Snowed In

Last Friday we headed out 60 for the town of Dahlonega Georgia. That’s where the eastern gold rush took place, and is a delightful tourist town in the mountains. A great place to walk through the shops, get lunch, and when friends come to visit, to take them to the Gold Museum.
On the way I wanted to see where the Benton Mackaye trail crosses the road, and I wanted to visit Woody Gap where my son and I would get on the Appalachian Trail for our hike to Springer Mountain.
So we’re in this little deli on the square across from the museum eating some delicious chicken noodle soup, and the sky started to get very dark. Then on the way to the car it started to rain, and by the time we get to our shortcut home, it was sleet on the windshield. When we crossed Bushy Head Gap and dropped into Cashes Valley there was an inch of snow on the ground, and for the next 4 hours it piled 5 inches on us. So we were snowed in for the next few days. I really did come south to get away from that, but moved to the Blue Ridge, so no use to whine about it.
We spent the weekend quilting (not me) and writing. Of course the dog loved it. She got pure joy trying to find a tennis ball under the white stuff.
There were also sinister forces in the cabin with us. One of the days I was writing, transferring my notes from yellow pad to computer, all kinds of error messages started appearing, and weird things jumped about on the screen. I freaked! Quickly I backed up all my data. So a few days later I made it in to town, and visited the computer wizard. Shortly he called and told me my computer had the "click of death." YIKES! I kind of felt like I had it also after hearing his diagnosis.
Well, Linda and I headed to the computer store 80 miles away after stopping at the Ellijay Starbucks, and I am trying to get my writing programs loaded on a new laptop. I had the old laptop for 7 years, and it was a good and faithful friend…sniff. But it’s my tool, just like a horse to a cowboy I guess, so had to do the deed and find the cash. Good news is that I had backed up all of my poems and stories, so let that be a warning to you.
The poem I’m going to share with you today is one I worked on for two years, and finally a chemistry professor named Sam gave me the one word I couldn’t find for myself. That’s why I love to share with others. It makes me a better poet.
See you soon.

Lies

Lies flow through a family like mercury
poured out in droplets, each converging
into the other, a creeping, rolling capsule.

They pour into the soul of a child,
there to condense on the tongue.
Then the man sees the eyes of the child
flashing mercury pools,
and recognizes himself.

Update

Well, I can once again see that I need to do some catch-up. I always have good intentions with this blog, but it just seems like this time of the year there is so much to get ready for the cold weather, get ready for the holidays, get ready for church activities, and get some writing done, and then getting ready for a nap needs to be put in there someplace.

Anyway, here’s an update. I have finished reading two books over the last few weeks. Dan Brown has done an excellent job on The Lost Symbol. I suspect the tourists will flock to Washington D.C. to see the hidden secrets he has mentioned. Sure did get some insight from him for my own book. All that action in just a few days sure keeps the reader ready to turn the next page. I also finished Patricia Cornwell’s book The Body Farm. I have no idea why I have never read it before, but I can tell you, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

As far as poetry is concerned, I am going through a Ryan Adams book called Infinity Blues. You might know him as a singer/songwriter. Some of the poems are raw, very personal, and beautifully written. I also picked up Poetry of the Golden Generation Volume II. Some wonderful writings from southern poets.

The Blue Ridge Poets and Writers had a reading a few weeks ago in a local church. We were given supper, and then we had an hour to read. The room was filled with over 90 people, but the first timers were able to read with confidence, and I was very proud of the group. The feedback has been good, and before we left I think most of the readers gave the poems away to people who asked for a copy.

So, a few weeks ago after all the rain we had here in the North Georgia, and you might have seen this on the weather channel, or read about it, a stone the size of a bus came off the mountain and brought trees and other debris with it, blocking the road a little west of the 1996 Olympic kayak and canoe site. Well, that’s not far from my home, and when I want to go “to town” that’s the way I go to Chattanooga Tennessee for a day of shopping. We are told that it will be closed for at least two months, so there goes any Christmas shopping we had planed to do there. Well, I mapped out another route over the mountains, and that was no good, so I got out the computer and put in all the stores I wanted to visit, and headed south toward Atlanta, but hoping I could do everything before getting that far away. It was a great day, and the wife and I found everything, and finally rested in a bookstore before heading home that afternoon. This will be important to know later.

On a personal note, a week or so ago I was sitting with some men I meet with regularly, and they started to harass me about how sad and morbid my poems are. I informed them that talk like that really bums me out, and I would try to do better. So, on my trip to the “big city” I looked for inspiration, and I think I found it. Here is a draft of my new poem. Would you call it a prose poem, or just prose, or something you’d rather not say? You be the judge. Have a wonderful day, keep smiling, and have fun.

