Life… #Poetry

 

 

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Life

One by one my days grow old.

Their faded edges curl

Like an old discarded paperback.

Words fall like scrambled eggs

From the pages

Their meaning lost in dust

Would that I could rewrite one day

The first time you looked at me

When I knew love

to be more than a fairy tale

A lifetime cannot be called back

Nor can it be captured in another’s eyes

There is but one true love

I will be with you soon

To sing of us under new dancing stars…

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#Flash Fiction #Challenge for Carrot Ranch Literary Community…

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August 1: Flash Fiction Challenge

99 words, no more, no less. It’s a simple constraint, an easy-to-master literary art form, and a powerful writing tool for creatives and entrepreneurs. Writers calibrate the usefulness and beauty of 99-words through weekly flash fiction challenges.

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Rock It!

Rock and roll is in my soul

Born kicking and screaming my lungs out

Taking the fast track, music burning with every step

I wanted to find the songs to change the world

One day I would be famous, see my name in lights

I am dirt poor now, but not for long

Odd jobs along the way, I now had my first guitar

My style stood out, too far for some

Sam Phillips gave me my first break

It’s All Right Mama, playing on the radio

There was no stopping me now

I brought Graceland,

Who am I?

Anita Signature

Morse Code Mouse?

 

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It was going to be another hot day and I was up early, trying to catch up on the editing I was desperately trying to finish.

I worked solidly for an hour and the heat was beginning to build. Instead of the early morning freshness, each breath of air was warm in my throat.

Sitting at my desk, pen in hand trying to pretend I was writing, I stared out the window, wondering how long this hot weather would last.

I hate being hot and sweaty all the time. They had promised a thunderstorm later, so that was something to look forward to.

From my window I had a good view of the garden hedge and its half-clipped state taunted me. It had been abandoned when the hot weather struck. It looked ridiculous, with one side neatly clipped and the top and other side sprouting long shoots like a mad hairstyle. I itched to finish it, but not until the heat let up a bit.

That was when the tapping began.

It seemed to be coming from next door, something we used to hearing. They have a small boy who delights in banging anything he can find on the walls.

As we patiently waited for the noise to stop, I began to imagine someone in trouble, tapping out a message to summon help. This is an occupational hazard for writers, we use any opportunity to create scenarios.

The tapping sounded like Morse code, but with no recognisable pattern. We discussed different reasons why the person in trouble couldn’t shout and that was when we wondered if there was anyone at home next door. It was a school day, and both parents worked, so the mystery was getting deeper.

Anita decided to check and knocked on their front door. When no one appeared, she looked through the windows just in case there was someone lying on the floor.

By now, the tapping had reached a seriously annoying level and I wanted to scream to make it stop. It was louder in the kitchen, but every time we walked into the room, the tapping stopped. Almost as though the tapper could see us and was patiently waiting for us to leave.

As the time went on, the incessant tapping seemed to be increasing, becoming more urgent.

We went through all the possibilities, like could the fridge be making the noise. It did produce odd clicks now and then when defrosting, but nothing like what we were hearing now.

Was there something in the wall, trying to munch its way out?

We have bats in the roof but have never heard them. Anyway, the bathroom was between the kitchen and the roof, so it wasn’t likely.

The kitchen floor was solid concrete, so the tapping couldn’t be coming from there either.

It was almost lunchtime and the tapping had been constant all morning. Our nerves were frayed, and the rising temperature added to the desperation.

That was when Anita mentioned that the tapping sounded metallic and she remembered the mouse trap.

This was one of those humane traps, where the mice can go in to eat the cheese but cannot get back out again.  We bought this a long time ago when Merlin started bringing mice into the house. He never kills them you see, and we were for ever chasing them around the house to put them outside.

Now, normally, when one of his playmates has found the cheese, he lets us know so we can release it. For some reason, this time he hadn’t.

I slid the trap out from under the cupboard and peered inside. I couldn’t see a mouse, but the cheese had been nibbled. I took the trap out into the garden and lifted the lid. Instantly, a tiny but very determined field mouse appeared and leaped to freedom.

Problem solved and peace returned to the household.

Now, where is that thunderstorm?

AAA (2)

This post brought to mind when the first of these visitors began to arrive, and the terrible circumstances that ensued.

If you would like to read these posts, you can find them at the following links…

Tom and Jerry  Part One

Tom and Jerry  Part two

 

The Perfect Visit…

A man, a very good-looking man with soft brown eyes and warm, gentle hands, has just spent the best part of ten minutes touching my face and gazing adoringly into my eyes.

Well, the last part might just be an exaggeration on my part, but I can dream, can’t I? Overall, though, he made me feel like a real woman, an interesting, desirable woman, and that hasn’t happened in quite a while.

No mean feat really, as I am over seventy and as far from desirable as it is possible to get. But I’m sure he likes me. His face lights up when he sees me, and that smile would melt any woman’s heart. He constantly checks that I am okay, and I get the feeling that nothing would be too much trouble.

He is younger than I am, it’s true, but I hear this can be a good thing. He wants to see me again, and I must admit I feel the same. It is a very long time since anything like this has happened to me. So long in fact, that I can hardly remember the last time a man made me feel like this. As if I could trust him completely.

