NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 17, At Seventeen

Today I am to write a poem inspired by a song, and to share its title. I confess to being influenced by song lyrics, especially the well-told stories in ballads.

Earlier this year I read “At Seventeen” by Janis Ian (1975) as a poem at an open mic event. I’ve always loved the song and somehow relate to it, as do many people around the world. Janis explains how that affects her and sings her song in the video below.


At Seventeen
When she called
I couldn’t hardly talk at all,
and when she sings
I remember high school things.

The words, the tone,
together talking on the phone,
her memories, at seventeen,
were mine at home alone.

“It was long ago and far away,”
do I wish it was today?
What has changed in how we are,
in pickup trucks or borrowed cars?

At seventeen when boys like me,
Sad Sacks outside for all to see.
“Come dance with me”— because
that couple we will always be.

She said,
I pity boys like you who serve,
you only get what you deserve
.
My broken heart sang obscenities,
to the one I loved but never pleased.

At seventeen I was that man,
a boy holding a gun over there,
I stay alive as best I can, but
of angry me I must beware.

At seventeen a boy like me—
at seventeen, too young to see.
And ugly boys like us do care.
At seventeen, when I was there.


Memory is a strange, unreliable thing; so, look both ways and don’t assume.
Mind the gaps in song and poem, you’ve been only human all along.

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.

A Monday Quadrille at the dVerse Pub

Lillian is hosting today and prompts a 44-word poem that must include the word imagine (or a form thereof). Click here for the pub page or here to find more quadrilles.


Dip Stick

When I heard that our friend Jack
was charged by Olive
with checking Sally’s oil,

Sarcastically I said,
(with a semi-evil grin below a slow eye roll)
“Imagine that!”

I’d bet that Jack’s measure of success
was how often
Jack got that Willie wet.


Look both ways because some fools just cannot stop what they do.
Mind the gaps when you check your dip stick for fluid levels.

Friday Fictioneers for January 19th, 2024

From the pages of Mistress Rochelle’s blog comes a Jennifer Pendergast photo prompt of ladled ice in a frozen spa bucket to inspire us all to contrive a story of not more than a hundred micro-fictional words.

Click on Jennifer’s picture to skate on over to the Purple Blog for a dousing of the simple rules of entry into the welcoming warmth of Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast

 

Genre: Romance
Title: August’s Commandment
Word Count: 100

They met one August while she was visiting family back east. There was some talk, wine, a dance, and time alone; eyes met, and after that, a kiss. Then, a sexual tryst. Their love grew, but full-time togetherness was not to be, except each August, same days, same place, same passion.

A few days each year for another fifty years, they met repeatedly. They discussed their polyamory as each was awkwardly enmeshed but still loved their family and were otherwise devoted to a loving spouse back home.

One day a letter arrived. Only memories now. But never again. No regrets.


Look both ways at fact and fiction as neither provides the full story.
Mind the gaps in the years, for love knows no limits.

Click here to read more #FF stories.

From the movie, Same Time Next Year (Ellen Burstyn won a Golden Globe for Best Actress), 1978.

 

Friday Fictioneers for October 20th, 2023

For our writing pleasure we have been enjoined to post by her purple-for-passion (or is it the other way ‘round?), Madam Wisoff-Fields and the debonair lady, Liz Young. They have joined forces to summon our best literary skills of micro-fiction story telling (and editing down).

Click on Liz’s photo prompt to test the waters at Rochelle’s blog. There, you will find everything you need to rock a mini plot for the hashtag Friday Fictioneers game of writer-ship (#FF).

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

Genre: Poetic Fiction
Title: Anytime Checkout
Word Count: 100 (Language Warning)

Lying hidden in the tall grass, we kept each other warm. I started to kiss her, but she pushed me back and whispered, “What the fuck is that?

I turned to see several lights hovering.

“Don’t move!” She pulled me down, “Be quiet. We need to get out of here.”

The lights passed. We crawled, then ran for several minutes.

I asked, “Who is looking for us and why?”

“My ex and his tribe. If they find me, they will kill us both. I was a member of his cult. They never allow anyone to leave—at least not alive.”


Look both ways when the terrain and vegetation permit.
Mind the gaps and the lights when Journey sings of the city by the bay.

 

Click on the Splendor in the Grass pic for more stories.

 

These folks are in their 70’s now, but then so am I.

 

Oh, and this book:

Click on the cover to get yours from Amazon.

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 28)

It is Yolonda’s birthday. To celebrate with NaPo, I am to write an index poem (me neither). I could use language from any index or invent one. It is kind of an index to parts of her life.


