Childhood

NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 2, Hello, Jimmy

Day two of the NaPoWriMo dot net prompts has me writing a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem that is not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love. In my case, the plutonic love of a friend.

My poem was to be written directly to the object of my affections and should describe at least three memories.

Hello, Jimmy!

I don’t remember
where or when we first met,
nor when we were not friends,
Jimmy (later Jim),
never James to me;
although, I left first
for Basic Training,
before you went later
to Navy Boot Camp.

We grew up through times
of learning to swim together,
our first diving board jumps,
walking the mile and stopping
on the way home
to pick and eat wild berries
on the spot, while “dying” of thirst.

To our family’s first televisions
and Roy Rogers, and more
black and white pretend life.

You from a large and growing
family, me essentially
an only child,
fishing in pristine
Pocono streams or
in the smelly Susquehanna,
where we also swam
and somehow survived.

We shared the instinct to
climb every wall or cliff,
getting stuck because up
was easier than down.
We shinnied up and jumped off
almost everything,
often landing wounded.

We stumbled into rocky,
hormone laden, teenage
years when you had sisters
who I noticed more and liked.

We envied each other’s worlds.
Our last visit was, what we felt,
a final embrace;
only this time—
you were the first to leave
and left me forever behind.

Look both ways to discover the many forms of love,
what it is and what it is not.
Mind the dark, silent gaps in time
when the love of a friend outlives many longer romances.

Sammi’s Weekender #343 (window)

Click on the window to open up into Sammi’s page and other windowisms.

 

The Side I Never Met

Floating through darkness
I saw a light
in the black universe, one
dot, then
I determined
it was a window.

A woman was there.
She seemed to look but not see,
her blue eyes were calm.

I sensed
honest love, like a mother.
I could see longing—expecting
in her moist eyes.

Then I saw
the window was
a mirror of reality.
She was my reflection,
able to see into my past.
She was the image of the real me.

See both ways when looking through windows or into mirrors,
especially as metaphors of life.
Mind the gaps, the cracks, the wrinkles, and the patina of age.
Everything means something.

Friday Fictioneers for December 8th, 2023

Ted Strutz contributed a photo of shoes for this week’s #FF prompt. As she does each week, the wonderful water lady in the purple lane, Rochelle, has challenged us to write a micro-fiction story (≤100 words) and to post the same among the squares of honor.

To join us, click on Ted’s pic and walk right on over to Madam’s blog page to get all laced up on the path to a successful Friday Fictioneers career. The pay ain’t great but the benefits are awesome.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Genre: Norden Fiction
Title: Barefoot Rhapsody
Word Count: 100

***

Her mother said, “It’s time. Get your shoes on. Let’s go so you can sing them to tears.”

Angelina replied, “I’ll sing for America, Mama—mostly for Simon. I sing barefoot.

“What if you step on a nail? Have you had your tetanus shot?”

“Singing barefoot is what I do. It promotes singing, and people love it. So, please; no shoes.
Father, help me.”

Father smiles. “Angel, this is Norway. It’s January. Wear the boots. Before you take the stage, remove your socks and boots. We will be there to hear you make them cry.”

The angel wore the boots.

***

 

Look both ways and dress appropriately.
Mind the gaps and listen to the lady sing.

***

Singers who also often sang barefoot include Linda Ronstadt, Patti LaBelle, Bjork, Deana Carter, Kelly Clarkson, Joss Stone, Shakira, Jack Johnson, Jason Mraz, Colbie Calliat, Jewel, Krist Novoselic, Carly Simon (often but not always). If this Angelina Jordan video doesn’t make you feel something, put your shoes on and leave.

Click on the lovely Linda to barefoot on over to the links to read more stories prompted by the photo.

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 21)

My assignment (okay, prompt) for today was to choose a word from a list of 14, then to use that abstract noun to title a poem with short lines containing one or more invented words. I chose calm.

Calm
I recall
from long ago
Dad saying
“If you don’t
stop crying
I’ll give you
something
to cry about.”

That worked
as well as
“calm down.”

He never did.
I had plenty
of reasons
to cry.

I should have
laughed.

Mom said
I was being
demonstrative;
she meant emotional
or dramatic
or histrionic,
or noncalm,
or theatratic.

Now I’m calm,
laid back,
easy going.
Boring.

Now it seems
I should inflate
my former
theatricality.

Look both ways in a world flooded with emotions, actors, and lies.
Mind the gaps trying to find the facts.
Play your role.

 

Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

Not so calm:

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 9)

Today I was to write a sonnet. While allowed space regarding traditional sonnets, I was to keep with a general theme of “love.” I did not shoot for iambic pentameter, but I did manage ten syllables per line, except for the final two, which are nine and eleven, thus averaging ten. I made no attempt to rhyme.

I don’t think you understood love like me.
When I told Mom that you were a good man
Walking home after making arrangements
She balked. I understood and we agreed.

