#MidWeek POV #wwwblogs Aging Gracefully. Or not.

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Me? I don’t THEENK so!

In less than a month, on glorious St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll turn seventy-two. SEVENTY. TWO. It boggles my mind, especially when I look into the mirror and see an old lady looking back at me. Most days, I still think of myself as young. Barely an adult. Then I remind myself that I wasn’t cast for a permanent run as Sweet Young Thing, and start thinking about all the things I want to do in the time allotted to me. Of course, I’ll have to live to be  134 to accomplish half of them. 😉

I’d like to hear how you good folks feel about aging. How do you deal with the new aches and pains, for instance? I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I spend part of the day grousing that nothing looks the same as it used to look, nothing works as well as it used to work, and some things aren’t even in the same PLACE they used to be. What’s up with that? I purely hate it when my parts stop working before I’m done with them, too! (Eyes and ears come to mind, immediately.) But by and large, I’m blessed to be doing as well as I am, and enjoying the heck out of my writing and meeting readers in central Florida. Life is good, for the most part, and I know I’m a lucky lady.

In honor of growing older, here’s a poem I wrote while contemplating my 70th birthday, now long gone by. Hope you enjoy it! 🙂 Continue reading

Emeralds and Silver by Hunter Painter #FindingHunter #Romance

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In lieu of a #FabulousFridayGuestBlogger this week, I’m inviting one of my favorite characters from Finding HunterHunter Painter, himself–to share something with you. Hunter’s a very quiet man, and doesn’t do well around large groups of people, so he won’t be chatting with you today. But with much arm-twisting, I got him to agree to let you read one of the poems he wrote years ago about the love of his life, Willow Greene.

Hunter fell in love with Willow in high school, but as a quiet, introspective sort of guy, he committed all his thoughts to paper, instead of voicing them aloud. It’s a shame, really. Unbeknownst to him, Willow loved Hunter right back. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that. For the rest of the story, you’ll have to check out the book, I’m afraid. 🙂

In the meantime, here are the thoughts of a young man who was given to observing everything and everyone, then writing down all he’d seen and heard. And maybe next week, we’ll have a post from a REAL LIVE guest blogger.  🙂

Emeralds and Silver
  By Hunter Painter, Grade 11

No emerald pulled from
  darkest earth holds
    light so warm, so
      full of life, as the
        green in those eyes.

No precious metal
  curled or curved in
    filigrees of man’s design
      offers half the sheen of
        that spun-silver hair.

Who would trade her
  incandescent glow for
    emeralds and silver
      lonely and cold?
        Joyless, both, next to her
          bright sparkle.

Campfire Ghosts – Happy Halloween #2

campfires-burning

Dark clouds
Hide the silver light
From his wide-eyed gaze.
Night reigns
In blackest glory,
Held at bay only
By the orange firelight.
The trees are gone,
Lost in gloom.
Everywhere,
A wall of black,
Except within
The fire’s warm
Circle.

Sparks rise up,
Twisting high
Until they disappear,
Lost in the darkness,
Only to be followed
By legions more.

Whippoorwills call,
And foxes bark,
And the night settles like
A blanket over all.

Grilled food
Is gobbled down,
Leaving behind only
The sweet scorched
Scent of burnt
Marshmallow.
He wears a smile
Dressed in melted chocolate,
And licks his sticky fingers
Clean.

The air turns cooler,
As day is forgotten,
And jewel-bright embers
Glow in heaps of ash.
He’s waited as long
As a young boy can.
Shivering, he asks,
Is it time?

A warm arm
Pulls him close,
Holding him safe,
And he asks again.
Is it time now, dad?

Yes, says his father,
His voice a deep
Familiar comfort
In the ink-dark night.
Yes, I believe it is.
Let me see,
Shall I tell you
A new one?

Will it have
Clacking bones
And eyes that glow?
Will there be cold wind
Whistling through trees,
And bats swooping,
And owls calling?

Of course, says his dad.
All of that, I’m sure,
For isn’t that what
You love the most?

Oh, yes, he sighs,
Safe and warm,
Eyes growing heavy
And sleep close by.
Tell me, dad,
Like you always do.
Tell me a story.

  ~ Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love  by Marcia Meara ~

 

October Siege – Happy Halloween!

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October.
The siege begins.
Enemies among us
Everywhere!
With evil grins,
They lurk,
They skulk,
They glare,
Sharp fangs bared.

October.
Hide inside.
Nighttime danger
Everywhere!
With shining eyes,
They menace,
They taunt,
They torment,
Mouths opened wide.