Yo’s Index (chronological)

Arrival in Cisco, 47; Commencement into the World, 64; Abilene Discovery 65; Blissfulness, 66; PA pronouns after laughing in the Chapel, 66; Travels of Ankara, Turkey, 67; War Hymns, Chig-gar-roo-gar-rems, Hullabaloos, Caneck! Caneck! and au revoir Air Force, 68; Hello Number One, 71; Woodville bounce-back, 72; O-1 with you (she’s back), 72; here/there/everywhere, 73; Hello Cowtown, 74; Welcome two to the gene pool, 74; Redneck Mothers, 75; Happy alert Thursday, 76; How much more of this?, 77; She was number three to stroke back Mother’s Day, 78; Goodbye Stranger, 79; Island fever, 80-82; Missed the bus, 83; Rabbit fever, 84; Rancho Swimming, 83-95; Goodbye friends, 86; Ride the Fiesta, 86-92; Shadows of darkness; 90-97; All Hell breaks loose, 96; Heaven sent, 99-01; Hell sent, 02-07; Emerald water/white sand, 12; The three mountains and it’s 50 as we, 15-17; Near Austin City Limits, 18-23.


Look both ways.
It all boils down to a book of life, which requires an index.
Mind the gaps and always remember names and places.
“Okay, but is it a poem?”

 

Click here to see the pure f-ing magic.

 

NaPoWriMo 2023 (Day 25)

Today I was prompted to compose a love poem with three required aspects. It must name at least one flower (the Texas state flower is the bluebonnet, and they love them), contain one parenthetical statement, and have some
unusual line (like this)
breaks.



This Love

This love of ours
like bluebonnets flower
in Spring flashing brilliance
of blue, purple, white, red,
and like it knew,
maroon (if you look close)
in April then waning to green
by May. Yet,

This love of ours
thrives with
life—stronger after hard
wet Winter passes. The
flower gone
the plant lives like
our love. Fruitful.

Reliable. Dependable. This love of ours, like no
other’s (spreading, seen, felt)
cannot be trampled or destroyed (though some have tried).


Look both ways, forgive but do not forget,
let love be seen with eyes of envy.
Mind the gaps,
but don’t let them be more than
a seam on a garment, a patch in a road, or a lone weed in a glorious garden.

 

Photo by me.

 

Click this button for the NaPo page and more free poems.

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).

Friday Fictioneers for February 3rd, 2023

We’re iced-in over (down) here in Texas, which means it is our bi-annual week of winter.

While Rochelle is recovering from strokin’ too hard, she has rattled our senses with an Alicia Jamtaas photo taken on a lovely romantic day. Our gig now is to write fewer than 101 words telling the stories that our muses whisper to us as we look at Alicia’s pic.

If your muse is tugging at your mind and makin’ you wanna play, click Ms. Jamtaas pic to dance on over to Rochelle’s blog page where you’ll get to read all about it.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Genre: Dream-dancing Fiction
Title: There She Was
Word Count: 100

***

It was a hot one. I was minding my business, walkin’ down the street, snappin’ my fingers, shufflin’ my feet, feelin’ the beat.

I saw her sitting there. My heart stopped. We waved. It was love. Music played. We danced. We started callin’ out round the world. Everybody was dancing in the street.

If this is a dream, may I never awaken. I called to her, “Baby, let’s make it real.”

We did with all the music playing, we were all singin’ and dancin’ and hot , hot, hot. She yelled, “Carlos, I love you. “I said, “my name’s Bill.”

***


Look both ways but love may be sitting up above on yonder windowsill.
Mind the gaps but (flash mob) dance when you can.

Click on the salsa dancers to flash on over to the inlinkz page for more hot stories.

AND, A little Smooth guitar from the great Carlos Santana to better tell the whole story.

Friday Fictioneers for January 27th, 2023

For the final full week of January, our guide to telling stories based on a picture, Rochelle, has tossed up a J Hardy Carroll pic to inspire us. It took a while but my muse, obviously an older woman, set my mind to an inappropriate tale, but not an uncommon one.

To find the how-to of this story telling challenge, click on the J Hardy photo and you’ll be shuffled over to Rochelle’s blog where the situation is made clear. Can you tell a complete story in one-hundred or fewer words?

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Genre: Erotic Fiction
Title: Pinch Me, Maggie
Word Count: 100

***

She, much older, married and Julia’s mother. I loved her and suspected she knew. I never expected this.

At her daughter’s birthday party, she told me to meet her in the old abandon building north of the football field. I was to be there about eleven. I was early.

I asked, “Mrs. Robinson, why?”

She smiled, “I can tell what you want. Call me Maggie May here, but Mrs. Robinson in public. If you tell anyone about us, I’ll make your life miserable. It’s your move, young man.”

My heart pounded. I held her. “May I kiss you, Maggie May?”

***


Look both ways because love is ageless and where you find it.
Mind the gaps between May and September.

 

Click on the scene from ‘The Graduate’ movie to read more awesome stories.

And, of course, the story as told by Sir Roderick David Stewart.