Sonya Rhen's Blog, page 10

Graylight – National Poetry Month day 13 with Lori Lynne Armstrong

Welcome to National Poetry Month day thirteen.  Happy Palm Sunday.  This is the start of week #3 where I will feature the following guest bloggers; Lori Lynne Armstrong, Michael O’Connor, Ice, Jodey Mann and others.

Today I have fellow WordPress blogger and poet, Lori Lynne Armstrong.  Read her vivid poem below and then check out her websites for other poetry and her open and honest writings about her experiences.  Enjoy!

Graylight

It was nothing dramatic,

just a walk along a shoreline.

Overcast morning, humble

in browns and gray (oh,

but the browns were living browns

and the gray was a living gray)

There was no shouting, no

dancing with head thrown back

only a slow-creeping miracle

of graylight steps instead of dark

and live air willingly drawn deep.

No eagles soared. The common

red-winged blackbirds showed

their tiny epaulets like sedate ushers

to this unknown attraction, until I

became the tourist pointing out the sights:

So this is how wind feels

and this is the texture of mist and oh, look

how water laps against a stone!

Talking on a bench (so this is a bench)

about simple things, I saw

the unstaged ballet of the water-birds

and found that I could hear their call–

But it was nothing

Dramatic.

And when the flock rose as one, beating

that electric circle and closing back,

No epiphany there! Just a small

reactive flutter and a stirring;

the living gray nudging at the dead.

 

Lori Lynne Armstrong’s poetry lives at Not My Last Words. Her writings about addiction, recovery and living with mental illness live at Not This Song.

Never Do We Know – National Poetry Month day 12 with P.F. Chan

Welcome to day twelve of National Poetry Month.  Fellow writer B.G. Bowers is also doing National Poetry Month on her website.  You can find my contribution to her blog here:  http://bgbowers.com/ 

Today I have fellow Meetup member, author and poet P.F. Chan.  His wonderfully thought provoking poem is below.  DC fans should especially check out his FanFiction site to read more of his work.  Enjoy!

Never Do We Know

In our world only the powerful are allowed to read and only the intelligent to write. The hierarchy of the old world, the world before the war, has infected ours and now we suffer.

We, of the untouchables, suffer from ignorance; neither can we read, neither can we write. Never do we know what the colours of coin means, what their value is. Never do we know what the symbols mean, the swirls and the lines. Never do we know, never do we know.

We, of the skilled, suffer from ignorance; neither can we read everything, neither can we write. Never do we, the builders, know anything but the wood, but the stone, but the metal. Never do we know what the colours of the coin means, what their value is. Never do we, the gunsmith, know anything but the pistol, but the rifle, but the bullet, but the rocket, but the strap, but the bayonet. Never do we know what the colours of the coin means, what their value is. Never do we know, never do we know.

We, of the merchants, suffer from ignorance; neither can we write. Never do we, the fish mongers, know anything but the weight, but the catch, but the cost, but the expenses. Never do we, the general merchants, know anything but the haul, but the haggle, but the cost, but the expenses. Never do we, the gem merchants, know anything but the fineness, but the carrot, but the dazzle, but the sparkle, but the cost, but the expenses. Never do we know, never do we know.

We, of the warriors, suffer from ignorance; neither can we write everything. Never do we, the soldiers, know anything but the kill, but the blood, but the screams. Never do we, the commanders, know anything but the orders, but the morale, but the mission report. Never do we, the Generals, know anything but the orders, but the strategies, but the mission write ups, but the cost, but the expenses. Never do we know all of the squiggles and the lines. Never do we know, never do we know.

We, of the Kings, suffer from ignorance; neither can we write everything. Never do we know anything but the cost, but the expenses, but the war, but the relation, but the orders. Never do we know all of the squiggles and lines. Never do we know, never do we know.

