Mag 54 - Writerquake turns three

This blog is three-years-old today, and Tess' remarkable photo prompt this week at Magpie Tales seemed a perfectly fitting image to use in celebration of the occasion!

Looking back three years ago, this is what I wrote for my first post:

Jumping in

I made this blog yesterday with the title "It's about time" not because I intend to write about time, although I will from time to time write about time, but because I simply haven't been writing and it's about time I did. My intention now is to use this as a journal space to blast out some words. Right now I don't plan on telling anyone I know, including my husband, Mike, that I am writing a blog. Sending my thoughts out into word space is my last idea, really, to free myself to write. I hope it works. I hope that what comes from this is my own writerquake in the 4.0 and above range.

And that will take time . . .

My life has changed in many ways as a result of beginning this blog. The most wondrous are the friends I have met, people whom I now treasure...some as kindreds. In fact, my mother-son relationship with Dex who lives in the Philippines developed via our blogs in that first year, and a twist of fate gave us a chance to meet and spend a week together in 2010.

Structural changes happened swiftly. In about a week's time I changed the blog header to read
Writerquake: it's about time. I dropped the bit about Time altogether in the latter part of the first month, which was also when I showed the blog to my husband. After naming the blog simply Writerquake things began to feel like home here, and actually it is when I began to feel at home in my own skin for more than episodic visitations.

When my blog became a home base for me and I realized that some people actually liked visiting me here, that they left comments that invited and enticed me over to their blogs, I spiffed up the place. In the course of three years I have had five different blog headers and three different templates. My blogroll has changed and grown as I have been super-charged with excitement and awe over the astonishing creativity that abounds in the blogosphere. Truth be told, my blogroll would be as long as a highway if I added every one of you who has dazzled and inspired me at least once. Instead, I passionately "follow" those blogs and have given myself license for that list to stretch to the stars.

Speaking of stars, that is what my own followers are to me. I love you. You honor me by becoming a "Writerquaker" and I honestly think about you when I am working on my posts.

With 768 posts in three years I definitely can attest that blogging has been a catalyst for writing for me. Writerquake was even a catalyst for my second blog, Clutterquake -- begun five months later -- with an entirely different scope and mission.

Not all of those 768 posts entailed creative, personal writing - certainly not - but most were a sharing of my feelings, emotions, opinions, and passions in ways I would not have expressed without my blog. Somewhere in year two I joined the community of poets who are inspired weekly at The Poetry Bus. I have not written a poem each week and I have not been pleased with every poem I have written (I have truly liked a few), but prior to hopping on board the Bus I had written exactly one poem in 14 years.

Then, later on in year two, I became curious to find out about this Magpie Tales blog that I kept seeing mentioned in marvelous posts created as a result of Magpie photo prompts. The photos were spectacular, and individual representations of the weekly images were uniquely varied and ultimately sublime. The magpies I have written since joining this community have not been easy for me. There are weeks when I am truly stumped, when nothing comes. But there have been a few occasions when my muse loves the week's image in equal proportion to my love for the image and I ride a rhythm of words that tumble and flow, and after a bracing little writerquake I am, for a time, content.




.

Keeping an Eagle Eye on The Poetry Bus

A Bald Eagle Broods

The last time I was there
There was snow on the ground.
Ground into my talons, meat....

Meet near the snag growing in rock--
Rock in our nest then rise up,
Up from the curve of stone and stick.
Stick plucked feathers there as a mark--
Mark the warm spot where once an egg.
Egg shells scatter with flash of wing!
Wing where great birds soar and dive--
Dive for prey and thrive on power.
Power flight with flesh and sun--
Sun glosses feathers sifting dry air.
Air beckons higher, farther sight--
Sight from above the snag near the rock.
Rock to one side and bid me farewell.

                           MLydiaM  ~ February 2011

This poem is my ticket for a ride on The Poetry Bus. Driving the bus this week is the author of 120socks, who gave three prompts from which to select.
I chose #2 - The last time I was there...........

(The Poetry Bus is the brainchild of TotalFeckinEejit, bless 'im!)


Image of bald eagle via public-domain-image.com 




.

Riding The Poetry Bus with People Who Don't Like This?

I have not been on TFE's Poetry Bus for some time now and have missed some amazing prompts, but I have a boarding pass for a ride driven this week by NanU. Here's what NanU asks of Poetry Bus passengers:

The theme at hand is something you like that other people don’t like. Or you’re afraid they don’t like it. Or you think they think you’re strange for liking it.

