Posts Tagged ‘Anonymous’

Publication in Four and Twenty

July 17, 2012 4 comments

Today’s issue of Four and Twenty contains one of my poems, as well as poetry of several friends. Enjoy this lovely magazine and make it one of your favorites.

Vacation’s Purpose

July 2, 2012 2 comments
Cover of "The Vacation"

Cover of The Vacation


Each year millions create an almost migratory herd, like so many waves rolling toward a shore called “vacation.” Each traveler has in mind a personal calling toward whatever destination reaches in and takes hold of the heart for that season. How many can resist that pull?


My writing partner left this past weekend for vacation with her children. Since that particular blog is on vacation this week, I’m left with additional and unanticipated hours of luxurious time to delve into new studies, new avenues of knowledge exploration. I could spend the extra hours working on some of my long projects, but they’ve already been delegated to regular work hours.

For now, I can download seminars and listen without guilt, soak in new knowledge to add to those bits I’ve stored away, and investigate hitherto unknown streets that branch off the cyber highway. There’s a lot of territory to roam in only a few measly days. What if I get lost?

No fears. Fear is the little mind killer. That has become my motto of life.

Learning new software applications will get an hour here and there. A new book will have a half an hour of my time each day. An hour long seminar each day isn’t too much to do. And a couple of hours devoted to my writing course will pay off handsomely in a few months. (I’m rebuilding—not revising–my YA novel.)

The finishing touches on my first book of poetry are happening today. It will go to beta readers within a few days, as soon as I get them all lined up. Once it’s out to readers, I’ll concentrate on the second book. I have all of the photos, thanks to Sister and that trusty camera of hers. It’s begun, but now I must implement the outline for the epic poem.

Did I mention that I just had two more poems accepted by Four and Twenty Short Form Poetry? That drives more incentive to send out more poems and create a few more just for outside submission. Surprises like this one I can handle without difficulty.

So far my week is starting out pretty well. Speaking of poetry, here’s the one I did yesterday for Poetic Bloomings Prompt of Write a Resting Poem.




What gentle rustlings

Probe mind’s nooks

While sleep hangs

Suspended, waiting?


What probings shake

Awake memories

Long forgotten

While slumber paces?


What shakings loosen

Ponderings, dry eyes,

And weave weariness

Into strain’s distress?


These rustling, probing

Shakings serve to

Alert, with useless

Restless wonderings,


Leaving behind

Confusion’s legacy

Of sleepless nights

And fog-filled days.


Oh, to sit beside the

Stream of Forgetfulness,

Dipping toes into sweet

Thoughts of Easement;


To feel Zepher’s breeze

Linger on naked skin,

While Pan plays his

Lullaby to needy ears;


To rest within a cradle

Rocked by Earth’s pulse,

Removing all care, worry,

The better to nurse from Peace.


Some may see my planned week as anything but a vacation. That’s fair. For me, who has the occasional full day up in the mountains or along a lake shore, my definition of vacation tends to differ from that of others. A day to do nothing but read a new book or an old favorite is a mighty vacation indeed.

Enjoy your own coming holidays, everyone, and leave a comment here telling of your own vacation plans. Or, do you have to wait for get a break from routine? Don’t be shy. Everyone wants to go somewhere. Feel free to share.

A bientot,


Previous Post

June 30, 2012 2 comments

I escaped to my poet’s playground this morning and got to compose in the sandbox with my paints.

Here’s hoping you enjoy this playtime effort. I’ll have more poetry tomorrow, and more postings during the week.

Have a great weekend, everyone, and come back for the holiday week refreshed and energized.

A bientot,


In the Shade, Tea in Hand

April 9, 2012 4 comments
Poetry is an...

Poetry is an... (Photo credit: liber(the poet);)

Our daily writing prompt from Poetic Asides reads “Write a shady poem—Open interpretation” or words to that effect. You can see some of the possibilities here, can’t you?

No time to waste today on exposition. Let’s get to the poetry! Enjoy yourselves!

She came in from the green field,
Ready but not willing to yield
To his warmed hands that awaited,
Nor would she stand, breath abated.
Instead, she called a long wavering note,
Seeming to cast her sole possible vote,
Concerning continual molesters of his ilk,
Saying “No!” to his stripping of her milk.
No anger answered her call, only sweet talk
To reassure her of his rightness, “No need to balk.”
She listened to his whispers, guided to her stall.
Once there she relaxed, finally willing to give all.

Getting Home

Shy, elusive, scuttling from leaf to leaf,

She listens, wary, knowing missteps cost

More than her own life, her children’s.

Twig snap!

Freeze; eyeballs only, scan for foes.

Birdsong allows for exhale amid

Thundering heartbeats; too long,

Gone too long, but close, very close.

Another length of ground gained,

Fast beneath the canopy, taking

Advantage of each dark haven

That hides the path home.

One tree between her and sanctuary,

She gathers strength and speeds toward

Those she nurtures within the hollow

Of her heart and beneath the pawpaw.

Safe, all safe!

Little ones gather round, nudging, seeking.

Onto the floor she spits out seeds, gathered

with care for this second feeding of the day.

She’ll endure fear and fatigue to mother them all.

Speech Without Words

April 7, 2012 Leave a comment

This morning I focused on a scene between two people, an interaction without words. Why? Poetic Asides assigned the task for today’s poetry prompt.

Fiction writers write such scenes every day. It’s part of narrative fiction, a part that allows the reader to get the impression of a conversation without having to read dialogue. The technique places the reader inside the activity on the page, allows the reader to fill in all the implied blanks from the reader’s personal experience.

Poetry could be said to be the bedmate of narrative fiction. A poem tells a story, instructs with philosophy, or entertains with frivolity, but always toward a purpose. It describes a picture with story or with pure narrative description, which includes an actual or implied history.

Poems also form the basis of mythology, whether from ancient Greece or ancient Nordic regions, or anywhere else on the globe. In modern poetry dialogue has been added to the mix of lyric verse and meter. A poet uses every gem in the jewel box to get a story told as she/he wishes it to be.

And sometimes those who’ve never appreciated the poetry that kept civilization alive and kicking, while they whoop and holler at the end of the movie that came from the poem.

The following is my offering for today’s poetry prompt. If time allows in today’s schedule, I’ll do another later and post it here. Enjoy your weekend, all. Have a peaceful holiday.

Lawn Duty


He reached for her hand,

Small enough solace

To bolster flagging courage.

She squeezed his fingers

And tugged gently.

He followed her lead

As they moved past the stone,

Head down, he could not watch

His past dwindle from view.

She knew, knew the time he’d

Spent caring for his children,

Their sweet faces lit from within,

Eager to please and play all day.

Now, only photos remained,

Memory prompts of days gone by.

She pulled him close, arm in arm,

Humming an old hymn from church.

He sighed, knowing sleep elude him.

He’d have no one to keep him company,

No one to nuzzle with, tell secrets to.

Others could never replace Pippa and Pepper.

Others would never bring such delight

Or mischief to a day’s somber turning.

Only these two small bundles of fur

Had ever gained the whole of his heart.

Mom knew how it was, she felt for him,

And she would never speak of his sobs,

Fears in the night that two friends had soothed.

He listened to her humming, his chest loosened,

He didn’t want to go home but knew he must.


© Claudette J. Young 2012