We, of the intelligent, suffer from ignorance; never do we know the outside. Never do we know anything but the lines and squiggles, the beauty of the pen, the beauty of the word, the need of a world. Never do we know what the outside looks like. We write of things we’ve never seen, what we’ve never felt, what we’ve never smelt. We write about things that we’ve only read about, by people who have only read about. We write about things that we’ve never seen, because we stand apart… and only the intelligent write.

by P.F. Chan Copyright 2014

Other Books: Raven, https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5384103/

Facebook Account: https://www.facebook.com/pages/PF-Chan/1377043085880519?fref=ts

 

Regret – National Poetry Month day 11 with Casi Thomason

Welcome to National Poetry Month day eleven.  If you have been enjoying the poetry and wish you could participate I still have a few days left to fill.  Just leave a comment below.

Today I have fellow Ann Charles fan and poet, Casi Thomason.  It was serendipity when I asked Ann to post.  She said she didn’t write poetry, but Casi agreed to guest blog instead.  I love it when things come together like that.  Here is her beautiful heartfelt poem.  Enjoy!

Here is my first poem for National Poetry Month! :) Thanks for letting me participate.

~Regret~
by Casi Thomason

I regret not holding on longer,
Wish I would have been more like a chain.
I regret not nurturing our love,
Like a flower that didn’t get rain.
I tear my own heart out
Over and over again.
I engrave the image in my mind;
Of that kiss we never shared..
How I regret not kissing you!
I regret uprooting
What should have stayed planted;
What would have been fruitful and blossomed
Into God’s beautiful creation.

Casi Thomason
Copyright 2014

The Broken Heart – National Poetry Month day 10 by Phil Teller

Welcome to day ten of National Poetry Month.  Today I have fellow Meetup Member, writer and poet Phil Teller with a beautiful piece.  Click the link below to his website to find some great pictures, poetry and stories.  Enjoy!

The Broken Heart is currently published in my recent book of short fiction and poetry entitled  A Dog’s Breakfast, Outright Lies And Other Short Fiction.

A Dog’s Breakfast is currently available at Amazon.com in Books, at A Book For All Seasons bookstore in Leavenworth Washington, at Soulfood Books in Redmond Washington, and at Main Street Books in Monroe Washington.

It was recently listed as number 16 on the Amazon Top 100 Best Sellers List.

THE BROKEN HEART
written by PHIL TELLER
 



The doctor listened carefully to my heart with his stethoscope.
 
“Is it broken?” I asked.
 
“No, it isn’t broken,” he replied. “It just feels like it’s broken because someone you love is sad . . . and you are very far away and you cannot be there to help her.”
 
My eyes filled with tears.
 
“She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’s a strong girl and she loves you very much.”
 
I stared at the floor as salty dewdrops fell from my eyes one by one.
 
“Your heart is only sprained,” he said. “I know it feels broken . . . but if you stay off it for a few weeks, it will mend. You have a good strong heart that loves deeply . . . and in time, it will be just like new.”
 
I nodded.
 
“I miss her terribly,” I said.
 
“I know you do,” he replied. “And she misses you as well. She will be fine . . . you both will be. Now go home and give your heart a rest . . . and come back to see me if it isn’t better in a few weeks.”
 
I nodded, unable to speak, and left the exam room.
 
I cried as I wandered back toward my life without her.
 
“This sure feels like a broken heart to me,” I said quietly to the sidewalk passing beneath my feet.

For more of my work, please visit my blog site  www.elementsofstory.blogspot.com. There you will find a page of 64 photographs. Click any photograph and it will turn and become a short story or poem. If you find instructions on how to order my book under the photo, click a different photo, it means that work is in my book.

Thank you.

 

 

Running Out of Time – National Poetry Month day 9 with Roderick Hart

Welcome to day nine of National Poetry Month.  Today I have fellow WordPress blogger, author, music lover and poet, Roderick Hart.   Check out his blog page for his wide range of interests only one of which is cats.  Enjoy!

I like poetry because it can express ideas uncommonly well.

How’s this for an expression of passivity?

 

The luscious clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine ;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach ;

 

I remember stray lines from Anglo-Saxon poetry to the twentieth century: The Wanderer, Chaucer, Marvell, Coleridge, Wallace Stevens,  Norman MacCaig. To me, writing a poem is like making an object from words.

