I collect books. You all know that, right? I have too many books, and occasionally I don’t want to just donate them to my library so I have started an Amazon store. Yep, if you look over on the right hand sidebar, you can see my logo for the Amazon site and it will take you right to my ‘bookshelf’. Sometimes I will have books that I have reviewed, along with various other things I pick up from my library. Feel free to check it out. And here is the link Katie Lyn’s Bookshelf
‘What are you doing?’ she asked as he reached out towards her. Then, ‘Ow! Why’d you pinch me?’
‘Cause you aren’t wearing green,’ he answered.
‘I am too. See?’ and she pointed at her Kelly green eyeshadow.
‘Doesn’t count,’ he said smugly.
‘Well I’m still wearing green,’ she replied with a superior look on her face.
‘Right… Sure you are.’
‘Fine. If you don’t believe me. Turn around,’ she ordered.
‘Turn around.’ She motioned with her hand.
He groaned but did as she ordered.
She giggled, but then she shimmied and gave a wiggle then picked up the bright green scrap of lace.
‘Okay, you can turn around.’ When he did, she held the lace in her hands. ‘See?’
His eyes were wide and he took stock of her black dress and put together appearance. ‘Where the heck was that?’
She gave him a mystifying smile. ‘Oh if only you knew,’ she teased. ‘Now turn back around.’
When he did, a quick shimmy and tug and everything was back as it should be.
‘You can turn back now.’
He did and she giggled as he eyed her up and down trying to figure out where the lace was.
‘Now don’t pinch me again.’
He grinned. ‘Yes ma’am.’
Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone. It was a gorgeous day here but not warm enough for my “Irish Princess” t-shirt. I so wanted to wear it, even if an Irishman holds more Irish in his little pinky than I have in my whole person. I actually do have a touch of Irish in me. Some great-great-great-great-great grandfather or something. Who knows.
Enjoy the bit of flash fiction. And you can decide where the lace came from. I have my own idea, but it’s a bit naughty….
I am - a bad girl
A wink glints
in my eye
As I sink pearly teeth
Into an ice cream sandwich---
For I am pre-diabetic.
The logo of Klondike bar (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Sometimes being good gets to you, even if your blood glucose meter tells you that you are a bit too high. I have kicked over into pre diabetes and I’m having to be good now. No excess sweets and carbs. Gah, it’s frustrating. Except for the fact that I happen to enjoy the new almond milk I am making. It seems to work better than milk for teas and snacks.
But sometimes you just can’t resist that Klondike ice cream sandwich. Which, by the way, is THE BEST ice cream sandwich ever. Even over those Nestle or Carnation ones. Trust me.
I am such a bad girl. Now don’t bug me. I’m eating.
The future is a foggy mist waiting
And like water it slips through our fingers
Opening drawers of thoughts of waking
A landscape of ideas that will linger
Dare I attempt to write the things over
An elegy here and a ballad there
The ballad first, an elegy slower
Maybe I should just write the prose to compare
Poetry is in my future plans I know
And the past mistakes will fade in time
Time always fades the mistakes I know
New horizons are in the coming rhymes
I shall miss the companions I write with
But life will go on for I am a word smith.
Hello all you wonderful people I connected with in the Commons. This is my last *sob* assignment. A sonnet on the future. What a perfect way to end the course. I attempted to stick with a Shakespearian sonnet in style abab cdcd efef gg, and along with the iambic pentameter. I’m not sure I managed that perfectly, but I have not had a lot of luck with sonnets. (@BenHuberman I knew you were going to throw a sonnet at us!)
I thought it might be nice to include bits of the themes from the past two weeks. Water, fog, drawers, landscape, ballad, elegy…. And I think it actually turned out rather well. I have been wanting to work more with sonnets, especially since reading Edna St. Vincent Millay‘s sonnets this last year. She has some stunning poetry.
I also want to say that one of the best ways to write poetry has been using the McGill Dictionary of Rhyme program. It is this rhyming dictionary with the space to write your poetry. It gives examples, a thesaurus of sorts, and the schematic of certain poetry forms, including sonnets, since there are several variations. You might want to check it out if you are like me and have issues rhyming. That being said, I still use my rhyming dictionary more often, but this is nice.