You had always been a difficult man.
With a world view no wider than the path
Of a tear rolling down my cheek or hers.
Coalminer tough and Irishman drunk.

Your mother died when you were only eight.
You were raised by a strict Scotsman father.
About him and you, you never told me.
He was your only father role model.

Now I wonder about me as a father,
And my wife as my children’s mother.

Look both ways in love and life.
Nobody is perfect and forgiveness is good.
But forgetting is optional.

 

*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 5)

Today, the NaPo prompt challenged me to write a poem in which laughter comes at an inappropriate time. While George Carlin would be my inspiration for laughing inappropriately, I recalled this story about my first experience with laughing in church.

Measure Up

First grade was—what? —age six?
Twelve months before Pope P. declared
us prepubescent Catholic children
to be at the age of reason: still, that’s seven,
thus eligible for eternity in Hell.

That’s the time when we must confess
our sins to a priest and then to receive
the actual body and blood of Jesus
into our mouths (no touching or chewing).

Too young to jerk off;
couldn’t spell rape or murder,
(but could be a victim of either);
abuse, or extorsion.

On Sundays, at nine o’clock Mass, we had to be there
and sit in the front pews, down range from
second through eighth graders
in ascending class order behind us,
thus we were easily seen by everyone.

Our teacher, Sister Mary Menopause, floated by
just as Jimmy Sauer (also six) dropped his punch line
and we both committed the unreasonable, punishable,
but forgivable sin of laughing in church.
She crucified us both.

After Sister M. played whack-a-mole on our heads
with her ever-present wooden ruler,
she further embarrassed us with after Mass detention
upstairs in our school classroom. Mortification!

Dad said, “I hope you learned your lesson.” I did.
Seventy years later, I examine my conscience
by writing a poem about a churchly childhood experience
and a nun whose real name I’ve long forgotten.

Look both ways as the lady in black floats down the aisle.
She comes for you.
Mind the gaps between us and sit in the center of the pew,
well out of reach when she begins her swing.

 

Click on the NaPo button to see the challenge and more poems (not all are on prompt).

Sammi’s Weekender #304 (mail)

Click graphic for Sammi’s blog where you may play along and/or read more prose or poems.

 

Mail men: leather bags, caps, big shoes;
they walked onto front porches,
with letters, bills, or draft notices—
seldom junk.

Now she rides fast. Much junk. No letters
or conscription notices.

Forever stamps may be exactly so.

Look both ways and pine for the past.
Amazon may own your soul or make your day.
Mind the gaps as you fondly recall the memory.

 

(The irony is that the USPS sends us an email each day alerting of the coming snail mail.)

Sammi’s Weekender #302 (breathtaking)

Click on the graphic to find more breathtaking 14-word shots.

Powerlifting Champions

A thousand people talking loudly
coaches screaming
lifter athletes
grunt and groan.
It’s breathtaking.

Look both ways because sometimes tragedy strikes at the last minute.
Mind the gaps for faulty judgements.

 

Monday’s Rune: Hanukkah or Chanukah?

Happy Hanukkah everyone.

The eight-day Jewish festival, which began at nightfall yesterday, is also known as the festival of lights, or the Feast of Dedication. It commemorates the recovery of Jerusalem and rededication of the Second Temple at the beginning of the Maccabean revolt.

As a child growing up in a relatively “strict” Roman Catholic family, I recall all the “Christmas” cards we received during December. Mom used them to decorate our home. I recall many of the cards wishing us Happy Holidays and Happy Hanukkah. This was from the late 1940’s through the 1960s.

While I attended a Catholic parochial elementary school, I also recall saying “Happy Hanukkah” and playing with dreidels (or similar toys). A dreidel is a four-sided top bearing Hebrew letters. I ate some Jewish foods (year-round) and drank sweet kosher wine, but I did not learn the full meanings and traditions until years later.

When my children were growing up, they (and we) had Jewish family friends. During the holiday season one Jewish friend went to our children’s public schools and explained the Hanukkah festival. During the eight-day festival, my children spent many evenings at their friend’s home learning about Jewish traditions, eating the special foods, and participating in lighting the nine light menorahs (Chanukiah).

While Hanukkah is a minor Jewish religious holiday, for me it is full of happy (and a few sad) memories, and I ponder the possibilities. One more time, Happy Everything, Everyone.

Look both ways to learn the stories our friends and neighbors have to share.
Mind the gaps because no two are exactly alike.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #289 (engrave)

Click for Sammi’s blog and more 23-word magic.

A Lone Memory

Her face
an engraved
memory,
the cold winter night,
her aroma,
her taste,
her soft skin,
he felt
sixteen,
still in love,
again.

Look both ways, but today’s memories were conceived long ago.
Mind the gaps to be filled with feelings of love and pleasure.

A Lone Memory