I wrote more poems in the past than I do now, since fiction takes up most of my time.  I find the need for an underlying idea, a deep structure. If one doesn’t cross my mind, or emerge from the depths, I can’t invent it. But if I have such an idea then I can work on it.

This poem is from a series of six called Running out of Time.

RUNNING OUT OF TIME

iv

Hunger doesn’t come into it.

Bagging a brace of shuttlecock, casting a fly,

the aim of the game is always the same -

to integrate the brain, the hand, and eye.

 

 

What would a man from the mists make

of our bats and balls, our rule-books and referees;

what would he say if we stuck a microphone under his nose

as he belly-ached through his primeval trees?

 

 

I combine the skills of hand and eye

every minute of the day, just to stay alive:

fishing, fowling, keeping warm and dry  -

what integrates me is the struggle to survive.

 

 

Once in a while, a wild-fowl falls

to his shaped, highly polished stone;

when humourless salmon refuse to be tickled,

his probing hand and arm are chilled to the bone.

 

 

I stalk through shops, their shelves piled high,

thinking of him, owing my very existence to his skill:

tracking down another week’s STAR BUY,

I drag my killing out through the nearest till.

 

Roderick Hart ©2013

 

My website is www.roderickhart.net

It is still under construction.

Place and Unexpected – National Poetry Month day 8 with Jakub Sofranko

Welcome to National Poetry Month day 8.  Also, worthy of mention – today is Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry’s www.benjerry.com so after reading some poetry, you might stop by your local Ben and Jerry’s.  Better yet bring a book of poems with you or write one while having a cone. 

Today I have poet and Twitter friend Jakub Sofranko.  Jakub says he is new to poetry, but I think he definitely has an affinity with words.  Enjoy!

Hey everyone, my name is Jakub Sofranko. I am starting author. I wrote my first poem 6 months ago. I haven’t written a lot of poems yet, actually only two, but I will work on them. I also work on sci – fi story.

 

I like poetry, because I can imagine someone’s minds and also put my minds on the paper and share it with other people.

 

There are my two poems. It is not lot of, but I will try to write more. If you like them, you can follow me on the twitter or tumblr and you will surely know about my new stuffs.  :)  Enjoy the art.

Place

 

The night is dark

the water is black

roses are grey

and grass is red

on this weird place

yes there exist a place…

 

But somewhere far away

where light is shining over the night,

there exist a place where butterflys

can fly

yes there exist a place…

 

Here, the water is not black

roses are red

and the grass has never been red

yes this is the place…

 

it is not a land

full of storms and wars

or even a worms

on this place…

 

people are better without swords

yes this is, arm less place…

amazing, wonderful, great, these words, cannot express this place

 

Unexpected

Suddenly

something happened

something unexpected

but beautiful as umbrella on surgery desk

just me and someone else

 

everything is clear now

butterflies are on the right place now

the rats can sing this poem

only God knows how and why

 

I do not care about why and how

I only love

 

twitter and tumblr: http://jacobsofranko.tumblr.com/                  https://twitter.com/Jakubofranko

Last Year’s Ghosts – National Poetry Month day 7 with J.D. Brink

Welcome to National Poetry Month day seven.  This is World Health Day.  Check out WHOs website to find out about it. 

Today I have fellow Goodreads author and poet J.D. Brink.  I met J.D. when he asked for critique on a short story he was working on.  J.D. definitely has a creative imagination.  Check out his website for more of his creative writing.  Enjoy!

Sonya, thanks for having me! It’s an honor to be invited to share my meager poetry skills on your blog.

