part of the day
a certain amount
the necessity brings it to the front of the line and it surfaces for consideration
something must be done and so
the cycle continues without much
nevertheless the projects carry on as usual
waiting for the relief of a solution or an inspiration realizing that although broken and run down and grinding to a halt
the main drive is to endure
Hate the shed door.
a nice feature
garden tools in the little den
Poor cat, bipolar perhaps, but a hit and miss bird watcher like me.
some books since 2012 and still
Watching neighbour feed the birds, a ritual everyday and the birds love it almost as much as the squirrels do, dependable creatures in a way.
The summer it will be too hot but that is when the door to the shed will get fixed
it takes a few more journals over the years
much I hate
the broken door and how
the garden tools are still
in the little den
salvaged pots of fall plants primly sit with artificial lit ones and only a few dry leaves on the pointsettia beside the jug of bittersweet and the amaryrillis despite being too deeply planted inches up
at the corner of my yard for the lady next door
walks her dog
in the dark
down the village street
the corner light
the mailbox is yellowing with age
some of the neighbours had put up some Christmas lights
but some haven’t
it is maybe too early
or maybe too late
it is cold now and nobody wants to do lights
it is cold
snow was here and wind has ripped on through the village a couple of times on wild days this week with rain washing away the snow leaving fallen fences, branches in the lane and newspapers in the wrong places
warm with extra layers and covering
unexpected but not atypical
Little child and I together
for the afternoon
with an age difference of about sixty years and we got along just fine
with the bag of folktales
artfully rendered books about nature, poetry, faith, mystery and fun
With the wind howling and tearing
the fence and vines outside and the sky
dark with power
we sat together
a two year old and another much older and met
in the place of books
A friendly and quiet place
with gentle words and warm comfort
Putting out the call,
writing up the bulletin, drawing the poster and gathering
Sensory games analytical for some
insightful for others
Listening to the inner voice before it dissipates ignored
Snow falling, repeating the warning in the words spoken, bulletin printed and sketched
postponed as expected
and yet the interest stirred enough to warm the inner voice
muffled in layers
Billed as “local literary talent” the predicament of choosing the most suitable material for the event is upon me. Two weeks from now I will be the entertainment for an age group that ranges from toddler to adult and perhaps, senior adults.
With some concentration I can recall some fun songs and rhymes that I used in my days of Kindergarten teacher. Oddly enough, at first I had some trouble dredging them up. After all it’s been four years since I had to use them daily, almost nonstop from total recall. Where do these wee rhymes go once their time and usefulness has past? Fortunately, I remember a couple and one begets another and so on.
There will be the older children to contend with and hold them rapt while the evening unfolds. Something interesting and off beat and yet relatable to their experience and understanding is required. Fortunately my drama experience will fill the bill here. Oddly though, the little book of excellent ideas that I’d put away for a rainy day isn’t to be found. It’s here in a bin or a drawer or hidden away on a shelf, snickering at me because I can’t find it or recall where I might have used it last. Annoyed, I’ve come up with something based on a drama structure that I do recall and there is more than enough for a lively hour of preteen activity and creative inclination.
The older ones, the high school kids, will have their cell phones on so their time will be occupied nicely by texting each other in the same room and I need not worry too much about them . Yet, something should be included for their benefit. My poetry may fit the bill for them even though it is not written in a thumping rap or whine. It is unrhymed and melancholic, self absorbed stuff and therefore good enough. On second thought, maybe I should bring food.
My adult audience will consist of neighbours, family and church folk with a few unknowns. Hopefully, I won’t offend. For their edification, they can join in with the little ones and do the fishy dance song and soak up the vibe of the poetry non slam that I offer. As an added bonus for them I have some short stories from my stockpile or from blog archives. These are a style mix like if Maeve, Alice and Kurt were writing together maybe with a dash of Pym and side of Herriot.
This writing is gentle, at times gloomy, at times humorous but reflective. It has taken a couple of years to write out all the emotion to the point where it is now, still holding back some of the reality and as a result any art in that respect is still unwrapped. (What would the neighbours, family members and church folk think of it otherwise?
Hmmm, would anyone recognize themselves in the mirror?
My writing mentor and I haven’t worked together for over a year because of my irregular routines, the polar vortex, my aches and pains and my lack of focus. Next week though, we will work again and see where I am headed. All it took was the friendly invitation to be the local storyteller again to jolt me into seeking this focus once more. Apparently I don’t just write for myself like a reclusive artist content with elaborate stockpiles of unfinished work. I need an audience, even one that is prone to tantrums, texting, worrying and supporting.
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