      *

But you didn’t need it

For you were there.

You were the witness.

      *

And THEY thought

The treasure was the prize

The real prize was the journey

      *

For now you both know

   The Source.

Tiggerish Summer

Ahh...it is Thursday, and I am delighted to share this with you...it's still roughly sketched, but it holds my heart dear...Summer.  When my children were young, they drank rain and they put on their swimsuits and just played in it. These pictures always reminded me of Langston Hughes poem, "April Rain Song." 

I look at these and I see they capture their joy for this event, and Irelate it to my own enjoyment of sunshine.  With this in mind, I wrote about my dear friend, Summer.  This is my attempt at capturing the essence of it and the energy I feel.  Sometimes I have so much energy, my husband thinks I'm Tigger...so here's my word for Fiction Friday combined in a poem for Poetry Thursday.

*

                                                  Tiggerish Summer

Summer vibrates its rhythms to my heart

The buzzes of its alarm

quakes me awake

             *

I drink a cup of its lovely radiance

And feel its electric flow from head to toe

I am Tiggerish for the day.

             *

I will run and not be weary.

I will sing and not be whining

For I am ALIVE!

             *

It is impossible to hold me down

For I know tomorrow promises me

Another cup

            *

Soon, my friend, I will miss you.

Comin' Home - What is Precious?

If I were living a different life, I'd be another Charles Kuralt, going around America collecting stories of people.  I love learning about their lives and human nature, how they deal with adversity and how they learn to be content with so little.  This past week I was able to watch a video about some women of Gee's Bend, Alabama. What I loved about watching these women was the strong bonds that they built as women through quilting.  Quilting was how they got through hardtimes, just as art or writing gets some of you through the rough patches.  But it was MORE than this, quilting was a way of life for them, their way of connecting with each other, singing their praises to their God and making sense of their lives. They didn't waste anything!  Every scrap of cloth from old clothes, flour sacks or just laying around was used.  Sometimes they had to wait to fill it in until there was cloth available. 

  I wish you could see the whole video because it makes more sense; you see more of the deeper connection they have with each other and their quilts.  You just get a few links to clips for you to see (remember youtube doesn't work well on my blog.)

interviews of the quilters:  here and here.

singing quilts:  here.

Our poem (a friend and I co-wrote it), is in honor of these women and to all us with brokeness in our lives that we mend through whatever means is available to us, art, writing, drinking coffee...

                                                               

                                                                Comin’ Home

What is home?  What is precious?

    What is truly rich?  What is community?

Community

Faith, family ties and spirituality.

Bonds of tradition and necessity,

safety.

Rich

Creative spark from necessity,

radiant colors of possibility.

Soulful pulse and rhythm tell the story

of human experience.

Precious

The gift of love, beauty from scraps.

Relationships are the necessity

and life itself.

Home may be a broken down shell,

but not a broken down spirit.

Marie Wallace

Wayne Ross

Wicked Stepmother

This poem started as a poem to my stepmother, but as I related it to my own experience of step parenting, it became a tool for me to heal my own pain.  Though there are many, many years my step mom didn't act as a mom because she was often dysfunctional and had her addictions.  I can't pretend to know what she went through, and I'm sure she was often misunderstood...and I'm positive she never was appreciated for many of the things she did.  This job of step mothering is highly volatile, but it has many rewards...and the strength it takes to bear it can only be given by God and sheer determination.  I faced it without drugs or drinking...it's like having a baby with no anesthesia, but the pain goes on for a lifetime.  I want to honor us both in this poem.  And I dedicate it to all the step moms out there who ever took this job on, whether you felt success or not, you deserve to be appreciated even if only by a stranger. XOXOXO  Thank you mom...for coming back and for a better relationship this year.  I'm sorry it took so long for us to heal.

Wicked Stepmother

I know that a mom’s job is hard,

And that a step mother’s job is even harder

That when you wear that badge,

You wear it PROUDLY

            But that the badge tears deeply into your flesh.

          *

I know that you feel underappreciated

But more so,

Undervalued,

And sometimes…not even human

          *

I know that the job is hard

Because the badge doesn’t

give you any authority

Over ANYTHING.

          *

It’s more like a label

with a lot of names

attached to it

Mostly…WICKED.