See how they glow!
Deadly, gap-toothed grins
Midst curves of vivid orange!
Silently screaming with devilish glee,
They lounge on nighttime porches,
And march up darkened drives.
Casting yellow light from watchful eyes,
They search for unwary victims,
For slow and easy prey.

Big ones, tall ones,
Skinny ones, or round.
Colored like the fiery sun,
Or the moonlight pallor of alien visitors.
They line up on fence posts,
Stair steps, and windowsills.
Peering out . . . or peering in?
Looking for who?
You!

October.
Watch your step.
They’re back again,
Everywhere!
With wicked intent,
They scheme,
They hunger,
They haunt,
Pumpkins on patrol!

Boo!

~ Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love by Marcia Meara

October Writing Prompt Challenge

 

Okay, here’s my first effort at creating something using a couple of this month’s writing prompts: black and orange. Enjoy!

moononwater

Moon Cycle

The moon fell into the pond last week.
Snug in an ink-stained cradle, it floated,
Smiling at its twin in the sky.
Stars glittered on ebony water, while
Fish of red, orange, and gold
Slumbered under
Lily-pad blankets.
Nightly, the water nibbled at
Silvery edges, until only a
Sliver remained, and then,
Even
 that was
Gone.

#FabulousFridayGuestBlogger – Callum McLaughlin

Welcome to The Write Stuff Callum. Take it away!
~~~

Callum - cover art

“Where did you get the idea for your book?” – It’s a question any writer will be asked countless times throughout their life. In some cases, we can pinpoint the exact moment when inspiration struck, while often it’s something as whimsical as an elusive dream or a brief conversation that triggers the construction of an entire imaginary world.

With my first book for example, I was simply watching a news report about a country in absolute turmoil. I remember thinking that it seemed like something from a story; far removed from most people’s lives and yet shocking in its reality. Thus, the plot of The Vessel began to form: A dystopian world, a depleted population, a corrupt government, and one woman at the heart of it all, determined to expose the truth. It’s not to say that what happens in The Vessel was happening in that news report, but it’s interesting nonetheless to remember the exact circumstances in which the idea first formed.

With my second book, False Awakening, it was much more random. There was no specific instigator this time around; the plot surfaced simply as a result of my imagination running wild one day. The image of a girl waking in hospital with no memory of what happened to put her there came to me and it soon blossomed into a story that is equal parts a psychological mystery thriller as it is a girl’s struggle to find her voice and place within the dynamic of her family.

With my poetry, it’s even more far-reaching; from the most intimate of thoughts to the most striking of views (I’m lucky to live in the gorgeous Scottish countryside). Really, with a poem, anything is fair game.

I’d love to know what inspired any of your own plot ideas. Did they hit you one day as a result of a specific incident or were they the amalgamation of several smaller threads of thought?

Callum McLaughlin

Callum McLaughlin is an eternal insomniac and crazy cat person in training.

Born and raised in the Scottish countryside, he works as a freelance writer, author and poet, taking his biggest inspiration from the world around us.

Though passionate about music and nature, his first love is literature and when he isn’t writing his own books he will most likely be found reading someone else’s.

You can connect with him on Twitter or his blog, and can find his published works on Amazon UK, Amazon US and Goodreads.

 

 

#ExcerptWeek – Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love #2

 

50% Summer Magic Cover

A longish one before bedtime. Hope some of you will enjoy it to the end. This little boy is near and dear to my heart, being the ten-year-old version of MacKenzie Cole, the main male character in Wake-Robin Ridge.

Deep Pockets

He sits cross-legged
On smooth, gray granite
Outside the tent,
And watches the light
Turn from gold to silver,
Caught in that space between
Daylight and dusk,
When all things seem possible,
And the remarkable,
Ordinary.

To hold his day
Longer, closer,
He goes through his pockets,
And chooses which memories
To save forever.
He lays out treasures
Found on the trail,
One by one,
In neat rows upon the rock,
And studies each item with
Solemn consideration,
Weighing the merits
Of this over that.

It takes time to decide
Which to take home.
Which to show his mother,
And afterward,
Which he will line up
Along his shelves,
To be looked at
Again and again,
On dreary, gray days
When the warmth of summer
Is a visitor long departed.
Decisions like these
Aren’t made in a moment,
But rather, by pondering
Carefully, thoughtfully.

Here, a feather
Of startling blue,
Found beneath a jay’s
Untidy nest.
And this? This rumpled,
Transparent length,
Imprinted by the scales
Of the snake it once clothed?
His mother will squeal
In pretend horror,
But will smile and relent.
Yes, he thinks.
I’ll keep this one, too. Continue reading

#ExcerptWeek – Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love

50% Summer Magic Cover

Something different this morning. Enjoy!

Indian Summer

He sees her standing
Below the falls,
Carefully balanced
On the slippery rocks,
And laughing
In the hazy October sun.

Only yesterday
The ice-rimmed pool
Mirrored angry gray clouds,
And a wind out of the north
Chilled his bones.
Today, a warm yellow sun
Has eaten the frost,
And resurrected the ghost
Of a summer already laid to rest.

She’s wearing shorts,
As if she knew
There would be a reprieve
And dressed accordingly.
Dampened hems, and a
Misty sheen on
Her long, slim legs
Bear testament to
The wind-blown spray.
Her loosened hair is a
Sable cloud swirling
Around her face,
Smelling faintly
Of August nights
And tupelo honey.

She turns toward him,
Radiant and joyful,
Filled with a wonder
Most have long lost.
Her smile invites him
To let go of autumn
To share the sunshine,
To be reborn in this moment.

Surprised, his mouth
Curves in response, and
His soul cries,
Yes, oh yes!
Desperation gives voice
To need long ignored.
Yes, he thinks again,
Walking toward her.
I want the sunlight,
The warmth, the wonder.
Show me, teach me.

He takes her hand, and
Lets the sunlight
Flood his heart,
Thawing the frost within,
Setting him free.

*

Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love

#ExcerptWeek #SueVincent George and the Dragon from #LaughterLines

Laughter 12

NOTE: My apology for how long it took me to get this to show up properly on WordPress. Poetry spacing can be really tricky, and I can’t use the “Continue Reading” spacer, either, because it messed it all up, and I had to start over. GAH! But at least you can read it now, in proper verses. I think. 😀

Sue has recently started following us here at The Write Stuff, and has asked me to share one of her poems with you, as part of excerpt week. I’m very happy to do so, as it made me laugh out loud several times. It’s longer than some of you might be used to, but I promise you, it’s well worth taking the time to read. VERY amusing, indeed. Thank you for sharing, Sue, and I’ll be tweeting and sharing this one. You guys, hope you’ll remember to do so as well. The book and buying info is included at the end of the poem. Check it out!