When it was time for me to go, it was with a great deal of regret on my part, and I thought I detected a similar sadness coming from him.
He made me promise to come back, and no question about it, I would be there with bells on.

This man had washed every less than perfect memory at the hands of others, away. All the pain and sorrow gone, as if none of that mattered anymore.

For the first time in my life, I had thoroughly enjoyed a visit to the dentist…

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This week’s promo spot is for ‘Secrets’, a haunting family drama, all about the deeply buried guilt, secrets and suspicions that invade and control most of our lives.
About a child’s invisible friend, one that you assume will be outgrown eventually. But supposing this ‘friend’ seems hell bent on causing more than just childish mischief?

 

Save

Save

Beloved…

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Beloved…

She looked at me with salt worn eyes

Tears of a thousand years

Her pain I could not imagine

Her years are old, she has lived too long

Old memories haunt her days, her nights

A plait crowns her beautiful grey hair

Her hand small and gentle, touch my face

Her smile almost invisible, too hard

Her pain holds it at bay, yet I remember

that her smile lit her eyes like night stars

She will forever be my beloved Oma…

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Remembering When it all Began…

 

 

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I have always enjoyed reading books. Mostly for the sense of escapism involved. Somewhere you can forget all about your own life and live someone else’s, albeit vicariously.

It has been a blessing, sometimes more than at other times, depending on how my own life was going at that particular moment.

I honestly believe that reading books has kept me sane. They have taught me practically everything I know, for if I need or want to know how to do something, I turn to books to find out. Nowadays of course, we have the internet, but in my youth all we had were books.

These days, something else has been added to my enduring love affair with the printed word. Putting it quite simply, they have inspired me to write. You could say that the art of reading could do this anyway, to anyone. But up until recently, I was not aware of this. They were my retreat, my sanctuary. Nothing else.

But everything has changed.

I was a compulsive reader, consuming anything I could get my hands on. I didn’t discriminate and read everything. Asked to list my favourite authors, I would have been hard pushed, for I loved them all.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have developed a ‘criteria’. I no longer just read a book. My brain seems intent on sifting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Who knew it could have that kind of opinion?

Two pages into a book, and if it is not talking to me by then, I discard it and try another. These days I love the kind of books that inspire me and make my fingers want to pick up a pen. Not to copy or emulate, but to write down the way the author has made me feel. Sometimes I find myself with a book in one hand and a notebook in the other.

It’s as if a doorway has been opened in my mind. Artists say colours work for them, for me it’s the power of the words and the way they are used.

Something else has changed in me. I have always considered myself reasonably adept with the English language. It was my favourite lesson at school and over the years as I have said before, it has saved my sanity on many an occasion.

For the first time in my life, I have doubts, and they are growing all the time. I have helped other people edit and proofread their books, and been totally convinced I was good at it. Many people (including an agent) said that I was. I have also reviewed dozens of books along the way.

But then I picked up a pen and wrote a story of my own. I never expected it to be as hard as it turned out to be, as words usually came easily to me. But I discovered a very important fact about writing a book. Not only must it have a beginning, middle and end, it has to flow, make perfect sense and be interesting to read.

It also had to have a structure and sub plots; the list was endless. I discovered to my horror that I was not as clever as I thought when the pen was in my own hand! Words tend to come at me in a rush, short spasms of prose that seem quite eloquent at the time, but appear quite truncated when you attempt to join them all together. So much so, I nearly gave up on Nine Lives several times.

I began to seriously doubt I could ever be a writer, that this wasn’t something I could simply learn how to do.

But I persevered, did my absolute best, and after my edits and even more soul searching, I uploaded it onto Amazon, thinking my work was done.

But I was wrong.

In my haste to achieve something that will hopefully out last me, I forgot the most important step of all. Someone else should have read it first. Someone objective, who would come to it afresh, with no desire or agenda to bin it at the first error.

I learned that it is impossible for me to see my manuscript with a subjective eye. You cannot possibly hope to really, because you have lived with it for so long. I wrongly assumed the reverse would be true, that the fact you created every word would make you more than qualified.

This was such a long time ago, I have learned so much more since then…

AAA (2)

Many Tears…

 

 

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Many Tears

… will be shed today,

Elvis has not just left the building, he has left our world for another

where I hope to God, he finds the answers he was looking for.

I know he may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, he was my first real crush. I deserted Cliff Richard the moment I found Elvis.

Sad to say, I never made it to Graceland’s

I am not one of those screaming kind of fans, I felt I could see beyond the performer and the part that haunted me, captured my soul.

I do not say this lightly; I am writing this because Jaye and I were discussing our heroes. Name three, she said. She knew the first one of course.

The second was Da Vinci. I could not name a third

There are many lesser ones that I like

Ones that have the same kind of spark in smaller amounts

Like idols with feet made of clay, they don’t quite match

What about writers, Jaye asked

I could only think of one, James Herbert

I had watched an interview once and he had a great sadness about him

I brought his last hard back, something I never do as I prefer paperback

Then found out a few days later, he had died

That left a little hole in my mind as I had contacted him a while back

His kindness is still remembered

I told Jaye, that’s enough of this nonsense, back to work…

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