Tag Archive: writing


Combine the first few weeks of school – with football and fall baseball, and a new daily schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups – and things can get weird. Throw in the “change of the weather” colds, and my muse heads for a quiet spot in the closet. First, there is the false start to Fall weather that tricks my sinuses every time. The few days of cooler weather before the heat returns with an air of condescendence as nature lets us know that it is not  Fall weather until she says it is Fall weather. Then about a week of hot weather that seems worse than the dog days of August since we were teased with cooler weather. This year much needed rain added humidity to the mix.

When the heat returns, my sinuses kick into overtime – not long before shutting down completely. This year Cyndy went on the journey with me. Cold-like symptoms persist for a week or longer, depending on the weather. We needed the rain, but our sinuses did not need the humidity. One day we will feel like we are getting better. Then the next day we seem to have regressed. My aunt Juanita passing away did not help my frame of mind and my sinuses took a hit with the cold to hot temperatures of the funeral and the gathering at her house afterwards.

My muse would leave the closet, reluctantly, when deadlines approached. Then he would retreat to the closet. I tried to coax him out the other evening when a song I heard on the radio led me to think of a song I wrote years ago. I remembered the tune of the first line of the chorus, but I could not think of the words. I pulled out some old notebooks of songs, poems, prose, ideas, and notes.

I failed to find the song I was looking for, but I found original versions of songs that turned out completely different. Parts of poem and songs that were not bad, but had led nowhere. Songs and poems that were good but forgotten. Upcoming posts will contain some of the gems I found. Reading through my old notebooks reminded me of past writing and inspired me to get back to productive writing.

What do you do to fight writer’s block? Read old writing and notes? Take a walk? What brings your muse out in the open and into action?

Peace be with you.

When I am troubled,

and in that contradictory, ironic place,

thinking that no one knows how I feel,

The Lord hears my prayers.

 

Yet the Lord very rarely

answers my prayers directly,

Sometimes I only see the answer

During reflection on the day’s events.

 

Regardless of the result,

The Lord hears my prayers,

He may not answer the way I would prefer,

But the Lord hears my prayers.

 

I may not be listening,

or I may be stubbornly wanting more,

I may not hear what he’s trying to tell me,

But the Lord hears my prayers.

 

The Lord hears my prayers,

However and whenever I pray,

Even if I refuse to hear the answer,

The Lord hears my prayers.

 

I lay head on pillow lightly,

Letting the Lord take my troubles,

I can rest easy in sleep knowing

That the Lord hears my prayers.

A Dream Returning – Poem

A dream is returning

keeping embers burning,

Blowing coals still laced with fire.

 

Sinking ships

Hit barrier reefs

Not sinking, but stuck in the mire.

 

Heavenly voice

Comes to me in sleep,

Half of a two-part choir.

 

A dream is returning

keeping embers burning,

Blowing coals still laced with fire.

Like Tom Sawyer, I had years while growing up when life was an adventure. Some adventures were real, some were imaginary, and some were real with an imaginary plot. Some were innocent, some bordered on the illegal. But one comparison to Tom Sawyer was the year my father had me paint the inside of the backyard fence of our house in Wichita Falls to make money for our vacation that summer.

Our back fence was considerably larger than the fence Tom Sawyer purportedly had to paint. With the fence surrounding the backyard – and not along the street – the chances of talking any friend into helping me were slim. Especially when they learned I was getting paid for it. It was summer in Texas and very little of the fence was in the shade.

The color I was painting the fence was the shade of red that all backyard picnic tables were painted for many years – a little lighter, actually. I do not remember how long it took me to paint the fence – probably about a week. It seemed to take forever. I remember taking fairly frequent breaks for refreshment.

Despite my best efforts, all of the paint did not reach the fence. My jeans and shirt jockeyed for drops of paint falling off of the paintbrush. Numerous blades of grass were painted red. Some due to drops of paint, but others painted simply under the pretext that it was not only fun (who gets to paint grass?), but painted grass can be mowed. Which would have had more  credence – and acceptance by my father – had I not decided one time to mow my name in the backyard.

When I finished painting the fence, I received fifteen dollars for my efforts, to spend on vacation. Dad still feels bad about underpaying me for the job. However, I did not have a frame of reference with which to know that fifteen dollars was not enough for painting the fence. It was not like I had a lot of other things to do, what with friends going on vacations and being involved in summer activities. Fifteen dollars went a lot farther then than it does now. And mom usually   helped my brother, Dennis, and I out if we really wanted a souvenir and did not have enough money.

Tom Sawyer did not go on vacations, unless you count the trip with Huck Finn down the Mississippi. And I did not have any friends to try to persuade to help me. Nor would I have been willing to give up any of my money. I also am not completely certain that Tom was able to pawn the entire task off on other children. Take it from me, painting a fence is nothing to envy. That  was the first, but not the last fence I would paint.

Be that as it may, Tom Sawyer and I both had to paint a fence. Neither of us looked  forward to it. One way or the other, we both got the fence painted. In both instances, paint was dispersed that did not find the intended target. So having to paint the fence is one thing I have in common with Tom Sawyer.

Peace be with you.

Short Poems

                  Respect

Respect is to a friendship

as water to a tree.

I must have yours,

you must have mine.

for, without respect,

our friendship cannot take root.

—————————————————

I love you,

You love me.

That is a beginning,

but it is not enough.

We must work together

to prevent an end.

—————————————————

First of all, I wasn’t expecting it.

But then nobody ever does.

That’s what everyone tells me

when I tell them I didn’t expect something.

“Nobody ever does.”

But sometimes I do.

So there.

—————————————————

A fleeting glimpse

Perhaps –

But not fleeting enough

that I could not realize

that I love you.

 

I just need

to ask you

one thing –

Where did you leave

the bananas?

—————————————————

Peace be with you.

Untitled – Poem

“Who knows what evil lurks

in the hearts and minds of man?”

said the sign

posted at the crossroads.

 

The young one scoffed

and walked away

laughing

down the road…of lonliness,

to the distant calling

of manhood…

 

A place from which

no one has been known

to return –

unscathed:

by slings and arrows

and that misfortune stuff…

 

That men are made of,

and women, too,

for that matter.

Though everyone took their time

admitting it to themselves

or friends

or ties that bind.

 

Yet still

the young one

walks alone.