So, I will probably write one more post on this whole experiance, but for now last assignment down, and what fun this course was.
I think I was limiting myself to what I could write about by using fashion magazines. :P but still, it turned out rather well if I do say so myself. And it was fun snipping and pasting with tweezers… My father said I would be terrible at ransom notes due to fingerprints on all the words…. Well, since I won’t be attempting to ransom something, I should be fine. And I loved finding a landscape picture to paste the words on.
I think of this poem as more of a metaphor. I do have my camera, and the photographs of the country are this story of a landscape. Something to escape and dream about. It’s semi vague, but isn’t all poetry sometimes?
I liked trying to find different sizes and colors. I don’t know if I got the whole theme of enumeratio. Did I use enough “and’s”? I liked starting every other line with one. I’ve been wanting to do this type of found poetry for a while now. Is blackout poetry the same? I kind of think it is. I’ve wanted to do a piece of found poetry using the town bulletin board at the post office. With all its flyers, it’s a treasure trove of found poetry just waiting to happen.
And if you can’t read the poem, here it is again in print.
in my camera the photographs of country light
and stunning grace and freedom
is a passionate perspective
and reaching across the fair northern sky
a new direction, a breath of fresh air
and spectacular joy and living
fall color and strong white light
and look to move forward to
Fling open the door
and see a day of dreams.
Ode To a Wooden Spoon
Lying in the dark drawer, but not alone
The wooden spoon waits for the moment to come alive
Bursting with possibilities in the mixing and stirring
In your tireless waiting for mixing don't bemoan
You are meant for than mixing and whirring
It is in the kitchen you are meant to thrive
Oh spoon, you are forgotten with the bamboo
But you are lovelier and stronger than most spoons
How will I ever exist without your strength as I stir?
Ode To a Lace Handkerchief
Forgotten lace lies within the scented drawers of oak
Scraps of muslin and linen so fine and soft
Delicate for a woman's hand or purse
Carried in the past by ladies of fine lives evoke
Thoughts of Knights past in there bravery were never scoffed
A symbol of devotion in song and verse
Oh delicate handkerchief you are lowly to some
But you hold a touch of gentry to your humbleness
And I sing to you and your usefulness in verse
I actually want to keep writing odes to things in my drawers. Now, I am no Keats, who wrote magnificent odes to urns and nightingales, but I think these turned out okay. I was talking odes with my family last night and my father came up with Ode to a Wooden Spoon. I’m not sure this is what he was going for, but I have only so much I can work with.
I was first thinking of handkerchiefs since I use them regularly. I have some lace ones, some quite utilitarian and boring. But they are all rather wonderful. And I wanted to write about sweaters, and jeans, and pencils and scissors, and stamps, and various other things I keep in drawers. Can we do an Ode to a Paperclip? This was fun, and today I checked out some more books on Odes and Ballads and other various poems. I liked poetry enough, but with this Blogging U course, I am full of poetry!!!!
Okay, I’ll calm down.
I wish my fingers were slimmer and thinner than they are. For they are far from elegant, since they are short. A friend had thin fingers that were so slim and pretty. Mine are rather ordinary with nails that break, even if they are painted in shades of pink. Though I like to wear silver rings in them, which is pretty in it’s own way. But my fingers can linger on a man’s skin; gliding over rough, smooth, and stubble. A whisper of sin is in my fingers. If you get me started I am not prim and proper. I can play one’s skin like a violin, singing and skimming over the surface like a nymph. And with a pencil I can will my missives to be in tune with my mind. Without my fingers, imagination wouldn’t be on the paper. Things I think would be left in my mind, and wouldn’t it be much better if they were able to be read? Even if I am the only one reading them. I can’t dismiss my fingers, even if I wish they were more than they are. One day my fingers will write something incredible, and in that moment, I won’t wish they are thinner and slimmer and different than they are.
I have never quite understood prose, and recently I attempted to figure out what prose is exactly. I’m still not sure. I’m not even sure this qualifies as prose. (If you know, please comment) I love assonance because of the subtlety of the sounds. Because ‘finger’ was ‘lingering’ in my head, the short ‘i’ sound is hopefully noticeable. Yes, I am telling you because even I might not notice it. See, there are a few more ‘i’ sounds.