For those you don’t know me, I’m J. D. Brink and if you’ve read any of my stuff, you’ll have a hard time accepting that this poem came out of my head. ;) Most of my work has a darker edge to it, and I tend toward genres like noir, fantasy, and science fiction. And while I’ll never claim to be a poet, I do value poetry. My first preference is epic poetry, like The Iliad and The Odyssey. Fortunately, being a writing major in college, I was required to take a few poetry classes so that I could build an appreciation for verse. It’s a more difficult medium to work in, one where every word has to have weight and all the comfy laws of grammar and structure that you might normally lean on don’t necessarily apply. Poetry breaks all the rules and, when done well, blows your mind while it’s at it.

I have only one poem to share, one I wrote years ago when I made yet another move, this time to start nursing school (because a writing degree doesn’t have much practical value in the real world). Hopefully the subject matter is obvious, because I’m too embarrassed to spell it out…\

.

Last Year’s Ghosts

The apartment is cold, as if abandoned

for more than this chill, grey holiday.

I bring the furnace back to life

and unpack my clothes in dull silence.

But I’m not alone here. The air and light

still carry you, this apartment feels

your presence, and the lack of it. That emptiness

occupies the kitchen and window sill, what would have been

your side of the couch, a seat at the breakfast table.

Since I started this new life in this new town

you have been on my mind. My quiet nights alone

were filled with dreams of you, how to bring

you with me on this journey. Your shadow crouches

now in the corners, your whispers echo

from the other room. This place remembers you

from my dreams and is haunted

by your lovely phantom.

I unwrap and hang the new calendar near my bed,

twelve months of serene Japanese paintings:

A quiet pond of reeds and orchids;

A powerful mountain strong and still;

A garden and bridge blanketed by snow.

Our holiday together was brief,

as were our words. Through the shallow

white valley, past the frozen mirror pond,

our footfalls left sign of our passing.

As we spoke our fire together was depleting,

expelled as vapor through our lips.

I held you for a long moment, the snow drifting down,

and gave you one final kiss. Parting,

our tracks wound their own ways.

But these quiet, empty rooms didn’t hear us,

they don’t yet know you’ll never

laugh here, never dance here, or make love.

It may take several restless nights

to draw those dreams away, to convince

these ghosts that the time of their passing

has come. Perhaps convincing

them to depart for the next world

will comfort me as well.

*

J. D. Brink was not a private detective in the 1940s, but he’d liked to have been. Instead he was born in the 1970s, was a kid at the best time ever to be a kid (the ‘80s), and went to college in the ‘90s. Since then he’s become a sailor, spy, nurse, and officer in the U.S. Navy, as well as a gravedigger, insurance adjuster, and school teacher. Today (fall of 2013) he and his family live in Texas, where there aren’t enough cheating husbands, missing persons, practicing witches, or hard-boiled mysteries to keep him occupied. In his writing, as in life, Mr. Brink enjoys dabbling in multiple genres. His written work has appeared online on Pseudopod.org and Ascent Aspirations, and in Tales of the Talisman and Cemetery Moon magazines. In 2012, his SF novelette The Thorne Legacy was a quarter finalist in the Writer’s of the Future Contest.

Website: “Fugitives of Purgatory” — http://www.jdbrinkfugitive.com

 

 

“Waltzing Matilda” is not a Waltz – National Poetry Month day 6 with Sonya Rhen

Welcome to National Poetry Month day six.  It is the start of week two and we have the following poets this week; Sonya Rhen, J.D. Brink, Jakub Sofranko, Roderick Hart, Casi Thomason, and P.F. Chan.

Today is Waltzing Matilda Day, the anniversary of its first performance.  Happy Waltzing Matilda Day!  Today’s poet is ME!  Hello all!

I originally had planned this as a regular blog post.  I particularly wanted to post it on this day.  I have included one of my poems from “Requite Me: Poems of Love, Jelousy and Angst”.  I’m sure this poem was inspired by the song “Silhouettes on the Shade” by The Rays.  Following the poem are my blogging thoughts on rhythm and waltzing as most of my blogs have something to do with music.  Enjoy!

 

Last Dance

.

I looked at him from across the room

As a smile began to capture me.

I slowly turned my eyes away

Remembering what we used to be.

.

I don’t know if he saw me then.

It didn’t look that way,

But if he did it might just be

He couldn’t find the words to say.

