Category: Sparks

  • From The Roots

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    From The Roots

    By Su Shafer

    I need to let go of the uncertainty

    That I am anything else but a dragon.

    Just a little dragon

    A little wood dragon

    Hatched from a little crystal egg

    As green as the nest of moss it was laid in

    Carefully built in the cool leaf mould

    Gathered in the crook of Granny Maple’s

    Gnarled old roots.

    There is a fire in my heart

    But wood dragons are careful

    Creatures of the trees

    Where fire is seldom welcome.

    Shy as a brown creeper,

    Hiding in plain sight,

    Few people see me

    And the ones who do

    Can hardly believe it.

    Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and other bits into characters that appear in paintings or sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables. She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where the tea kettle is always whistling and the biscuits freshly baked. One never knows who might stop by to share a rainy afternoon. And all are welcome.

    #justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting

    Marlene C

  • MissUnderstood Me

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    MissUnderstood Me

    By Julie Sherman

    Not all dragons are fire-breathing, terrifying, scaley, menacing creatures. Folklore and fairytales have given us a bad name and have ruined our reputations.  

    Some of us are quite nice. Some are even meek. Some are mothers who just want to care for their young draglings in the dark, clammy caves of our homes.  Others are literally party animals and want to romp and roll in the mountains, scratching our backs on the rough terrain.  And most of us are kind. 

    Many of us go around helping other dragons fend off bully dragons who flap their immense, scabrous wings close to other dragons’ faces and blow smoke through their enormous nostrils and balls of fire through their mammoth mouths.  We are descendants of pterodactyl and t-rex, so we get our wide mouths from the latter and our flying chops from the former. But we are not all nasty, dangerous monsters.

    One day I was minding my own business, clomping around the bluffs by the white-capped seas, taking down a few trees along the way, and I saw two humans on a large red cloth mat lying in the sun. They had a small dog with them and it started barking wildly staring in my direction. I did not eat the dog. And even though I don’t like dog, I did not breath fire on it.

    The two humans shielded their eyes from the glaring sun and looked up. There they saw my curious face tilting this way and that as I stared at them. They shrieked and screamed and made such a fuss.  I was just looking.  I guess my smile appeared to convey that I was ready to breathe fire because they scrambled to their feet and began running away, leaving everything behind them, including the dog and red plaid mat. I didn’t do anything but watch them. One of them tripped, but the other just kept going.  I would never have done that. We are actually very much like elephants in that we help our kin get out of mud pits and sinking sand when our wings are exhausted from the struggle.  

    We suffer too.  We sigh. We exhale flameless. We have our soft side, yet even after millions of years, we are so tragically misunderstood.

    Julie Sherman is a long-time Petaluma resident who enjoys writing, reading, music, travel, and attending live theater. She is the mother of opera singer Camille Sherman and music producer Emily Sherman, and has been married for 35 years to bassist Jeff Sherman.

    Marlene C

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  • Inflatable Snowman, A True Story

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Inflatable Snowman, A True Story

    By Su Shafer

    Across the street, the inflatable snowman is down

    laying on its side in the dirt by the porch

    its head still turning back and forth

    back and forth, back and forth

    looking from the cold black ground

    to the heavy belly of the leaden sky.

    It’s still smiling, but the smile seems 

    tentatively directed right at me

    silently saying

    “Hello?! No arms, no legs — 

    I’m not getting myself back on that porch!”

    and wondering why 

    I’m just standing here 

    Staring at it laying there 

    half deflated and helpless

    It starts to snow, 

    the only sound is

    the little motor in its head

    whirring, worrying 

    how bad is it going to get

    down here on the ground?

    Still smiling but desperate now.

    Why does she just stand there?

    She could lift me up

    she could knock on the door 

    and let them know

    It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake!

    Who is going to save the snowman

    from the snow?

    Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and other bits into characters that appear in paintings or sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables.

    She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where the tea kettle is always whistling and the biscuits freshly baked. One never knows who might stop by to share a rainy afternoon. And all are welcome.

