Hands of My Grandmother

25 04 2012

Hands

Fingers long and thin

Knuckles knobby

Palms straight

Hands thisa way hands thata way

One with the beings thoughts

Conversation could be muted

Yet you could still know the words

Just by the hands

However,

Stop the hands

And conversation would cease

Hands

Both in motion

Sometimes only one

The other resting from previous flight

Hands

Made from fingers, knuckles, and palm

Fingers never straight when talking

Always slightly crooked

No pointing allowed

Unless it is with the knuckles

The palm is used often

Sometimes in a movement

As if shaking salt from it

Sometimes held as if a sign

Where you could read the words

Upon the surface

Hands

Hands

Such are the hands

Of my grandmother

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History on Display

23 04 2012

This was one of my first poems developed by my college poetry class. It is suppose to capture a story of historical artifacts put on display in a museum. The exercise was fun. The poem got slashed to ribbons though. This is it’s first draft so naturally it’s raw but I still have particular affection for it anyway. Enjoy…

Behind two doors of double
Panes bullet proof glass
A hallway houses the relics of
Past minute hand movements
The slap of footsteps, once prevalent
No more reverberates off the walls,
Though the entrance turns it’s lock to none
Once diamond encrusted and gold gilded
Display cases, now raped of their jewelry,
Still hold their glass cased contents undisputed.
In one lays a circlet of blood stained thorns
Another holds the oxidized iron that held
The penmanship of Luther’s ninety-five.
“we the people” are the only words still
Legible on the document nearest to
The firearm of James Earl Ray and the
Cranial cloth of India’s Catholic matriarch
Such junkyard scrap litters the lines of
The hall. Stretching on, it ends abruptly
With a wall of dirty plastic, dusty caution tape
And the peeling letters of a construction sign.
Eyes no more view these rows of rubbage
But the brown eyed pair of the sweat shop boy
Who sweeps the floor on his day off.





Liebester Blog Award

23 04 2012

So the other day I was surprised to receive an e-mail notifying me that I had been nominated for the Liebester Blog Award. It has been decently long since I have updated my blog. This came as a result of several tragedies. The first being the looming threat of college finals. I was stricken with carpal tunnel through unusual happenings that caused the ailment to leave as quickly as it came, though not without hindering all writing progress for two agonizing weeks. The third reason was the dreaded writer’s block. That’s why it meant so much to me when I discovered that my absence from the blogging world was noted. Thank you MarinaSofia for nominating me and for providing the inspiration to log back on and post again. I promise I will update again soon.

So there are a few things I have once having been graced with said honors:

1) Thank the person who nominated you and link back to them. (check!)

2) Copy and paste the award logo (accomplished)

3) Nominate five other bloggers you would like to pass the award on to.

Life Through a Lens – because I love her vantage style photography

The Ice Storm, Big Gust, and You – The poetry is super awesome and I want MORE!

Fibromy-Awesome – for the humor and trooper attitude.

The Nomad Grad – because I have a heart for travel like you. And I will take you up on all the tips just as soon as I get out of college and have the time and the budget to do so!

so that’s 4 and I’m still new to this blog stuff so I haven’t regularly started reading very many blogs yet. I guess number 5 will have to come at a later point in time.

4) Tell your readers ten random facts about you.

 

Ok y’all ready for this?

1. I teach ballroom dance class to jr high students.

2. I find editing/proof reading my own work dastardly tedious and the equivalent to pulling teeth. I will however proof other people’s work with a careful eye and patient consideration. I do not know why this is.

3. I was a biology major before I became an English major and it was difficult to choose between these two loves.

4.I Google anything and everything. Especially how to fix my car, which happens often enough to call it a hobby.

5. I am in love with Children’s literature. I hope to become a Jr. novelist one day.

6. Eating is like breathing. Except different because I actually put time and effort into the art. I love every aspect of food, from cooking to consuming. Drop by sometime, I’ll whip us up some good vittles.

7. Coffee and I have a love hate relationship. Which I see improving soon in light of the cold brew technique I was introduced to this weekend. The concentrate lasts for 2 weeks and isn’t as bitter as hot brewed coffee. I was shocked to discover that for the first time ever I was able to drink straight black coffee.

8. I work at a winery part-time and love to help match people with the proper flavor. However, I myself only like white wines.