.

I looked again and our eyes met.

We couldn’t look away.

He got up and asked me to dance

As the music began to play.

.

The days go on and we’re dancing still.

The music never fades.

To everyone who passes by

We’re just shadows on the shades.

By Sonya Rhen

 

I have been thinking a lot about music, rhythms and melodies. What makes one piece of music enjoyable to an individual over another piece of music? Why don’t all people like the same thing? My husband and I like many similar bands and types of music, but not all. Things he loves, I sometimes don’t. My tastes run more eclectic than most, so he often doesn’t like things that I enjoy. The way we listen is different as well. I can listen to the same song over and over again until it sinks into my pores. He prefers to listen once and move on to another song or cd.

 

I wonder if there is something innate in all of us that makes us like the things we do, or is it experience, possibly a combination of both? Can we learn to like something? Certainly, I think there is an element of conditioning. Sometimes I will hear a piece of music or song that doesn’t move me at any level. However, after repeated exposure, I may find that I love that song. It can go the other way as well, where you hear something too often and grow tired of it. Sometimes you hear something you love and you simply can’t get enough of it. It is love at first listen. This music seems to fill your heart and soul every time you hear it.

 

There is something about waltzes that I simply love. When I hear a waltz, I want to get up and dance. Something in the 3/4 rhythm, the “boom, chink, chink,” makes me feel happy. I wonder if there is a physical reason why this pattern resonates so strongly with me. But it’s not just me. Apparently, Everybody Loves a Waltz.

 

 

I went to the internet to look up Waltzing Matilda and thought I would waltz with my daughter. Imagine my surprise to find that Waltzing Matilda is not in fact an actual waltz. The rhythm is in 4/4 and it has a meaning of walking around with a bag slung over your back rather than of dancing. While Waltzing Matilda is a fine folk song, this was not what I was looking for.

 

To many of you waltzing may conjure up images of old fashioned ballroom dancing, you may be surprised to find that a lot of modern day pop/rock songs are waltzes. Here are some examples of waltzes that I have in my music collection. I can recommend all these albums and if you love Christmas music the Cyndi Lauper is a must have! You may recognize some of these.

 

Vince Guaraldi Trio – Great Pumpkin Waltz (From the Charlie Brown’s Holiday Hits)

Aimee Mann – Nothing is Good Enough (From Bachelor No. 2)

Elliot Smith – Waltz #2 (XO) and Waltz #1 (From XO)

Stars – What the Snowman Learned about Love (From Heart)

Cyndi Lauper – Minnie and Santa and New Year’s Baby (From Merry Christmas… Have a Nice Life!)

While I don’t have this CD – Midsomer Murders theme song may be the only waltz played on the Theremin.

 

So as I waltz off into the sunset, I leave you with this question. Do you have a favorite waltz?

 

A bit of confetti, a piece of melted chocolate, and a Swiss army knife – National Poetry Month day 5 with Elizabeth Fountain

Welcome to day five of National Poetry Month.  Today I have fellow WordPress blogger, Sci-Fi Writer and poet, Elizabeth Fountain.  I met Liz at a Science Fiction panel at last year’s Northwest Bookfest and have been following her blog posts ever since.   After reading her vivid poem below check out her blog for more of her writing.  Enjoy!

Elizabeth Fountain left a demanding job as a university administrator in Seattle to move to the small town of Ellensburg, Washington, and pursue her dream of writing novels. She started writing in grade school; fortunately, most of her tortured high school poetry and song lyrics are lost to posterity. Her first book, An Alien’s Guide to World Domination, is a tale of people, aliens, and dogs who face the impossible, and do it anyway. Now Liz has three more novels in progress, including You, Jane, which will be published by Champagne Book Group in June, 2014. She takes breaks from writing to teach university courses, spend time with family and friends, and take long walks while leaning into the diabolical Kittitas Valley wind. Liz strives to live according to a line from British singer-songwriter Chris Rea: “Every day, good luck comes in the strangest of ways.”