I think I would like to attempt more prose, and in the past, I think what I wrote as prose is in my flash fiction moments. How do you know? Well, either way, I liked this assignment for today.
I was born and raised to love cowboys
From Duke to Eastwood for sure
John Wayne was always my guy,
And Eastwood I would hate to endure
I loved every Zane Grey I read
And Louis L’Amour was the same
Fair ladies to save from the rustlers
And the cows headed home on the range
As I have grown much older and wise
I still have cowboys in dreams
They’re rough and they’re tough
And in books they’re my favorite theme
Right now I’m reading a western story
Of love,riders, horses, and life
The cowboy is handsome and smart
And the lady he’ll win for his heart.
This is my current book to read and review. How could you not love a cowboy that looked like this?
I know I don’t have the meter quite right, and some of the rhyming is off, but after thinking about what a ballad should be about, and the fact that I love cowboys, this seemed like the ideal hero. While I don’t actually think that much about cowboys, occasionally I just want to sigh with longing for a good John Wayne film. I am actually reading this silly Christian romance book with a gorgeous cowboy. It puts me in the mood for anything western. A cowboy up on a horse saving the fair maiden…. or rescuing her as she gets into a pickle…
I could not even attempt Anaphora/Epistrophe. I’ve never been good with they rhyme thing anyhow, but I think I would like to attempt to try it sometime. It sounds like a really fun device for writing poetry.
So, cowboys and westerns for my hero ballad. It’s a start that I think I want to improve upon.
Dante wrote about Purgatorio and the mists below
While you compared it to Silent Hill
I wondered could we escape the games and forgo
All the pain this dating is uphill.
We tried to become something more impossible
And I got lost in how you talked
Sometimes two people are not possible
A romance that is over talked.
A murkiness obscures my sanity
I’m left wishing it was done
Shrieking out fits of profanity
While you are sulking in your fun.
I was hopeful this thing would work with you
But you have made me shy away
It seems a waste of time so hard to do
And I want you out of my life today.
Should I give this online thing another try
Trying men on like endless shoes
Or should I hide and back away to cry
Or dust of my heart that’s bruised?
Okay, this was one of the harder forms. I don’t do elegies, and I’m not even sure this is an elegy. I was struggling trying to figure what one even was, despite reading Tennyson and Emile Bronte. Both wrote elegies and I like them, but I rarely deal in sad rhyme. But, it’s an attempt and I would like to branch out with this one. Fog, I’m not sure the metaphor is there enough. Fog was something this online guy and I were discussing and how Dante wrote about it in Purgatory (I’m reading the Inferno right now) and this guy compared it to the horror film Silent Hill, something I refuse to see.
Well, anyways, it’s an attempt.
herring bone in the sky a storm’s coming
a storm of long ing for a change that won’t
come soon enough to suit me as impatience colors my
thoughts and dreams feel like fantasy and hope is further away
than I thought it could be, but I don’t want to give up
so do I let the storm cover me over or do I break free and let the rain come down?
they say that salt water fixes everything; tears, sweat and the ocean…but rain is sweet
Okay, this isn’t specifically ‘animal’ other than herringbone, which is what the clouds looked like as I stepped outside tonight. I’m not good with concrete poetry since I have never played around with it much, butStephen Fry in his “The Ode Less Traveled”, talks about it in some very unique forms. It is also mentioned in Poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. I love it and sometimes it is stunning. I have seen several pieces of this poetry come out of today’s challenge. I am suitably impressed. (I’ve linked a few at the bottom of the post) And you can see what the sky looked like below in the picture I took, which gave instant inspiration to this challenge
I love enjambment as it is so amazing to have that heart wrenching break. I really feel a twist in my gut when I am jolted from a smooth, flowing line that stops! And I have to continue on the next line. It thrusts me forward and I feel affected by poetry that uses this. I think Billy Collins is good at using it, and e.e. cummings was known for using it as well. (side note, I don’t like much e.e. cummings but a few)
Below are some of my favorites