    Marlene C

  • Dream Weaver

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Dream Weaver

    By Sarah Horton

    I dreamed the world was a place of love and harmony . . .

    Dream Lover . . . What dreams may come

    You are my dream lover – thinking of my love, my sweet heart . . . (song pops into my head)

    Dream

    The snow is falling . . . hard.

    The air is thick with it . . . in my nose.

    I wander on the path while the winds blow. 

    I slip, and almost lose my footing. 

    The pathway is blurred from the flakes and wind blowing.

    Soon, there is no side view or peripheral vision.  

    Instantly, only one foot in front of the other and I think— if I keep moving it will clear. 

    Clearly, I now step ahead — one foot, then another, and another.  

    My nose is running, the cold freezes my cheeks as the snowflakes continue to gather and melt on my eyebrows — dripping down into my eyes.    

    Blinking, here I am, here I am . . . step by step . . .  one foot then another . . . into the dark and bitter cold just a breath away.  

    My breath turns to tiny crystals, and the snowflakes are landing on my tongue now.  

    Running out of air, I try to take a deeper breath.  

    My throat is frozen in the process.  

    Shorter, shorter, crispy, short breathing as I slow down to just standing.  

    Swirling all around me is the sound of the wind as it brushes past my ears and disappears into the darkness.  

    Like a moving whirlpool of air, I am in the vortex . . . standing still . . . centered in my heart, pounding, waiting, louder pounding, waiting, and more waiting.

    The wind, now roaring harder,  picks up and pushes against me in my front chest. I turn my body and it hits me on the side — feeling my neck cold, exposing skin as the scarf I wear blows off and disappears into the darkness. Whoosh!

    Is it the sound — my attention moving to my feet, I move a quarter-round again —only to be blown forward from the wind hitting my back this time . . . hunching my shoulders, and feeling the air move up my neck under my hair and into my hat.— no hat now,  again . . . bracing myself, hunching and waiting, waiting, waiting . . . the next big blow . . .

    Waking up, I find myself nestling under my covers, with my naked skin against my lover’s chest.  

    Relief breathing out a full breath. I open to his warmth and touch. We kiss. We breathe into each other’s openness, being the love and the heat we share. Open to the warm and moist touches all over my body, opening and softening. I feel the solid curve of his muscles, moving and touching me, the tips of his fingers exploring my inner worlds of love and aliveness. Melting into one with each other as we soar high in the safety and warmth and darkness of the night.   

    Oh dream weaver

    I believe you can get me through the night

    “Dream Weaver” song lyrics by Gary Wright

    As an artist, Sarah Horton is constantly inspired by the natural beauty that surrounds her in the ‘Lost Sierra’ Nevada Mountains and Lake Tahoe wilderness.

    Her passion for photography has led her to capture stunning vistas and fresh mountain waters around the world, while her love for painting has allowed her to bring her own unique perspective and creativity to her large canvas work. 

    As a writer, she is able to dance in the gap between the intuitive right brain and the practicality of the left brain. 

    Sarah lives north of Lake Tahoe with her sweetheart, Christopher Burton, and her dog, Lady Lulu. Her decades of life experience culminate in the simplicity and joy of appreciating sacred time in silence and creativity.

    She welcomes your visit to her literary artist blog and enjoy the visual art there as well.

    Marlene C

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  • Shears

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Shears

    by Marian Van Horn

    I have been working on letting go of things that no longer serve me. Past hurts, painful experiences, things that cause me resentment or anger. Then I had this dream the other night.                                                         

    A small 5-year-old child is floating around a room. I am watching her. She is about a foot above the ground and moving effortlessly. She is focused on doing that and nothing else; enjoying the simple movement as children often do when absorbed in the present moment.

    When she floats by me, I ask, “How do you do that?”

    She looks down and says, “With these.”

    She pulls out a huge pair of silver shears. I am a little shocked because they are quite large and sharp and she’s only five years old, so I worry a bit, but she hands them to me and says, “You try.”