~~~

George and the Dragon

“Nah, sithee,” said Granny, “Just set thee dahn ‘ere,
An’ I’ll tell the a tale old and true,
Of ‘ow good Saint George slew a dragon one day
An’ all dressed in a metal suit too.
 
It were like this…” she said as she warmed to her tale
With her listeners huddled around,
“The beast ‘ad moved in and set up ‘is abode
In a cave on the best ‘unting ground.    
   
The king weren’t too pleased, it ‘ad etten his ‘oss
And the best of the royal deer too.
‘To be fair,’ said the mage, his opinion asked,
‘What else would you expect it to do?’                
   
‘I’ve heard they like maidens,’ his Majesty said,
‘Give it one, then we’ll be in the clear.’
‘A maiden, my liege?’ said the mage in surprise,
‘Tha’ll be lucky to find one round ‘ere!’    
     
The King scratched ‘is head, there was something in that
‘Cause for maidens… ‘e’d known a fair few,
‘We’ll send out a search party over the land…
It’ll give the lads something to do.’

The very next morning the lads all set off
All caparisoned, armoured and gay,
Trouble was, they were ‘unting for pretty young maids
And wherever they found one, they’d stay.

Now the dragon had ‘etten the rest of the deer
And had now set to work on the cows,
His Majesty went to his daughter and said,
‘Hast thou kept all thy maidenly vows?’

‘But of course, Dad!’ she cried, ‘I’ve had chance for nowt else
When I’m shut in this castle all day!’
‘Just as well,’ said the King, ‘ ‘Cause we’re in a reyt mess.
Get your coat and we’ll be on our way.’

The princess was pretty with long golden hair,
The king thought he was onto a winner;
‘Now just you ‘ang on,’ she said raising her chin,
‘I can tell thee, I’m no dragon’s dinner!’

Now t’lass were fed up being shut up inside
And was ‘atching a plot of ‘er own.
‘I’ve got some conditions before we set off…
Get a pen, write it down… make it known’

Her Dad ‘ad to do as his daughter prescribed
Though her orders were not what he’d like…
‘Full half of my realm to your rescuer, lass?’
‘Write it down, Dad, or just take a hike.’