Reconcile the past, bank on the future

There are programs to do this for me
and I could use the bank's website to
monitor the account. But on account of
a peculiar night long ago, when a sort
of imprinting transpired, I find pleasure
reconciling the month's records alone
at my desk late at night. Just the way
he showed me.

My week in northern California with
my aunt, my uncle, and their kids -
my cousins younger than I at nine -
had been a swimmingly sunny time
but on the final night my uncle woke me,
had me follow him to their large bedroom
where against the bay window he had
his desk, folding table, and files in his
makeshift first home office.
(They were so young themselves
then, just starting out, and had not yet
moved to the big house where they  
all grew up).

My aunt snored lightly in their bed
across the room. The light he set on
the folding table had a short beam from
bulb to bank statement and stack of
checks. He whispered that he wanted
to teach me how to work with these things,
to make sense of them, to have no fear
of them, so I would not grow up incapable
of caring for myself like his "sweetie" --
and he smiled into the dark toward
her blond hair.

MLydiaM ~ January 2011

.

The Poetry Bus Stops at Horse Brass Pub

KAT is driving TFE's Poetry Bus this week, with a prompt that will surely inspire all riders. She asked that we think of our favorite pub and to create characters from the name of the pub, then use those names to spin a good tale in childhood verse form.

Funny that, after having not been aboard The Poetry Bus for quite awhile, I would join the crowd for this one. Many of you know that I have been sober for decades and pubs are no longer my thing. But......there was a drinking me long ago who lived for a year in Portland, Oregon, and the Horse Brass Pub was my place. I am obviously not the only patron who found it special. The pub's website announces:

In 2011, the Horse Brass Pub will celebrate 35 years of good beer, good food and good company.  We invite you to stop by the Pub next time you’re in town.  Enjoy a pint – we’ve grown to 53 beers on tap and remember “You’re a stranger no more when you walk through the door of the ol’ Horse Brass Pub”.

Horsey and Brassy Visit Horse Brass Pub

Horsey and Brassy all their lives were best friends
And today they were both twenty-one.
They dreamed of rare brews and wicked good blends
Made from hops and rye grown in the sun.

Horsey and Brassy were out on the town
With intentions to paint that town red.
She had orange hair, his coat was light brown.
Both were wooden - they chipped, never bled.

Brassy was horsey the way that she laughed--
She snorted and shook her wild hair.
She was new to the world outside of woodcraft
Where she sat on a shelf with hardware.

Horsey was not brassy in his thoughts or his ways.
Did not snort in public, rarely tossed his black mane.
Saved his prancing and dancing, whinnies and neighs
For the fine folks at home who 'til now held the rein.

Together they figured the route to the city,
Traversed rocky hills and crossed a huge bridge.
So pleased with themselves they thought it a pity
That their travels weren't known in their sleepy village.

Brassy held Horsey's mane so tight as he clopped.
She sang songs they had practiced at home--
Dreaming of wood kegs when he suddenly stopped.
They were there, ready for a tankard of foam!

Horsey and Brassy smiled at the fine sign
They were thirsty horse and girl puppets
Their boring lives gone - now was their time
To toss some dark brews down their gullets.

Folks at home had their churches, but here is the rub--
Seemed like heaven when they walked through that door.
They stood in the place known as the Horse Brass Pub,
Thanking their lucky stars for evening the score.

There was laughter and music, and instant flirtation
As all eyes looked at the orange-haired lassy.
Brassy sang a hello and spun out a gyration.
All could see that this girl puppet was sassy.

It worried the thoughtful 21-year-old steed
Whose night had just changed completely.
He spoke with the barmaid and the barmaid agreed
To make Horsey's drinks free of whoopee.

So while Brassy drank one beer after another,
Horsey ate Scotch eggs and drank only soda.
After all he loved Brassy and felt like her brother
As he watched her he looked like a horse Yoda.

The barkeep poured Brassy a tangy nightcap
Knowing Horsey was the designated driver.
Barkeep thought the horse was a genuine chap--
Reminded her of her favorite horse, McIver.

"I would call you McIver if you were my horse!"
"I would call you Grand Dame if 'twas true!"
But neither belonged with the other of course.
Horsey knew it was time for adieu.

Horsey pulled tired Brassy from the grip of some suitors
Who protested and wailed when he moved her.
They were fond of that girl and would sure miss her hooters,
Would remember her slurring: "Come hither."

Young Brassy dreamed a horse would bring her the knight
Who would swoop her away to some dreamland.
How could she have known back when she was a sprite
A horse would save her one night from drunk quicksand.

When at home one morning that sparkled with dew--
'Cross the grasslands they heard roosters and goats.
Brassy said: "Horsey, I am safe, thanks to you."
"McIver's my name!" said he, feeling his oats.