Rant

So, I’m in a book store fifty-eight miles from the house, and I’m at a table close to the magazines reading a poetry magazine because I’m really tired of buying it and then seeing a half a dozen poems and the rest advertisements, and commentaries and interviews by somebody who has no idea how to ask a question without adding words they just discovered from their thesaurus, and someday I just know one of these poets will ask them, are you just stupid or something, and what kind of silly darn question is that anyway?
So, I’m about ready to put it back on the shelf and out of the stacks comes this beautiful woman in blue jeans and a blue pull over shirt. She walks around my table and stands at my elbow looking at bride magazines, and you know how they put the good magazines under that middle shelf, and that’s another pet peeve of mine, but anyway she bends over to see them, and everything separates, and I’m looking at this triangle with straps going in three directions, and it’s red with white stripes, or white with red stripes, and it’s really close to my face, and honest, all I can think about is, that just doesn’t go with that blouse.

Writer's Day?

When writers are asked what they do on a daily basis, they usually say things that you’ve heard before. “I get up early and write until noon before I take a break.” Yes, I’m alone in my little corner and the words just flow onto the paper.”
RIGHT!

I’m lucky that I am able to write just about every day, but some days are better than others. Here’s how my week has gone so far.

I came home from a retreat in the mountains, just south of here, and I had filled pages with ideas, and really needed to get them onto paper for a first draft. Hold on a minute! There are just a few things to do first.

That oak tree needs to be removed before it falls on the cabin, and takes out the porch. Friends are coming next weekend, so that faucet in the shower needs fixing, and YOUR bathroom needs cleaning. When were those towels changed? Remember those shelves you promised to build? Better get the wood shop cleaned and ready. Oh, by the way, the tire is flat on the jeep.
Good Grief!

I managed to sail through most of the chores, and even sang along with the radio while traveling the 12 miles to the tire dealer. And now it’s Thursday, and I pulled out a poem I had fermenting in the folder marked first drafts, and realized it was writer’s group night, so I grabbed what I needed and headed to Blue Ridge. We meet in the old courthouse, and when I arrived one of our members was there with a visitor. With the fantastic weather we have been having in the southern mountains, I suspected we might be the only ones to attend. By six o’clock we had eight writers around the table, and I felt energized. We did introductions for the visitors, discussed some books and magazines that had good articles on writing, and an opportunity to read at the local theater. Then we went around the table for the critique session.

Julia started us off with a short piece from her book, and described a wonderful southern judge, and the children who were able to spend time in his library reading books on plants. He reminded me of Burl Ives.

One of the visitors read from her story about a piece of furniture that smelled like smoke, and I had better let it go there. I don’t want to give away the story. Another visitor introduced us to some characters, and we commented about each one, asking questions and giving gentle critique. A great start, we all thought. Kathy read her piece on local history, and Ed read a beautiful poem called, “Oh Really.”

Pete read a poem about drilling for water in Australia, and I pulled out my first draft. The comments on my poem helped me fix something that I didn’t even know was a problem, and reinforced the fact that every writer needs fresh eyes now and then.

Soon we had filled two hours and I handed out the assignment for the next meeting. Take seven random words and write a short piece or a poem using them. Just something to do if we get stuck for ideas.

What a great group, and this morning I was ready to put words on paper. There’s nothing like sharing with other writers. If you’re not a member of a group, or have a writer friend that will give you honest critique, what are you waiting for?

Have a great day.

Welcome to the Mountains

A few weeks ago I attended a writer’s conference not far from my home in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We had a good attendance, for a rainy Saturday, with writers from three states.

One of my duties that morning was to speak for a few minutes on writer’s groups, and to invite local writers to come and see what we are doing in the Blue Ridge Poets and Writers. We meet at the Blue Ridge Mountain Arts Association in Blue Ridge Georgia once a month. With a membership of 15 writers we are doing pretty good. It is always a treat to hear new poems or a new chapter to a growing novel. The critique is gentle, and the help is valuable to those that want to tell their stories in poetry or prose.

Back to the conference. If I believed everything I had read, or comments I had heard recently, my talk that morning would have been very different. I would have said something like, “everybody that is over 50, forget about writing, go home, and have a great day.”

But, I know better. Looking around the room I could have named thirty people that have been writing most of their lives, and are published on a regular basis. My small group is made up of mature writers that win contests, speak in the schools, and write quietly on poetry collections or their next novel.

So, this blog is for everybody that wants to write, no matter what the age. I hope you will join me in sharing your joys and secrets about what you did when it didn’t go so well, and the words just wouldn’t materialize. I will share those things about my writing struggles, and those wonderful times when it all came together. It’s not about age. It’s about wanting to tell the stories.