9. I wish I was a gypsy.

10. Though I live fairly close to the equator, I still find myself freezing my butt off frequently. Like now…

 

Tada! There you go! Ok well I’m signing off for now but look for another post soon.





Tennessee Fog

13 04 2012

Tennessee Fog

Taken hanging out the window on the way to raft the Ocoee river. When I’m not writing I also happen to have a penchant for photography and drawing. I do a little bit of everything. Except knit. Not that I wouldn’t consider knitting… I’ve just not gotten around to picking it up yet.





A Unique Approach

13 04 2012

Before you go and critique this post let me first point out its peculiar nature. This my friends is an Alphabet story. Each sentence begins with a different letter of the alphabet. This can get kinda tricky, especially around X and Z. Yet another challenging stipulation to try and adhere to when writing. Knowing that, feel free to read on!

 

 

After getting off the bus, Staci tottered up the walk with her load. Baggage in hand, she opened the door to her great aunt’s house, dropped her luggage, and stared at her now summer home. Calling out her great aunt’s name, she wandered back to the kitchen. Despair filled her as she was greeted by a little, shriveled, old lady in pink. Everything she has hoped for their summer dissipated immediately. Fun seemed to fly straight out the frilly draped kitchen window. Great Aunt Joyce was a plain, slightly built woman. Her spectacles perched upon her nose, made her beady eyes look huge.

“Is that my buttercup?” Joyce croaked as she reached up and pinched Staci’s cheek. “Kathi, I’ve fixed you a room upstairs. Let me show it to you.” Mumbling something about being cursed with an identical twin, Staci followed the old woman up the stairs to where she waited on the dimly lit landing. Never feeling rushed, Joyce fumbled with a doorknob until the latch gave way, and the door swung free.

Opening the door flooded the dark hallway with light. Purples, blues and greens danced before Staci’s eyes. Quietly, Joyce watched Staci’s reaction through her glasses. Reeling with surprise, all Staci could do was stare. Speechless, she stepped into her new room and gazed around.

“There’s a couple of my old things I thought you’d like in the dresser. Unpack, take your time, and when you’re ready, I’ll be downstairs waiting with some milk and cookies.” Visits to family were generally boring, but this one threw Staci for a loop. Walking over to the dresser, she pulled open the top drawer and gasped. Xanadu couldn’t have been a better gift. You might not consider a handful of marbles, a slingshot and a couple mystery books as anything special, but to Staci they were perfect. Zeal filled her frame as she considered that there might be more to her summer, and Great Aunt Joyce than what she originally thought.





Backspace Bar

12 04 2012

The comforting tapping of the key board that had been so prevalent up until now lays silenced. Cut down into oblivion. With my mouse I scroll back up to the page at my initial burst of genius. Scrolling back down I see my inspiration flow in a long trail of black words till their message is cut through and mangled by this little black bar. It blinks at me cruelly, evilly. It taunts me. I try to move on past this road block. A burst of new words appear on the screen. But they’re not right, and once again that little black bar devours them up. Always it is flashing, taunting, laughing.





Breath of an Hour

10 04 2012

The End

 

The knife tip dug so hard into his temple that it made Edward wince with pain. It hurt so much he was almost sure it would draw blood. He could almost feel crimson red drip down the side of his face.

The Beginning

When he first hit upon being a writer, he would not have thought it would one day get him in such deep trouble. Just the night before a roving band of ruffians had gotten him drunk. Of course, he did not know their true intentions while they got him liquored up. There was a lot more laughter then. They had actually cracked jokes and smiled but this was no longer the case.

 

But once they found out he was a man of words, a black plan formed in their hearts. They would steal him away and have him write a tale for them. Yes, it was in their mind to kill a man if he did not write for them a bed time story. One hour, he had only one hour! Did they not realize that a properly composed work took days of writing and editing and rewriting?! Obviously not, for here he sat with the minutes passing by and he had still not written anything. Oh of all the times to have writers block! He had put his pen to the page more than once, yet no words came forth. Prose by the way of being difficult… just decided not to come. His mind did not like the fact that the knife was so close to it. The sand from the glass of an hour slid through from the top bulb to the one beneath it. As the grains fell he seized his last chance and put the pen to the page one more time and wrote, “The knife tip dug so hard into his temple…”

 








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