    I take the shears and start to float. Not with as much ease as her, but I am able to skim across the room a few inches above the floor. It is exhilarating.                                             

    I thought about this dream when I woke up. The exhilarating feeling of letting go stayed with me, so I looked up shears in my dream symbol book and one description was “cutting out of your life the things you don’t need anymore.”

    Marian Van Horn’s interest in writing began in 1979 when she found some poems safety pinned together in her grandmother’s cookbook.

    Marian’s poetry appeared in the Sitting Room 2012 Annual publication and in Fantasia: Poems by David Beckman & Friends.

    Marlene C

  • Simple Joy

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Simple Joy

    By DSBriggs

    Joy is . . .

     

    Hearing a tail thump when I walk in the room.

    Watching my dog at the dog park as he smiles

    and checks in before running off again.

     

    Talking to my sister after a long period of silence.

    Being with my niece and her family.

     

    Today, joy was sitting with a close friend, talking about family recipes,

    remembering how thankful I am for our friendship.

     

    Shared laughter is joyous.

     

    Some days joy is being outside on a good weather day.

    You know, warm but not too warm or cold but not too cold.

    The “why we live in California “ type day.

     

    Joy, is seeing a tree in a different way and the interaction of sunlight and leaves.

    Joy is watching the mad dash of squirrels racing around an oak tree.

    Joy is watching puppies, kittens and goats  play.

     

    Joy is watching toddlers exploring their world.

    It’s also seeing the family enjoying time together.

     

    Joy is a handwritten card or letter from a friend.

    It’s finishing the last stitch successfully and finally!

     

    Joy is a clutter-free kitchen table and a newly mopped floor.

    Joy is finding my lost earring or re-finding a good book or picture.

     

    Joy is a pain-free walk.

    Greater joy is seeing or being in the mountains. 

     

    Joy is quiet calmness with a good cup of tea.

    Donna Briggs writes under the name DSBriggs. Donna and Moose, live in Northern California. Retired from teaching children with visual impairments, she still loves learning and word play. Her desire is to travel, finally finish some quilting projects, and reduce her to-be-read pile of books.

    DSBriggs has participated in Jumpstart for a number of years. She feels fortunate to have her work appear in Marlene Cullen’s Write Spot anthologies, available from your local bookseller and from Amazon (print and ebook).

    Marlene C

  • Offer It Up

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Offer it Up

    By Tracy L. Wood

    It was a catch phrase of my mother’s. Whether our sweater was itchy, or our new church shoes gave us blisters, or a sibling was teasing us, Mom’s standard reply was Offer it Up.  As a young person, this response was unsatisfying. It didn’t fix anything, and it felt dismissive. More often than not, I wanted her other catch phrase, which similarly didn’t fix anything. But at least Oh Honey came bearing sympathy.

    This was before Mom got involved in Al-Anon where she learned about the Serenity Prayer and to Let Go and Let God. In many ways those adages offer the same comfort, or challenge depending on one’s state of grace, and were simply another way of saying Offer it Up.

    I like Mom’s version better. I often hear Mom’s voice nudging me to rise above and connect with a higher spirit, even without itchy sweaters or ill-fitting white patent leather shoes. When I am on a hike, her words are as pertinent while I battle a swarm of mosquitoes on the way up as when I finally glory in a spectacular view from the top. Then, on the way down, when my knees ache and I grow frustrated at my 56-year old body for sometimes just sucking, I again remember Mom’s words (and pop a couple ibuprofen).

    Offer it Up doesn’t just mean to “get over it.” Rather, it acknowledges our current state of discomfort, pain, or joy, and reminds us to share it all. Offer it up keeps us humble and centered as we ride the waves of emotions that come with our humanity.

    Similarly, Offer it Up does not absolve us of action; it does not tell us to sit idly and suffer silently.  It is just a step, a breath, a moment, a prayer.

    Tracy L. Wood is a former Marine and retired secondary English teacher. She currently teaches writing workshop classes near her home in Newbury, New Hampshire where she writes a weekly newsletter “My Mother’s Piano: from stuff to stories.”

    “Offer it Up” was originally published Tracy’s Substack,  “My Mother’s Piano.”

