Beth Camp's Blog, page 24
October 11, 2020
OctPoWriMo 11: Musings at Manito Park
Where do we find poetry?That singular mix of rhyme or free verse that has little structure, the laying of words in a lineto be read silently or aloud?Some writers call on a museto inspire that string of words;others wait until a poem takes form somewhere between the conscious and memory.I'm drawn to image and experience,dreaming my way to meaning.We've walked so often in Manito Park, explored the
Published on October 11, 2020 19:48
October 10, 2020
OctPoWriMo 10: Leaning into Fall
When are we ever ready for the change of seasons?That single day when summer turns irrevocably to fall,I dither and wish, for any cluster of reasons,hoping this once, I could stop time and stallthis moment, the passing of yearsfrozen, the lines on your face smoothed out.I do not watch your every step, my fearscovered over with smiles, hiding each doubt;even as the leaves drift brown to the ground
Published on October 10, 2020 19:52
October 9, 2020
OctPoWriMo 9: Deidre -- and a New Cover
I do like writing gritty historical fiction, jumping back in time to learn that times were tough back then, mostly for the working class. One of my step-fathers was a steel worker, so I know that world.Deidre is the heroine of my book, Years of Stone, set in 1840's Australia during the convict era. She gave up her home to travel by ship to Tasmania, hoping to be reunited with the man she loved.
Published on October 09, 2020 15:55
OctPoWriMo 8: Daily Walk
Before the weather turns too cold, we walkout to the pond and back, along a well-traveled path,cutting through a tidy row of houses to seewhat waterbirds have stopped on their flight south,Canada geese most likely or a few ducks,anonymous and a little lost and lonely.The weeds have shifted into a riot of color, a last gasp before true winter, their seeds floatingas free as any bird, clumps of
Published on October 09, 2020 00:09
October 7, 2020
OctPoWriMo 7: Respite
A flower does not ring the doorbell, engage in robocalls, talk over your fears, tweet in the middle of the night. This flower, a lily floating on a pond in a corner of a Japanese garden, simply exists. Does a flower have any awareness of hot or cold? Does it lay out its petals to seduce that bee to drift near? Does a flower fear the coming snow? Celebrate spring? Life could be simpler. Let us
Published on October 07, 2020 21:07
IWSG Oct 7: Another Working Writer
Glad to be here for another month in this tumultuous year, 2020. The first Wednesday for those of us in the community of Insecure Writer's Support Group (IWSG) is set aside to write about how we're doing and how we're feeling. Each month, we connect to each other's writerly goals and dreams by responding to an (optional) question -- which this month happens to be: When you think of the term
Published on October 07, 2020 07:37
October 6, 2020
OctPoWriMo6: Exotic
We landed in Egypt, too excited to sleep, with backpacks, travel guides, ready for the overnight train trip clacking south to Luxor. We slept hunkered over on fixed wooden seats throughout the night to awake to morning in a land of palm trees and desert, passing small walled villages, men in long robes and colorful shawls, who walked beside donkey-powered carts and fields of alfalfa, White Nile
Published on October 06, 2020 19:46
October 5, 2020
OctPoWriMo 5: Head in the Clouds
I’ve always admired the steady gait of a giraffe. Maybe those knobby knees that punctuate their legs, orthose impossibly long necks that undulate as they pace through the savannah, caught my heart. What do they hide under their calm exterior? What does a giraffe think about in its relentless search for grasses? Maybe I feel the same about any elephant I’ve seen here at home or in the wild, so
Published on October 05, 2020 20:27
October 4, 2020
OctPoWriMo 4: Sing the Body Electric
Whitman sings the body electric, with his rope-held blanket covering all,but I look down like any Neolithic woman,gnarled fingers, knobby knees,one foot slightly larger than the other,misdirection, deflection, imperfection,one eye turning to the horizon where stars shift and dreams of escape hover. Stir the pot, make the bed, foragein the bin for the last bit of oat,then walk out under night’s
Published on October 04, 2020 20:58
October 3, 2020
OctPoWriMo 3: If I Wore Glasses . . .
If I wore glasses while I slept,would I see into the future, past the news anchorswho raise their voices, slightly hysterical,as they probe the latest press releases,the newest cases of Covid, the denials, and the factoids that swim atop the truth. Would I learn anything about what comes next? In my dreams, I travel again to Greece,to Delphi, once considered the center of the world,where on the
Published on October 03, 2020 19:17