The Mag 166 - Bounder Bash

Bounder Bash

party animals

slink in snarf wine knosh tidbits

pinch bottoms galore

laugh too loud dribble

careen around the dance floor

draw smirks and whispers

rowdy louts push shove

behave boorishly shout out

stumblebums shamble

vomit in the hall

kick the door shatter the glass

wake the neighborhood

such a bloody shame

a good party ruined by nine

how ‘bout moving on ?

party animals

make excuses slink on out

drop cups, sticky crumbs

finger prints stains butts

chipped plates cracked glasses

tinny music echo

sigh clean tomorrow

tumble to bed morning vow

next weekend their house

I'm hoping I'm not the only one who has had a party that they regretted, that got out of control, that made one feel like a dreg at the bottom of the keg. Mine was a high school bash that turned into a sodden fiasco, that I had to explain at the end of the night to horrified parents, that I will never live down, that I hoped would be visited on the boorish party crashers, at some point. 

Ugh ... I still close my eyes and re-visit that night in flashes of images and sensory impressions. 

What should have been a good party? Gone bad, what can I say? 

Let's see what others are offering up over at Tess Kinkaide's place ... behave yourselves!

The Distant Hours - Kate Morton

Kate Morton writes a good novel. She has a way with weaving 'mood' so deeply into the plot line of her stories that her readers are gathered close, as if their chairs are pulled in tight to the fireside in a dark, Gothic library. Sometimes, one turns from the fire to look back into the darkness with a sense of curiosity and sometimes, with dread. There are always mysteries just below the surfaces of her settings and characters. There is always one relentless character that serves to reveal all. She has a clever way of drawing the 'particulars' of each of her characters together in a web of events that form a compelling story.

In The Distant Hours, she weaves a tale that begins with a book about a strange, ghostly creature from the bog. In the countryside of Kent, lives the Blythe family. They reside in an ancient castle with lovely gardens and grounds, wooded copses, trails, and paths. Raymond Blythe is the renowned author of a novel about a ghostly creature called The Mud Man that haunts the residents of a castle estate. Raymond's checkered and tragic marital past has brought him three daughters that become tied to him and the estate, as he advances in age and becomes increasingly eccentric (and perhaps, mad?).  His daughters are all equally interesting characters - one mannish and practical, the other docile and maternal, and the last a creative literary wunderkind with a history of emotional and physical outbursts. These three struggle with their desires, ambitions, familial constraints during the era of second world war. They are sheltered from curiosity of the world about them by their famous author/father.

When a young girl from London comes to stay with them as part of the British government's efforts to keep urban children safe during The Blitz - the outer world invades the Blythe family in more ways than one. Years later, the young girl's daughter discovers her mother's connection to the famous author. As she begins to investigate this hidden period of her mother's life, her strained relationship with her mother becomes a major source of conflict. Another family, another set of family secrets to be unwound and revealed. Another parent/child relationship to contemplate - a Gothic web of events that explores just what children do to inspire parents, what parents do for and to children with their fears and expectations, what adult children do to break free from early familial stresses and how emotional distance and miscommunication can warp our perceptions of each other.

Ms. Morton writes a good novel.

Poetry Jam - Stepping Out

All Souls Day – Jules Bastien-Lepage -1882

Stepping Out

Old Gramp blusters through the door,

Trailing sunshine and morning air.

“Come, sprouts! The day awaits!”

Eager, I bounce down off my chair.

Brown hands reach out, hard and soft

A chain of years go marching out-

Hair and collars meet the breeze

Footsteps staccato, strong and stout.

The hedgerows pass and nod our way.

Sparrows startle, flock, and chatter.

Not long, I flag and slow my stride.

Gramp turns, “Child, what’s the matter?”

“I need to rest!”, I whine and plop.

I land down on a sitting rock.

He stops and winks and hunkers down,

Settles for a morning talk.

He talks of times, when on the march,

He watched young families wave and smile,

Raise the flag, and urge him on

Each dusty mile after dusty mile.

Then, they were gone and others faced him,

Far across a field of gold.

That was when he knew for sure

This was a venture long and cold.

He carried on as soldier should, resigned

To do what must be done,

Took care to keep his comrades safe,

‘Til bitter victory could be won.

  

“You know, he says with serious tone,

My time is precious here and now.

I’ll have the time when I’m laid out

To rest with laurels on my brow.”

“I must keep on and move each day,

And so should you, my little one.

Grab all that you can hold and see

For life is short and is soon done.”

“All rested? Good ! Now, let’s keep on.

This golden day just seems to fly.

There’s coffee in the square for me

And cookies on the plate nearby.”

Perhaps some milk and chocolate too

I think, as we hop up and go.

His words stay with me as we stroll -

What did he mean? Where did he go?

I crane about and look at him.

His eyes look upward, far away

Then, he looks down and smiles at me

And we march off and through the day.

                                                    - 4/24/2013

UGH! To punctuate or not! Comma, commas, commas!

Stories as poems are a challenge … to rhyme or not to rhyme, how to handle dialogue, mixing imagery with story line without letting things get confused, so much to learn! This attempt is shared with other writers at Poetry Jam, a weekly writing share. Click over and see what others have contributed!

