A Writer's Life

Living Creatively

Tag Archives: writing


Perched on my fence drawn by food
City backyards provide, predator with wing span
So large, so unnecessary within urban sprawl,
It dares to navigate one hop at a time
Fearful sky roadblocks and free fall hazards
Only to question: belly full or solitary freedom?

What does it mean to be unfettered
If cages are built to hold inside
Wings unused, original flight plans
Unrealized when praise is the main course
Feeding body, not unformed spirit
Trying to fly higher, always higher.

A story unread but proudly written
Faces the trap of accessibility;
Write to publish or right to maintain
Dense, though unfathomable, style
Regardless of reader understanding.
If no one reads it, are you an author?



The Boss in My Head

My left brain said:ZeusView
Make money, be fed,
Get educated, do jobs,
Amidst right brain sobs
Fight for other’s rights,
Ignore inner insights.

Skill will out
Talent scout;
Soul’s lament

My calling was to teach
Without creative reach;
What called after me
Seemed pure fantasy,
Yet being smart
Sliced my heart.

Unlived time
As life slogs on
Three-quarters gone.

When one day
I chose replay–
Right brain song
Ignored too long
The right way dance
Another chance.

In the know
Right shadow:
Be true
Be you.

No left brain logic
Stops nature’s music
As shadow thought
Unrealized, unsought,
Becomes my reality


Quaker Meeting

My joy spirals up the umbrella pole

Skipping from petal to petal –

Streams of yellow and pink blossoms –

A journey up, across, and down

Human umbrella ribs of

Flower curtain protection

Round good-hearted people;

A Friend’s quiet meeting in clean,

Open air spiritual mindfulness.


The Writer’s Tree

I am not famous. I am not widely read or lauded. Yet here sits an older, determined woman who has left behind security, stabilitydriftwood and Starbucks – the three s’s of a Baby Boomer’s life – to follow an unrealized dream. It hasn’t been easy. Though I am an indulgent boss – dark chocolate and potato chip lunches prevail – l am harder to work for than any chain gang master.  No professional fast track for me.  No financial security either. Social distractions? Rare. When people say, “You have to eat, call me then.” I don’t. My phone is off. I write – with computer, German-made fountain pen or in my head. And when the knock on the door wakes me from an afternoon nap, I do not answer, sunk deep in the before and after stories that occur when resting. Alone -unfettered to pursue my dream of becoming a full-time author – I write.

No, I am not famous and my blog is seldom read. My success is not measured by money, education or power. Instead, quality time is extended by imagination, unanswered phone calls and no opportunity knocks on the door. Will anyone read what I write? Unknown quantity. Is notoriety necessary? Hard to discern.  I like the novel I wrote this year.  Its completion may be enough to sustain this life, should no one else read it. But nagging at the outer limits of my “should do” mind is the thought – if a novel is written and completed, does the author truly exist if no one reads it?


Walk The Path

The earth is packed down with tree root legs spread out along the path. This is well-worn: a hundred years of human feet between trees five times as old. Ancient interlaced finger limbs overhead filter sunlight during the day and reflected light at night – a mislabeled moonlight.  Recycled moisture drips down into upturned faces. No one brings water because silver-tipped waves rush alongside this path; the rocks separate silt from melted snow – its cold milky froth a forest latte’.

It is idealized wilderness. Too many human feet walk the path for it to be truly wild. Even the deer seem less startled and elk have long ago sought a detour. Once I came upon bear scratches, but knew the carnivore was here for the garbage left behind.  It is a caricature of virgin Earth. While squirrels do chatter a warning, the birds do not stop their song or they would never sing.



Follow your bliss ain’t easy

Joseph Campbell. No wonder he

Dealt in mythology

‘Cause it’s hard breaking free

Of entrenched security –

Campbell’s authentic life tree

Climbed with “no” repeatedly

Until it takes too much energy

And painful inner scrutiny

Not to be the genuine me.

Baby Steps

It’s time to say good-bye to Yuppie and hello to Crazy Dame. I’m television-free today. Five months of suspended service – going dark, into no commercial bliss. PBR and Internet news are the wet cloth on my cold turkey brow.

It’s another diversion-free baby step. My Samsung Galaxy III became an alarm clock last August. No more data connection to my I-pad forces me to calculate the exact angle needed for another angry bird. And, no, I don’t have video games, though I do like me some Internet Tetris.

The downside? Talking to myself and answering. Drawing silly cartoons and pasting them to my four television screens. Oh, and I may indulge every night in the thousand plus videos I’ve amassed. Hardly media deprivation!

New Year’s Resolutions

Here’s the shortened version:


Live each and every day – nay,

breathe carefully in sin

guilt as though no

single event can fan

new Year’s regret met

as reminder it’s too late, fate

is controlling me, free

to conquer last year, near

mistakes I made, fade

away from holes, goals

set to dissuade made

barriers sans happiness: less

what I can’t do, new

stops to my go – no

more nay sayers – layers

of coulda, shoulda, woulda

fall away now, bow

down to new have-to.

The New Year

It’s the word new. Time sensitive as we all are, this first day of the year demands we rethink 360 days past in an ego-deflating way – I failed to do this, I failed to do that – as though breathing in and out isn’t enough. It’s even a holiday. Do we really need a day off to face the goals we naively set last year?

It is, after all, just another winter day – unless you spent the previous night celebrating. Then you not only have to face the development of new goals, but a reckoning with starting out new, feeling old and tired.

Another Lion King circle. In the middle are those goals bouncing against a self-defeating membrane, one reinforced with a should do muscle. Or, in my case, with potato chips, dark chocolate and bread – whole grains slathered in honey and butter – that keep excess pounds safe and securely fastened to my tall frame. Look inside and there it is – the procrastinator’s dream – tomorrow.

This year it will be different. Instead of New Year’s Day Resolutions, I have set an April one deadline. On that day, my novel will be completed, twenty pounds will melt away, I will sleep eight hours nightly, and I will not miss a daily opportunity to laugh. Yes, April Fool’s Day is the new day of reckoning, one that gives me four more months to watch my goals reverberate inside the circle, their can do shout fading into a shoulda, coulda, woulda clown’s whisper. April one, you are my new go-to day.


Publishing A Book

The Beauty In The Flaw

Because it is human-made
there are mistakes
in grains of paper forged
between life’s fabric: varied,
unique thoughts colored
by dream, joy and sorrow;
heart-voiced word choice
daily changed, altered
when a new time and
mood happens – but not
today! Here, now, is the
final product, printed and
compiled to form a human
gift to those we love.

Let them view the flaws
and know, now and
tomorrow, this is a gift
to those we know and not
a perfect thing.


Dedicated to Nancianna whose book of poetry I am printing and compiling today. The thirty books of her eleven poems will be given to her family and friends. The deadline, extended a week, is difficult for her, but is necessary. Next year, another book?