MLydiaM ~ December 2010

Puppetgirl ID by Puppetgirl 101 on DeviantArt

.

An Old Poem for a New Union on the Poetry Bus

Blue wedding ring in flower by Micah Hewett


Stars

This cluster of stars
from night's ancient skies,
      visited your heart for direction --
             gathering colors from reflections
             of passion tears in your eyes;

then, to exist beyond ether
where it was formed,
      discovered your lips --
             kissed by the soul of a feather, slipped
             from sweet air where dreams are warmed

                   and eased love's glow gently to land,

finding eternity here on my hand.

           MLydiaM ~ 09-01-1995

oo

This wedding poem I wrote for Michael 15 years ago is my representation for this week's theme on TFE's Poetry Bus (theme: write a poem for a non-denomination wedding). Argent is driving the bus this week for Don't Feed the Pixies, who we thought last week we had lost forever....... but he is back and his poem on Argent's page is gorgeous!




.

Singing Colours on The Poetry Bus

Donovan and Joan Baez sing Colours at the Newport Folk Festival


Colours

Did we know that yellow was Jessamy* - not goldenrod, meline, or saffron?
Draped over soft pillows at morn, she was her very own special yellow.
Forever mellow in a sweet song,
Dawn after dawn after.

The blue blessing Jessamy's mornings - azure of the highest order high.
Sapphire changed to indigo later, and poured hues
Of bright claret from a sunset sky
Into Jessamy's glass.

The sparklin' corn at sunrise was green. Jess called the stalks virescent.
She loved shooting the fields in sepia, the colors all muted titian.
Jess kept those days of the dawn,
Long after long after.
  
MLydiaM ~ September 2010 


_________
*Jessamy defined in Colour Terms

 :::

I am late this week, running after TFE's Poetry Bus just hoping I can still get on board. This week Marion asked us to write a poem about a color.....read her prompt and other poems HERE.


.

Going Gaga for The Poetry Bus

TFE's Poetry Bus is rolling around again and this week tickets will be collected by the author of Pure fiction. The prompt she gave us began with a poem by Thomas Hardy followed with these instructions necessary for completion in order to hop aboard:

Now write a poem about a moment of transformation.
It doesn’t necessarily have to take the form of a journey, like the poem above. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a personal transformation.
It can be about something as simple as freshly laid eggs transformed into a breakfast – A seed transformed into a plant – or a poem about a person transformed by circumstance into something completely new.

Now throw in a recurring line here and there.
And before and after pictures would be nice :)

So, here is the strange saga of my virtual transformation - pure fiction, indeed. In case you are wondering, the braces are real and will be real for about another nine months (a type of transformation-in-the-making).

My Virtual Makeover (over and over)

If clothes make the man
then what makes the chick?

Woman's hair is her crowning glory.

Need it be your own hair
that turns heads here from there?
Would you change if you could?
You can make them all stare;
Go to InStyle.com Hollywood.

Makeover you - here a click, there a click.
Transform your plain face quicker than quick
into looks that are sweet, slick, or whorey.

Woman's hair is her crowning glory.

Try on the tresses of Charlize and Zooey
Be a star. Be a dreamer; time's wastin'.
In just a few Swift tick-tocks 
Model Heidi's luscious long locks.
Then be Jessica. Be Jenny. Be sizzlin'.

If clothes make the man
then what makes the chick?

See how you look as theatrical Cate
or, wearing Ellen's short cut, maybe gayer.
Be thou Madonna with honey winged bangs
or Mrs. Tom Cruise in her glossed bob of late -

Or sample something far wilder and way grayer . . .

There is no greater proof of the power of hair
Than the look made by one Lady Gaga.
Go crazy with this one! -- Do the eyes and lips too.
Play up the top knot, that silver bone doga . . .

Woman's hair is her crowning glory.
Hair is what makes the chick.
It is the celebrity's shtick.
And that's the end of my stylin' story.

© MLydiaM

Virtual hair styles from InStyle.com of celebrities left to right:

Charlize Theron; Zooey Deschanel; Taylor Swift; Jessica Biel; Jennifer Lopez;

Heidi Klum; Cate Blanchett, Ellen DeGeneres, Madonna, Katie Holmes

.

A reunion ride on board the old School (Poetry) Bus

The Poetry Bus owned and managed by TFE is driven this week by Karen. She is a bona fide schoolmarm, as she explains HERE with her instructions for this week's lesson.

