Letting Go - Poetry Jam

Letting Go

A thumb unfurls

Fingers slack

The other grips

Pulls a bit back

The arms are near

The steps in sync

No words to hear

No gazes meet

The city hums

The street is loud

The cars rush on

The masses crowd

One turns aside

Speaks a word

Breaks the stride

Wrenches free

The other stops

Looks on until

She turns a corner

Starts up the hill

His vision mists

He moves along

The motion assists

The letting go

The letting go

Is the easy part

Though moving on

Breaks the heart

She will come back

The mantra starts

She will come back

The paces continues

She will come back 

She will come back

She will come back

She will come back ...

Parting from a loved one is not always saying goodbye forever, is it ?  And yet, parting from a loved one is so unsettling sometimes. It leaves one off balance and unsure and emotionally panicked.  The rhyme pattern in this poem seemed unbalanced when I put it together, but on thinking about ‘saying goodbye’ I left it (for the time being) so as to convey that back and forth, topsy-turvy feel of parting when you don’t want to part …

This poem is being shared with the writers that contribute to Poetry Jam - this week's theme is one of 'goodbyes' ... I hope you read others' poems and share your thoughts. 

Summertime Creep Out ... Under The Dome Read Along!

It takes a group of readers to bring me back to Stephen King. I haven't picked up any of his fiction since The Stand because that particular novel scared the living bejesus out of me so much that I had to put it down. King has such a way of creating really sinister and creepy characters that get under my skin and make me jittery ... and I don't like jittery. Heck, I don't even like the jittery that three cups of coffee can bring on!

Natalie, blogger over at Coffee and a Book Chick must like coffee jitters AND Stephen King jitters, as she is hostessing a summertime reading of his novel, Under The Dome. This is just in time for us to get the story straight before the television mini-series adaptation hits the tube in June. Well, I'm trying to expand my genres, so I thought I would give thriller/horror genre another try and why not go all out with the king of the genre?

Stephen King and I have funny past. One of my first experiences reading King was with Salem's Lot. The summer that I was nineteen, my family vacationed on Cape Cod for two weeks. Salem's Lot was my beach read. My younger brother, jokester extraordinaire, knew that I was creeping out on the vampire thing and came to the outside of the screen window of my bedroom one night while I was curled up reading . He scratched on the screen and stood there with a blank zombie look while I had a heart attack and screamfest. The creep ... I have never lived it down. Yeah, Stephen King has definitely made an impression ...

When I came down with a severe cold and respiratory infection while reading The Stand, it became too much. I put that book down and never looked back. So coming back to Uncle Stevie is a huge thing for me. I read his memoir On Writing earlier this year, just because I am so curious to see what goes on in that mind of his. Now, I think I might be ready to come back into his creepy fold for a while.

I can't promise I'll make it through this tome, but I'm giving it the old college try! So ... off I go to dive under the dome with the rest of the readers .... I have a funny feeling that things are going to get real weird, real fast!

Let's Go Under The Dome!

The Fortress of Solitude - Jonathan Lethem

Jonathan Lethem's book about young Dylan Ebdus and his life-long friendship with Mingus Rude made be cringe, shudder, shake my head in wonder, and finally, sigh in resignation. The book is touted to be a 'fictionalized autobiography' of Lethem's years growing up in Brooklyn during the first throes of 'gentrification'. It is a relentless slog through a childhood lived from the apartment door through the gauntlet of the streets to  'P.S. # Whatever' by a nerdy little white boy with a half-cocked mother and a nerdy little white boy artist of a father ... poor kid. He gets a world class introduction to the art and music of the era, but lacks any real family connections that extend beyond the apartment walls. To boot, his mother abandons the family while Dylan is still a young kid, leaving his detached father to raise him ... or let him survive among the other detached souls in Gowanus. Dylan builds his fortress of solitude year after year, developing a keen mind and an alleycat's instinct for survival. He becomes a social chameleon.

Consequently, young Dylan observes the goings-on in his neighborhood - the young kids making their way on the sidewalks and in the alleys, playing ball, learning the fine art of tagging, forming alliances that will translate into neighborhood gangs when they are older, dodging the drunks and the druggies, and surviving until they can escape the neighborhood or carve their own turf within its boundaries. Dylan meets Mingus and together, they form an alliance of sorts based on comic book heroes, music, and the basic prurient interests of young boys. Their teen years become a laboratory of artistic experimentation in the development of their 'tag identities', sexual and drug experimentation, and slowly negotiating their future tracks.