 

Mag 164 - Musing

Musing 

The air is smooth today

Coming soft across the meadow

Its brown scent creeps

In around the starch of my collar

Chills my breast and billows

This Sunday dress

How immodest letting it

Stir the silk of slip

And moving me to look

Far beyond the chatter of this

Day

The air teases softly today

Sweeping up across the meadow

Lifting me far beyond this place

Gravity holds us here

Gravity and obligations

There’s chicken to be fried

Greens to be rinsed and torn

Pie sliced tea brewed

But primrose sweetness hints

At a ramble into the promise of

Green

This breeze will still

The light will change

The birds will chortle and still

You’ll reach out a hand

And I’ll feel one last wisp

Brush my starched collar with longing

Stir tendrils at my cheek

Draw my eyes and heart away

Just for a moment

Before heading toward

May

An offering for Tess and other readers at Magpie Tales ... ah, Spring is in the air!

The Red Queen - Phillipa Gregory

'My boy', 'My boy', 'My boy' ... how many times did I read those words as I followed Gregory's telling of the life and times of Margaret Beaufort and her quest to put her son, Henry on the throne of England. Margaret, a mere tool of the Lancaster family line, is meant to be the mother of royalty. She is like any other noble girl of the 15th century when it comes to marriage. She is considered nothing but fodder; her duty is to marry well, obey her husband, spread her legs to take his seed, and bear him sons and heirs. Case closed. Margaret, however, has a brain in her head and a vision in her soul . She is pious to the point of nausea, seeing herself as a British version of Joan of Arc, bent on a heavenly mission to put a Lancaster heir on the throne of England. She has no control over who she marries and where she lives, or how she raises Henry, her son by her first husband, Edmund Tudor. Consequently, she spends her years attempting to maintain connections that will help her son remain in a safe and viable position to ascend to the throne - this during the notorious War of the Roses.

Gregory has done an admirable job of portraying the back and forth of the changing political alliances during this dangerous period of English history. She gives Margaret a voice that  is filled with frustration, bitterness, longing, conniving, love and hatred. While Margaret continually professes her Godliness and God-given place among the royal upper crust, the reader sees her for the driven woman she is. Unable to make her own mark in the world, she is determined that her son make that mark - living vicariously will have to do, will help her fulfill her destiny. She is both a saint and a sinner in that her ambition leads her to be false in her feelings and dealings with her political adversaries and family members as well as have decidedly un-Christian thoughts towards the women she meets at court. She is a bitter ambitious shrew, as far as I am concerned, but I still was drawn to know her story and the story of the beginnings of the Tudor dynasty.

This is one book in a series about the royal cousins and all their infighting and double-dealing during 15th century Europe. What a tangled web of bloodlines, allegiances, skirmishes, marriages, births, and deaths! It's positively enthralling!

Poetry Jam - Shopping List

drawing by Dylan Steiner

Shopping List

lettuce

tomatoes

onions

pepper

apples and oranges

stuffing spice

the current deli special sliced cheese -

day old bread

chicken

salami with peppercorns

crackers

sweet potatoes

chocolate

flour

sugar

party favors

film

bags of ice

those chips I love

that wine Mike loves

crossword puzzle magazine

Time magazine

socks and underwear

long life batteries

birthday card

wrapping paper

tickets to ‘Our Town’ at Colonial Theatre

party hats

that vintage transistor radio at the antique store

funky Good Will jacket

tequila with the worm in it

magic re-lighting joke candles !

Who hasn't crumpled the shopping list and shoved it in a pocket ? This black out poem joins other offerings for this week's Poetry Jam - head over and see what the other writers are putting to the keyboard. 

Mag 163 - Morning Bath

Degas - Woman With a Towel

Morning Bath

You said “Stop!”

And I, a coquette,

Languished

I murmured, “What?”

And you, a rogue,

Smiled

You chuckled.

And I, a vixen,

Ran …

Degas' bathing women can inspire a sense of stolid domesticity, but this model's round beauty and arched pose brings to mind a tease show or a playful attitude.  I so wish that she would peek back at the artist so that her facial expression could finish the flirtation.  

This short poem is shared with others at Tess Kincaid's weekly writing group, Magpie Tales ... head on over and see what others have written in response to Degas' bathing woman.

Saturday Snapshot - Moon Shot

Last week, the moonrise was so spectacular that traffic at this intersection in Keene, New Hampshire was going at a crawl, as people slowed to gawk. The sky went through the most incredible color palette of pink to lavender to purple to deep indigo, as the sun set and cast a background for the rise of the moon. Mount Monadnock was just beautiful in the sunset too. You can just see the mountain at the right in this panorama ...

I'm sharing this shot over at Alyce's blog, At Home With Books. Her weekly photoshare, Saturday Snapshot is open to any and all, so check it out! Happy Saturday!

Hope Lies Here

Such hope lies here among the cracks

Nascent dreams and unknown deeds

Between the gritty detritus

Curl and wend toward the glare

Prism light shafts piercing down

Draw the hopeful toward the beams

Ever upward into day pushing

Greening curling twirling outward

Crystalline structures follow plans

Ordained by a power mysterious

And as the first drop falls a ‘click’

It’s heard like thunder down below

Birthing streams and wakening mud

The cracks give birth to the riot of life

Miracles work with dust and clay

Creation – nothing to something

More from less - oh, how hopeful

A fast write, like a fast shower, can bring on a sudden burst of something from nothing ... thanks for the idea/prompt that came from Alan who is hosting this week's Poetry Jam. After playing with it for a couple hours, it is what it has become ... over time, it may become something more. I look forward to seeing what others bring to this week's post ...