Read more of her work at her blog, Point No Point (http:// lizfountain.wordpress.com)

Poem from Elizabeth Fountain

I’m so grateful to Sonya for the invitation to contribute to her blog during National Poetry Month! I wrote this poem during a writing group session a few years ago in Seattle. Our lovely group of five writers met every week or so at a bookstore/coffee shop. We’d share prompts and write, reading our work to one another if we felt like it. Some of the most fun I’ve had writing was with Treg, Heidi, Nancy, & Peter.

Poetry, for me, holds two beautiful benefits. As a prose author, practicing poetry helps improve my craft. It tunes my ear to the sound and rhythm as well as the meaning of words. And, as a music lover, I locate poetry right next door to song lyrics, making them a delightful art form.

A bit of confetti, a piece of melted chocolate, and a Swiss army knife

You wake up in a strangely coloured light.

You wonder for a moment if you are still in the place you thought you’d left, or already in the place you meant to go next.

The light is the colour of a forest-fire sky. But the outside of your tent is damp; it’s been raining here.

You always check first for your swiss army knife. It was a gift

from your brother. His final gift to you. It’s there

in your pocket, where it should be.

You begin to breathe.

Breathing in the strangely-coloured, mistaken light.

Your mind begins to focus as you breathe. The morning air

has a chill to it. It surprises you to find, next to your knife, a bit of chocolate

melted in its wrapper. It is no longer the appropriate oblong shape.

It is now an obscene lump.

You don’t fully recall why you have a piece of chocolate in your pocket, nor why it melted. You lie in the strange mistaken light and breathe and try

not to recall too quickly.

In the corner of your pocket clings a bit of confetti.

Now you recall.

You breathe.

You hold your brother’s swiss army knife

you breathe

you recall

and begin preparing yourself to pack up and go.

by Elizabeth Fountain Copyright 2014

California Notebooks – National Poetry Month Day 4 with Anna Mosca

Welcome to day four of National Poetry Month.  Today I am pleased to present fellow WordPress blogger and  poet Anna Mosca.  I’m pleased to have selected her parents’ anniversary as her guest blog date.  Happy Anniversary to Anna’s parents!  You can find her vivid poems some in English and some in Italian along with her photography .  Check those out on her link below.  Enjoy!

 

This poem is taken from the collection California Notebooks. California Notebooks is a diary in poetic format of my time in California. The project started in August 2013 and it was, at the beginning, bilingual, English and Italian. The poems were coming to me, at the same time, in both languages. With time English prevailed and the last poems, included this one, are in English only.

Poetry has always been part of my life. A lifesaver during hard times when I could not handle pain, a “touching base”, a balm. The knowledge of a hidden deeper world. A secret language leading to new lands. Nowdays it is predominant among all of my artistic expressions and it’s a daily task, absolutely necessary. It has become a life giving habit. Digging into ones emotions, observing them and describing them to others, or to oneself, is a necessary convolution, healing and nourishing. I came to realize it is fundamental as eating and sleeping. Finding identifications in other people poetry also gives us a very strong sense of belonging to a beautiful and complex oneness where we hold, each one, our uniqueness.

*

a river pouring

you are not rushing

.

to me poetry flows

out is hard to contain

.

I’ve no hands for that use

I’ve new eyes to embrace

.

strong legs clasped around

it’s an odd place wonderful

.

to be tell me what is

new today with you

.

Anna Mosca Copyright 2014

Of Italian nationality but at heart a globe-trotter loves to immerse herself in other cultures. Artist and Professor of Arts express herself through, and teaches on the subjects of, photography, poetry, and painting.

When possible she likes to have these discipline completing one another. Her current blog on wordpress: annamosca.wordpress,com includes poetry and photography and she has started seminars on the healing property these disciplines hold.

She majored (at the Art Academy of Brera in Milan, Italy) with a thesis on the complete Conceptual Art work of Jenny Holzer. A contemporary artist, internationally renowned, who uses words as the main mean of her expression (aphorisms).

annamosca.wordpress.com