I know this is a 'smart book'. It's well-written. It's edgy with its constant referral to the art and music and atmosphere of NYC and its environs during the emergence of soul, disco, punk, and the alternative art scene. It is heavy with local color, the various political initiatives of New York politicos, and name-dropping, the story moves along and my heart aches for Dylan and Mingus and their crony, Arthur. It's everything that a young urban writer might want to put down on paper, but it left me sad and lonely and bereft and thinking of that old spiritual called 'Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child' ... perhaps that was Lethem's point?

Guess I'll go back to a light read after this one ...

Smoke Signals - Mag 170

Ponytail by Last Exit

smoke signals

those early days burnt hot

smouldering experiences

that we banked like coals

saving the memories
grey tendrils curling

upward to scent the air

until we needed warmth

then we each found

coals that glowed

yours in your eyes

mine in my fingertips

just enough heat

to start a fire 

wisps of smoke

from seasoned wood

and then a flame

a fire worthy of

december’s chill

This poem is shared with the writers who contribute to Tess Kinkaid's weekly writing circle called 

The Mag - to see what others have given this week, click the link and read on ... perhaps you will be inspired to join in.

Saturday Snapshot - A Couple Of My Heroes and a Story

It's been so long since I submitted a Saturday Snapshot that I am a bit ashamed! I just don't know how I fell off the routine of setting aside a photo and making time to address it for Alyce's photo share! Well, I'm back again and will  try to be more consistent! And it's so nice to see all of you again!

This week, I decided to honor a couple of my heroes, it being Memorial Day weekend here in the States and all! So here we go!

First, this is my Dad, Richard William Miller. Dad's going on 91 and has gotten to be somewhat of a lovable curmudgeon. Back in the day, though, he was the life of the party, a real live wire who was nicknamed Bing. Can you guess why? I always thought he looked and sang like Bing Crosby and seeing him in his Naval uniform makes me think it all the more! Dad was in the United States Naval Air Corps at the end of WWII. Thankfully, he never made it into active combat, but he didn't know he'd be sidelined when he signed up. He was able and willing and he joined up like so many other young men of that greatest generation. What a guy! What girl isn't completely enamoured of her Dad? Of course, he's my hero! Thanks, Dad for being brave and true!

My second hero is actually a deceased veteran of the Viet Nam War. His name is Glenn Andreotta and he was an Army helicopter crew chief. In March 1968, he and his helicopter crew came upon one of the most horrific massacres during the Viet Nam War. The My Lai Massacre became notorious for its level of bloodshed perpetrated by our American troops.

The Mag 169 - Down East

                                                                                                                 Lighthouse Dandelions by Jamie Wyeth 

Down East

On golden May dandelion days

we joked about spinning gold.

We’d be millionaires, you said,

if all those flowers could be spun.

Instead, we made wine.

Dandelion dreams took you far

but I am like a bumblebee,

content to ramble o’er our hill

nuzzling clover and comfrey

instead of flying up and away.

I walked down the field today,

nudged the blooms aside and sat,

craning about like Christina and

willing you to bring the wine jug.

Instead, I talked to the bees.

The sun continues shining.

The clouds pass over all.

The waves beat on incessantly.

Our home is just as cozy.

I miss you, dear friend.

Turn your back on golden neon,

towers and streets all straight.

Soar back with the gulls

from the city garbage heap.

Come at spectacular sunset.

Come when dandelions nod.

We’ll lie on the hill and

blow wishes to the heavens.

plant seeds among the stars

and sip our wine together.

The Cold Harsh Truth of Beauty - Poetry Jam

Frost Feather 3 - photo by Sir Knight Moore

The Cold Harsh Truth of Beauty

What cold remote bitch do you presume to be

Sweeping the catwalk , trailing Valenciennes that

Resembles frost feathers

The North wind that rushes with you

Pulls silver glitter free from your hair

Cold crystals for the masses

Some float free and waft toward the gallery

Riding frigid currents of AC to land

Like so many snow flakes

You look straight ahead toward a star

Cold white light beams pierce blue eyes

Caress that cold brittle shell

No warmth penetrates this arctic blast

Soft ululations like a winter wind

Tap tapping hands like sleet on pane

And you stomp on toward the after party

Waving white arms and trailing lace

Wintery stick branches in the breeze

Cold chemicals can capture blue eyes

White skin, soft lace, hard lips

The cold harsh truth of beauty

What lies beneath the permafrost

Remains a mystery for some man

To unearth when glaciers melt

Inspiration comes from many places. I was looking at a dress ... and the model who wore it.

Poetry Jam is a place for sharing inspiration and its result ... look at what others have gleaned from the challenge to think about crystals ...