Why So Blue?

You wanted a kiss.

You said that it would make your world

a hue of warm rose with a touch of lime.

I stood on tiptoes and gave you a lingering touch

lips on lips...

But I see that you are still blue,

still trying to hold on to old memories...

kisses don't erase etchings of the heart,

Little blue face.

Clay

When I met you, I was a lump of clay,
waiting to be patted and shaped,
chiseled and molded into an object of desire.
To be cherished by you forever...
a masterpiece of love.
It never occurred to me
that maybe I would end up
on a shrine to sit
and contemplate ...
an ordinary day for Deity.

Evils

Yes, I'm aware that it's just garlic.
Cloves for cooking something delicious and good for you.
But what if it were more...something with a hint of Voodoo...to keep the evils of the world away...maybe even banish the evils of my ownself.

I heard that Pink was the new "white."...Guess the sky heard it too... welcome to a Carolina sunset.

My Half-Sister Elizabeth came for a visit on Father's day and surprised Dad.

Someone gave me that bike.... William's legs are too long for it. He somehow manages to get Ben to push -start him.

Shame on me

I've been treating my sip of sherrie blog like a red-headed stepchild.
It's not that I don't write...I do...just not here that often. Been in a private mood of late.

I've been consumed with my Irish Pirate Novel. I feel that I need to finish editing it so that I can move on to other work, like my Lamplighter novel.

Life's been ok.
Still writing.
Still laughing.
Still moon bathing.
Still belly dancing.
Still enjoying life through the nephews' eyes.
Still listening to audio books.
Still a flirt in a skirt.
Still stealing kisses.
Still chasing dreams.

I think if one ever gives up the latter... well, one ceases to exist.

Busy Bee

Looks like we're going to a digital photography system sooner than expected, so I've been busy trying to figure out what we need to change over. Plus, real life's been busy so I haven't been goofing off online much.

I have to say that most of my writing lately has been articles for my magazine and writing emails. Though I did join a small writers' group but ended up leaving it due to arguements between a couple of the writers. Funny how frail an ego is...especially those that ask for critiques and end up getting angry over the corrections and suggestions.

I've come to several conclusions after watching the antics.

#1) To continue to berate others and to take up a fight that really isn't worth the time it takes to type out gives the impression to outsiders that all parties are stupid, spiteful and without a touch of grace and class. The energy it takes to sparr may give a short head rush but if you go back and read over what's been written after the rush is over, there lies the real truth--that it's all so childish. We're professionals, aren't we? Then we should act that way.

#2) Some people don't want suggestions on improving their craft. They are happy with what they write, even if we cringe when we read it. Not everyone is a Poe, a Rice or a Neruda. If suggestions or critiques aren't requested, it's best to leave the work alone and not read the author anymore. Bashing your head against a wall of bad writing, hurts only you.

#3) There are people who truly want to improve their work. But instead of getting helpful suggestions, they get bashed or berated. I think that's wrong. On both parties part! To seek help from amateurs is like asking a nurse to perform surgery. If you are serious about learning your craft, take some writing course, read some best-sellers, buy some books on editing and writing, get a tutor or a literary agent. Just because someone posts stories or poetry online and people give glowing comments about it, doesn't mean that person is a pro.

#4) As we grow spirtually, so does our writing. If you wallow in a foul environment, it will reflect in your words.


I realize that my participation in the yahoo groups has become almost non-existent in some cases. The time for validation is over... writing for approval and getting it encourages one to explore their talents, to plan seeds and watch them sprout. I think eventually the path takes us down a solitary road where we make something worthwhile of the rewards. I'm not saying the groups become unimportant...what I'm saying is that they should become less important. That's how I feel about them today.

Who knows what tomorrow may bring!

Boys and Sprinklers

Monday when I got home and the nephews were there with Mom.

They were playing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. William had his cloak on and was pretending to fight the basilisk. Ben was Ron, so he was sitting out the scene. They made me be Tom Riddle and stabbed a "See Dick and Jane Run" book. I pretended to explode. We had to do the scene 5 times. Took all my effort to gather up my scattered pieces afterwards.

Mom has designed this elaborate sprinkler system. I can't work it. There are a ton of knobs and twists. She says its so I won't have to spend hours watering the flower beds. The flower beds are her idea, so I let her do the watering.

After a quick supper, I went out to plant my watermelon plants. There were six that actually grew to a good size in the little flower pot I seeded them in. Time to plant them in the ground. Mom got a bright idea.... let the boys run through the sprinkler system in their t-shirts and underwear. It was funny, watching them enjoy the water. A few neighbors came outside to see what all the laughter was about.

I planted my watermelons and had just finished watering them, when I noticed that Mom was planting tomato plants. "Hey, where are the boys?" I asked, realizng there was no laughter coming from the front of the house. Before she answered I ran around the house and saw Ben on the front porch. "Where's William?" Ben pointed to the faucet behind the azalea bushes. William was trying to turn it off.

He had suceeded in demolishing mom's sprinkler system. Something she was afraid I would do. I didn't dare turn a knob or touch it. I shouted for her and when she came over and saw her masterpiece now a leaky mess, she had a lot to say to William. He ran inside the house in wet clothes, saying "It was an accident. My hands did it."

It was funny. Though I did a great job of hiding my humor. I got the boys in the bathtub while Mom worked on her sprinklers. We always make up stories.

I said, "What should our story be about tonight?"

William raised his hand, "ME."

I said, "Ok...there was a boy named William who had fuzzy wuzzy hair, a long floppy nose, brown eyes and duck feet. His little brother Ben had spiky hair, winged elbows and flippers on his neck."

William interrupted, "They played outside in the waterfall."

I added, "Because they were duck boys and love water."

William said, "And William made a Great Mistake."

I laughed, "He tried to turn off the sprinkles and got in trouble."

Mom had entered the house and heard our story. She came to the door of the bathroom and said, "And William learned his lesson and won't touch the sprinklers again."

She walked out before William said in sotto voce with a flash of devil in his eyes, "Maybe tomorrow."

June Issue

of the magazine is up

Check it out

June

Saturn and Satin

Got the proofs on the second book today.
They look great. Love the way the font is set.
And also they didn't break up the poems.
I like that the best of all.
Didn't see any major typos.
So proofing won't take long.
PA is moving faster this time.
I'm thinking a book in my hand before Oct.

Cool beans!

Dragon Shaped Clouds

Dragon shaped clouds exhale a summer heat,
as blackberries dream of ebony night.
You smile and I'm enchanted by the light
that glows from within you like moonlit wheat.

Yet I try to still my rapid heartbeat
for I am not ready for love's delight.
Dragon shaped clouds exhale a summer heat,
as blackberries dream of ebony night.

If I fall for you, will my sins repeat
their sweet taste of mint; my carnal birthright?
Would rose-colored glasses make lust take flight?
You kiss me and I falter in defeat.
Dragon shaped clouds exhale a summer heat.

~ ~ ~
A Rondel poem