Some of us are happy
enjoying all we see;
we smile at silver snowdrops
that glisten from a tree.
Our outlook may be fuzzy Continue reading
Poetry
Fits and Starts
Painting: Paul Cézanne, The Dream of the Poet (The Kiss of the Muse), 1860
I’m in fits and starts
A little bit off, and my cart’s
ahead of the donkey. Continue reading
SEA of LIFE
Deep, restful, I want to swim in it, but why?
Just staring at it soothes me, calms me into looking back. Where did I come from? Where am I going? Continue reading
Ode to Writers Everywhere
The Writing Instructor
The refrigerator hums like a turtle in a small trickling stream. Soft, contented, but with a slight hiccup now and then.
I try to ignore the soothing hum and continue to talk on, too loud at times, but there’s a cougher in the group, and I don’t want my words drowned out.
What an expression: how can words drown? Well, I guess the same way my ideas seem to drown at times. When I’m trying so hard to express myself, I get intense, yet I see a dazed expression on my listeners’ faces, so it must be me, my words, that are drowning them in boredom.
Oh shoot, am I boring? I stop the conversation mid-stream, and no one seems to notice. If a small
waterfall suddenly stopped in the middle of Yosemite, you’d think those around would notice. The hikers and bikers, the park rangers and sightseers would shout out: “What in the world?”
But no shouts of concern from my listeners when I shut my mouth and halt my waterfall of a fascinating story about writing. Well, I have been told that my stories can go on and on, and on, for paragraphs when they could be just a sentence or two.
So I order them to practice what I have just preached about Cinquains.
A 5-line poem, invented by the early 20th century poet Adelaide Crapsey and inspired by the Japanese tanka, with 22 syllables arranged in a distinct pattern, no mandatory rhyme scheme, stanzas of 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables. Crapsey always titled her cinquains, effectively utilizing the title as a sixth line.
“WRITE!” I command.
But before I begin I pause in our little writing room (a converted kitchen/dining room, in fact), which vibrates with the sound of fingers tapping on flat black keys and ink sliding against paper: a happy sound; a creative, invigorating, satisfying sound; while the low hum of a dog’s sleepy snores surround my group in a warm writing hug.
Now, a challenge – do you dare create your own cinquain here?
How to Embarrass Your Kids
One of the perks of being a parent is embarrassing your kids just by being…you.
Yes, I see the quick smirk on your face. I hear you thinking about the time you sang, “I Can’t Get No…Satisfaction” loudly while standing in line at the grocery store as your kids squirmed in…dissatisfaction.
It’s not like we start out trying to mortify our kids. They initiate it!
For instance – socks. 
My man has worn long tennis socks with his shorts since he was a studly 25-year-old, and by god, he’s sticking with those socks (or ones like them) for his entire life. So, when our kids were…kids, they moaned on vacations as we walked the beach together in July, or attended swimming lesson or tennis lessons, or even soccer games, and they had to endure their dad in shorts and “tall” socks.
They’d save their allowance and buy short thick Agassi tennis socks, and stick them in their dad’s sock drawer (and throw out the offending “tall’ socks,” of course). But by that time, tall socks became a symbol of our independence, our stubbornness, and our parenting.
No child of ours was going to tell us what we could or could not wear, or sing, or even admire.
One day I was driving my kids home from a lesson – ballet or soccer or piano or chess or, well, the list goes on. Because we lived off a scenic, hilly road called “Paradise Drive,” we always passed many buff bicyclists. On this particular sunny afternoon, I unknowingly let out a sigh while exclaiming, “look at the calves on that man.”
Well-muscled legs (note the lack of “tall” socks).
My son and daughter both bellowed in two long syllables: “MOOOOOMMMMM!”
“What?” I asked innocently.
“You’re married,” my son expounded. “You can’t look at another man’s legs!”
I came close to muttering back, “I’m married, but I’m not dead,” but instead said, “I’m just commenting on the muscles this guy has built by bicycling so hard.”
No good. My kids were adamant that I should not and could not notice the muscles on any other man but their dad.
On the embarrassing Paradise Drive home.
I realized then that I’d just found a supreme opportunity for future parental embarrassment. So each time the kids and I drove home on Paradise Drive and we passed a well-muscled bicyclist, I’d open my mouth and begin, “Wow, look at the…” And they’d stop me with groans of dismay and the two-syllable pronunciation of my name.
If one of their friends was in the car with us, my children would blush stop-sign red before I even pointed.
Ahhh, the perks of being a parent. 🙂
P.S. I won’t even start with how my stories embarrass my (now adult!) children. Let’s just say, I’m not supposed to write about negligées, sexual attraction, bedroom eyes, or passion (if you’ve read my book THE RIGHT WRONG MAN, you know I still embarrass my kids horribly). My poetry seems okay to them, though (as long as it’s not about them). Please check out Karen Elliott’s poetry-themed blog this week – she features one of my poems this Friday.
roughwighting 