          *

I grew up wanting to be a mom

I didn’t grow up wanting to be a step mom.

          *

But I took on the job

And…it almost killed me

I was in the line of fire daily

with no hazard pay.

          *

Sometimes hazards weren’t even marked.

A situation that seemed normal

Would blow like a road side bomb

Unsuspecting

          *

With a lot of damage.

And when the reports

of the carnage and casualties are read

No one would believe it.

          *

I know that when that stepchild grows up

No matter how well she does as an adult

I will get no credit for the good,

And ALL the credit for the bad

          *

My stepmother badge will never

Be a good thing

Except to me.

And when I die…

          *

My dear God,

I hope you will know

That I gave Motherhood

All my best.

That when you gave me the

Title of MOTHER

There was no side “step.”

And I am proud of the work I’ve done.

Ode to My Beloved

Poetry Thursday - Since Sunday is my anniversary to the most wonderful man in the world...it doesn't sound poetic, but it is true!  He is my rock; he is my hero; he is my best friend.  I look forward to many more years with him.

My LAF

I gazed in adoration at the

Unexpected gift before me –

A bouquet of three –

a daisy, a carnation, and a rose…

An odd assortment to some,

But the intentions were true and thoughtful

For they are three of my favorites.

*

As I admired their loveliness,

I contemplated the qualities of each

which draws my appreciation,

And I was reminded of my true love

One I hold dear and precious.

*

The rose speaks of my Lover’s velveteen kisses

Which linger on my lips for hours

And of his goodness and honesty

Which have allowed our love to open

And blossom to the greatest beauty known.

*

The carnation’s white feathery edges

Are likened to my Angel’s wings

Which have taken me

On an astral flight to peace and freedom

Of being who I am.

*

The daisy is like my Friend,

Centered and most colorful in the middle,

With his outermost edges pointing to

many adventurous places

To catch the best of the sun’s rays!

*

The greenery of the ensemble is

A memento of his spring

Which has showed me life

And brought my heart

Out of a cold, dark winter.

*

The water represents the spiritual life

Given to all for growth.

*

The vase’s beauty is likened to

His graceful, gorgeous body

Which contains all these wonderful things.

*

And lastly, the elegant ribbon

Which ties this passionate package together

Is his terrific mind

which explores, reflects and reveals

his love of life.

*

Oh my love, wherever you are,

thanks for the best gift

Which reminds me of the wonder of you,

For you are my sunshine, my smile,

My L A F….

*

I love you angel!

Sisterhood Through Words

I haven't written a poem in awhile, but this one was inspired by the beautiful women in the blog world who support and lift each other everyday...it's not meant to leave men out...it's to celebrate that when one of us fall (a single woman in this case), there is someone to catch you, even if only through words.

Sisterhood Through Words

Armed with inspired courage

the woman embarked on her journey

anywhere away from these erroneous zones

for she had children who depended

on her for strength and wisdom

her thread of truth engrained

her heart  pulsed the exemplary path to her feet.

Dear women,

Know that your daily work

Not only propelled her

It sustained her very breath.

Your words

Your encouragement

Your belief

Are her power

And life force.

Character Style

Well...I've been playing with my writing class styling lessons and have created two different styles of poems about my daughters in an effort to work on character development...which goes perfectly with the fact that my daughters are two different people.  Though it may seem I prefer one over the other, it is not true.  Each daughter is arriving at her destiny in her own way at her own Divine time, and I celebrate their uniqueness.  I hope I have done them justice.  I know that I will continue revising each of these until I get them perfect, but I wanted to share them now so I could showcase them...

By the way...one of the styles is to be precise with your description which is why all the perfect computations on hair color, etc.   Enjoy!

#1

Passion purple headed freaky girl

Confused heart

Poker hot flames

Igniting her veins

Desperate for her freedom flight

To Who Knows, Who Cares where?

With one foot loosely planted

Toward her future

And the other firmly, deeply rooted

In the past

Goes nowhere

Must be present to win

                     

#2

There is a 5’8,” 140 pound, Loreal #LB02 haired girl

Determined brain

Algorithms  proceeding through her veins

Sure about her 4.5 year future

As a Graphic Artist

Both feet walking the 22 gates

To the waiting Delta 737

Headed for

Portland, Oregon

430.58 miles from Boise

Is present to win