Beth Camp's Blog, page 27
May 6, 2020
May IWSG: Writing Ritual or Routine?
Living in this time of pandemic is hard. I keep thinking of all the people I know who have been affected. We know this litany: lost jobs/income. Serious health issues and sometimes the loss of loved ones. Hellacious conditions for those on the line, health workers and first responders. And some affected more than others.
I don't know about you, but the constant and impassioned nattering of
I don't know about you, but the constant and impassioned nattering of
May 3, 2020
Seventh Tapestry Cover Reveal!
In the midst of pandemic, we can celebrate some things, yes?
Just finished The Seventh Tapestry, after a mountain of formatting and nudging into final format. And it's now live -- and wide!
This romantic suspense novel was fun to write as I followed Sandra's efforts to find a 16th Century tapestry from Edinburgh to Paris. Did she find the tapestry and a sweetheart along the way?
Didn't Angie
Just finished The Seventh Tapestry, after a mountain of formatting and nudging into final format. And it's now live -- and wide!
This romantic suspense novel was fun to write as I followed Sandra's efforts to find a 16th Century tapestry from Edinburgh to Paris. Did she find the tapestry and a sweetheart along the way?
Didn't Angie
April 30, 2020
April 30: Two Littles
She reads to her sister now,
bedtime stories, and then,
they cuddle through the night.
In the morning, she'll tell
stories. They'll hide
in the closet for a meeting
to plan out their day,
little one following big one
to chase around and around
in the kitchen,
climb on the roof, or
take turns petting that kitty
named Cupcake.
I do remember those endless days
marked only by
a yellow school bus,
bedtime stories, and then,
they cuddle through the night.
In the morning, she'll tell
stories. They'll hide
in the closet for a meeting
to plan out their day,
little one following big one
to chase around and around
in the kitchen,
climb on the roof, or
take turns petting that kitty
named Cupcake.
I do remember those endless days
marked only by
a yellow school bus,
April 29, 2020
April 29: Blank?
Maybe no writing
of a poem today, for the prompt
goes sideways: 'total blank,'
and that's what I am, pulled like taffy
stretched too thin
in that shop on the boardwalk,
the ocean outside, relentless
in the early spring afternoon.
I keep hoping for inspiration,
wanting to take that unexpected leap
into what? A total blank?
Where does art hide
when we wish it to smooth
those rough edges?
Don't
of a poem today, for the prompt
goes sideways: 'total blank,'
and that's what I am, pulled like taffy
stretched too thin
in that shop on the boardwalk,
the ocean outside, relentless
in the early spring afternoon.
I keep hoping for inspiration,
wanting to take that unexpected leap
into what? A total blank?
Where does art hide
when we wish it to smooth
those rough edges?
Don't
April 28, 2020
April 28: Look Back or Don't Look Back
Today I picked up a 20-pound bag of rice.
Wore a mask inside the store.
Didn't stop for a latte.
Felt like I was preparing for Armageddon.
Don't look back.
Two months ago, grocery shopping,
a sensual delight. Marmalade made
of bitter oranges from Seville.
Artisan breads reek of rosemary
or garlic. Fresh bananas and sushi:
let me count the ways
I will cook for you.
Oh, look back.
I pace my
Wore a mask inside the store.
Didn't stop for a latte.
Felt like I was preparing for Armageddon.
Don't look back.
Two months ago, grocery shopping,
a sensual delight. Marmalade made
of bitter oranges from Seville.
Artisan breads reek of rosemary
or garlic. Fresh bananas and sushi:
let me count the ways
I will cook for you.
Oh, look back.
I pace my
April 27, 2020
April 27: The path ahead
Path in the Woods by Aitoff (Pixabay)
Sometimes the path ahead is dark.
We can't help ourselves.
We go forward, hoping
that bit of light will lift
this massive sense of foreboding,
the walls closing,
too many loud noises, too much clatter,
virtual and otherwise, lists and maps
show where and when and who,
too much death, too much crime,
even dropping a knife on the kitchen floor
is an omen. '
Sometimes the path ahead is dark.
We can't help ourselves.
We go forward, hoping
that bit of light will lift
this massive sense of foreboding,
the walls closing,
too many loud noises, too much clatter,
virtual and otherwise, lists and maps
show where and when and who,
too much death, too much crime,
even dropping a knife on the kitchen floor
is an omen. '
April 26, 2020
April 26: Lessons from an Elephant
I'd rather be third
in a line of elephants
ambling somewhere
in that endless, grassy savanna,
or the next wet wadi
where I could roll in the warm mud
and not think about change.
Something about elephants
makes me calm.
Their eyes aslant,
their bodies slow to move,
their ears flutter and
their trunks wave
in a language of touch,
close to their companions or
to herd that little one.
I saw an
in a line of elephants
ambling somewhere
in that endless, grassy savanna,
or the next wet wadi
where I could roll in the warm mud
and not think about change.
Something about elephants
makes me calm.
Their eyes aslant,
their bodies slow to move,
their ears flutter and
their trunks wave
in a language of touch,
close to their companions or
to herd that little one.
I saw an
April 25, 2020
April 25: The Tenth Muse
Did Sappho write every day,
fret over words that clung
in strands of clumps,
and stare within?
She was an island girl, living in a Mediterranean clime,
blue skies and blue seas. She ran wild like any other girl
with violet hair, along a ridge path, taking care of sheep,
looking out to sea.
One day, she turned to pen. Who knows
what drove her then, what night of terror, what loss,
what inner
fret over words that clung
in strands of clumps,
and stare within?
She was an island girl, living in a Mediterranean clime,
blue skies and blue seas. She ran wild like any other girl
with violet hair, along a ridge path, taking care of sheep,
looking out to sea.
One day, she turned to pen. Who knows
what drove her then, what night of terror, what loss,
what inner
April 24, 2020
April 24: My Cowboy
My grandfather was a cowboy,
back in the 1920's, just before
World War I. He used to entertain us,
as we sat around the campfire,
poking at the logs, with stories
of his life then, bears and wolves,
rattlers and mean snakes of men
who took a shot at him.
He made cowboy coffee so strong
it would curl your teeth,
and a cornbread pudding that lay
on your tongue like a promise
of Christmas. He'd wake
back in the 1920's, just before
World War I. He used to entertain us,
as we sat around the campfire,
poking at the logs, with stories
of his life then, bears and wolves,
rattlers and mean snakes of men
who took a shot at him.
He made cowboy coffee so strong
it would curl your teeth,
and a cornbread pudding that lay
on your tongue like a promise
of Christmas. He'd wake
April 23, 2020
April 23: Social?
My socks say it all
'cause all
I want to do
is take my socks off,
run barefooted
in the green spring grass,
lay on a picnic blanket
under the pines, and
watch the sun flicker
between spring clouds,
while kids shriek and
run after a soccer ball.
Yes, I want it all,
even a cat.
Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a poem about some aspect of social, as
'cause all
I want to do
is take my socks off,
run barefooted
in the green spring grass,
lay on a picnic blanket
under the pines, and
watch the sun flicker
between spring clouds,
while kids shriek and
run after a soccer ball.
Yes, I want it all,
even a cat.
Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a poem about some aspect of social, as