He did as she said, then she patted his hand,
‘Look, the rest of the plan’s none so bad…
I’ll marry him too, then you lose bugger all;
He can be the heir you never ‘ad.’

She had a good point and the orders were read
Through the length and the breadth of the city.
But no-one stepped up, ‘cause the dragon was big,
Even if the lass was rich and pretty.

There was only young George, at the tavern one night;
It were after bevy or seven,
His mates egged ‘im on and he drunkenly said,
‘Well, it sounds like a deal made in heaven.’

His pal were a blacksmith and all through the night
With the hammer and metal they clattered,
And made him a suit; though it rattled a bit,
That protected the assets that mattered.

He went to the king and his offer was met
With a fair bit of mocking and laughter;
‘Is there anyone else ‘ere who fancies the job?’
Asked the king… there was silence thereafter.

Now morning had come and poor George sobered up
And berated himself at ‘is folly.
‘Tha’s no gumption, lad,’ said his hungover head,
‘And in fact, tha’s an absolute wally.’

Too late to back out with the town at his feet
And the princess out there with the dragon,
‘Now if tha survives,’ the lad thought to himself,
‘Georgie boy, tha must go on the wagon.’

The cave mouth looked dark as ‘e rattled in close
And ‘e knew that ‘is chances were slim,
But with the town watching ‘e had little choice
As ‘e crept where the shadows were dim.

The suit was a pain and it chafed all the time
In some places ‘e’d rather not mention,
George swore as he crept in the cavern’s dark door
That from now on ‘e’d stick to abstention.

The townsfolk looked on and the king wrung ‘is hands
As the lad disappeared in the gloom.
They wondered how long they’d be waiting to see
If the lad really ‘ad met his doom.

Strange noises were issuing out from the cave,
And the crowd winced and cringed as they listened,
Then out came the princess with George by her side
They were carrying something that glistened.

The folk never learned just what George found inside
And poor George was the only one knowing;
The princess was cooking a nice dragon stew
Over dragon-lit embers a-glowing.

‘I skinned it,’ she said, ‘as the scales are quite tough,’
And George looked at the princess in horror.
‘You might as well eat just to keep up your strength,’
She continued, ‘You’ll need it tomorrow.’

‘Just do as I tell you and make no mistake
I will make sure they treat you right well,
But cross me just once,’ she said waving her spear,
‘Georgie boy, and I’ll make your life hell.’

So they married next day amid feasting and joy
And the wine and the mead that flowed free,
But George just sat quiet and did as she bid,
Drinking naught but a nice cup of tea.

Not a drop touched his lips of the hard stuff that day,
And his manner seemed quiet and charming,
Yet under his breath he could be heard to pray
Which the courtiers found quite disarming.

‘The man is reformed, hallelujah,’ they said,
And they found his reserve to be quaint,
But the princess just smiled, knowing better than they
Just which dragon had made George a saint.”

“Don’t be daft, Granny, please,” a dissenting voice said,
“That is not how they tell it at all.”
“Oh no?” she replied, and they followed her gaze
To the dragonskin pinned on the wall.

Laughter Lines (Amazon.com)
Laughter Lines (Amazon.uk)

#ExcerptWeek The Last Rose by #MarciaMeara

faded rose

The Last Rose

Late July, and
The day drowses,
Air heavy and still.
Bees moving slowly from
Flower to flower,
In a dance weighed down by heat.
Sleepy hours spent dreaming, longing
For other places, other chances.
Anything better
Than one more day
Spent under this weight,
With movements made slow,
Like easy prey.

He walked out of the dust
And into the garden,
The answer to a prayer.
Wickedly handsome, he came to her with
A smile full of promises she chose to believe.
Take me away, she begged.
Yes, he whispered, of course.
Whatever you want, my beautiful girl.
He gave her dreams of cool, green hills
And kisses that tasted of summer peaches.
Sweet lies on a sweeter tongue,
Promises whispered with hot breath,
Against already burning skin,
And everywhere, the smell of roses
Thick on the summer air.

But winter came,
Bringing brittle wind
Seeping under the sill,
As cold as hungry lies
Told when the sun was warm.
Her heart is a frozen stone
In the center of her breast,
The chance of rescue,
Gone. Forgotten.
A faded rose in a dry vase
Drops one last petal to the floor,
As gray as her life
In this barren room.
Empty promises fled
With the summer sun,
And left nothing behind
But dead dreams and dying hope,
Gasping and huddled
Against the bitter
Cold.

  – Marcia Meara –

Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love