Before I go any further let me confess outright that I am cheating this week. The photo and poem below may be familiar to a few of you because I posted it at my blog in August 2009. I'm sorry for cheating, Karen, and I hope you won't kick me off the bus. It's just that this poem says everything I ever wanted to say about high school. It also happens to be one of only two poems I ever had published out there in the big world that they said we got the golden key to in those graduation speeches.

The Reunion

Our colors whipped red and white,
the married assistant coach
preferred high school virgins,
chili dripped from an exit sign
in the cafeteria
after the food fight

and I was a chrysalis
plotting escape.

Pompon mothers will be there
cheering "yuppie" in place of
"yipp-ee"
ten years later
and paunchy jocks,
punting questions about divorce,
will guzzle scotch instead of beer.

They'll forget that their
most-likely-to-succeed
stoned on acid
killed his twin brother

the star quarterback
caught a grenade
in Vietnam

the girl who won best body
vanished after the pomp,
and circumstance produced
a butterfly.

                  © MLydiaM 

.

Mid-Summer on the (Magic) Poetry Bus

Driving TFE's Poetry Bus this week is birthday girl Jeanne Iris, author of Revolutionary Revelry blog. Jeanne gave three "Mid-Summer Magic" prompts for us to choose from. I selected Option #1, which was the photo below and this question:  What magic do you see in this photo?

 

     
She of once and never and stone
knelt then and ever on a lonely spot
of nothing wild and nothing mild,
a nothing patch in a nowhere place -

dreamed of color, touch, and grace -
when upon the space came a child
whose hand was warm and aura hot,
who found no life and shared her own.

 :::

I just have to include this!




  .

been breathing too many fumes running after the poetry bus

 
I'm late for my second trip aboard the Poetry Bus, engineered by TotalFeckinEejit. This week the bus is driven by NANU who gave these instructions:  
We are all familiar with those wiggly almost-words used to verify that a blogger leaving a comment is in fact an actual blogger and not a machine. Yes. Those words are your mission. Collect them this week. Pick your favorite, or several, and include it/them in your poem.

Since I was late and didn't collect word verifications throughout the week all of mine came from last night when I left comments at various blogs -- and one is even an actual word but I'm using it anyway.


Perfume from the Isle of Pligh

This, fine shopper, is no Eau de cologne,
with notes of fruit and twigs and
synthetic fragrance oils
faking a scent of sea breeze.
No sneeze

for I've placed on this pillow the jewel of perfumes
with ingredients harvested from a
lush, secret copse found
only on the Isle of Pligh.
A sigh

now as you twist the tiny platinum cap
on the bottle forged from rare arion -
ah, top notes of chocolate oranges
from the fragrant suastro tree.
You see

in your mind's eye the enchanted cave
where grows the mossy dedmingy
that gives pungent character
to the middle notes scent.
A vent

in the earth reveals the musky modsherp
that eats the seeds of the achabla root
and for our precious base notes we
gather those pods, glean that musk.
At dusk

those treasures are silently brought forth
so the modsherp live on to feast again
on the achabla seeds, and the mossy dedmingy -
protecting the vent in the arion cave -
continue to thrive in the shade of the
grove of suastro trees in the copse
on the Isle of Pligh.

You'll buy?

© MLydiaM

.

my first time aboard the poetry bus

My cat Willow is so secure that she is practically spook-proof but every once in awhile she will begin to exhibit alarm over something, and, if I can catch that moment and say to her, "Scarwy" she calms right down. Acknowledging and validating her trepidation seems to negate her tension. It is with this in mind that I jump aboard The Poetry Bus for the first time. This week's host is Argent, author of Delusions of Adequacy, and her prompts were to write something funny, i.e., "Excursion to the Comedy Store," or to write about unrequited love, i.e., "Tunnel (of unrequited) Love" - or a combination of both if desired. The Poetry Bus is sponsored by Totalfeekineejit, who lists in his sidebar the Poetry Bus Global Tour Dates. That is about all I know right now about The Poetry Bus, except I selected the unrequited love idea and .......this is a verwy scarwy ride for me!


Adam, my song

Adam, my song -
    The verse of our youth
    is a deep hum inside me
an I-remember-I-will-remember-I-will-
always-remember-we-were-so-
young-and-I-long-ago-
forgave-you-
sound

You gave your children rhyming names,
a refrain repeated five times, and once
you called me at Christmas
with the chorus of their
carols ringing in the
background.

In the background since some have
said to me if only . . .,  I nodded in
time to the music that danced
between them and the
spouse - appreciating
the beat of their
discontent.

I may grow old dreaming of you,
Adam, my song - singing a
diminished melody until
I hush my song
and the hum
becomes
nothing
but
Om.

~by MLM Lydia ©
.