    Tracy’s mother’s piano is one of the many things that did not move with Tracy and her husband when they fled their suburban home near Boston, where they raised their family to ride out the pandemic in rural New Hampshire. It has come to represent the things we cherish but cannot keep.

    Marlene C

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  • River Walk

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    River Walk

    By Cheryl Moore

    As its tides ebb and flow

    following the moon’s journey

    across the sky—egrets, herons, sand pipers

    wade in the shallows on muddy banks

    mallards, coots, grebes

    paddle in the river flow,

    a night heron rousts

    on a birch tree branch.

     

    In the distance fog slowly evaporates

    revealing the huge hump of Sonoma Mt

    its golden slopes

    patterned with dark green trees.

     

    To and from my river walk I meet and greet

    dog walkers at Wickersham Park

    I pause to watch a dog sprinting

    after a ball his human has thrown

    he leaps in the air—a spirit of joy.

     

    The park’s stately trees seem to smile

    to see such active exuberance.

     

    Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college in San Francisco, then lived in foreign lands before returning to settle in Sonoma County.

    She enjoys her garden where deer nibble on roses, raccoons dine on fallen figs, and the bird feeders are busy.

    A nearby river offers opportunities to observe waterfowl.

    Seeing and writing about these miracles of nature are adventures in living.

    Cheryl enjoys writing about nature: September Light

    Marlene C

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  • Enduring Awe

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Enduring Awe

    By Karen FitzGerald

    What brings me joy?

    Riding my bike brings me joy.

    The wind in my face on a warm day, sailing through traffic jams piled up at those long, stop lighted intersections like Farmer’s Lane and Highway 12.

    I love it.

    I always feel child-like when I’m riding my bike.

    Recently, I’ve taken to singing while I cruise. Not too loud, but loud enough to feel the vibration of my voice ripple through my body, from throat to sternum to stomach and right on down my legs to my ankles as I pump my way up the Chanate hill.

    I especially love going off trail. That is, I am not a mountain biker. Oh no. Too hard on the back.

    In fact, any more I’m thinking mountain biking people are not fundamentally joyful people. They are like as bumpy and unpredictable as the trails they navigate. Nope.

    Give me a long shot on a nice, gentle ocean-side stretch where cows graze on green velvet hills to my right, and the ocean’s horizon beckons to me on my left.

    Oh gosh – this is more than joy-provocative. This puts me in a frame of mind and feeling that might be understood as spiritual: me, pedaling along on a quiet, deserted west side road flanked by grass-tufted sand dunes, the smell of tide on the ebb, and a never-ending, razor-sharp horizon stretching north to south; and there, flanking my eastern side—rock outcroppings peppering hills being kissed by cobalt blue skies.

    Such a ride brings me inexplicable joy, a feeling of wordless, radical awe – enduring awe—until I come across the inevitable roadkill.
     
    Karen FitzGerald is a genre fluid writer, known by some as an “emerging writer.”

    She has been emerging for 50 years.

    Her most recent work is found in e-zines such as Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and The Ekphrastic Review. (Scroll down for Karen’s writing, “Manuela’s First Baby.” )

    Karen’s major works can be found in slush piles all across America.

    Marlene C

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  • The Sleeping Lady

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    The Sleeping Lady

    By Tina Deason

    The earth in its dormancy is like a sleeping lady. Her make-up: the leaves, the flowers, and the vines, are washed away and her naked face is revealed.

    And like a sleeping woman, one can see the radiance that glows from within.

    Without the outer adornment, we see that beauty is skin deep. . . the bark on the trees, the moss on the ground, and the rosehips clinging to the bushes.

    All that was hidden or silently forming is now exposed. We find glory in the structure and smell the scent of Nature’s Night Cream wafting through the air.

    Without the blanket of sunshine, we realize the bareness of earth’s body, with angles and curves we neglected to see before. Now we reach out to caress them and notice some areas are smooth and some are not only rough, but fuzzy like an old woman’s face.

    The older woman, sleeping, the gentle snoring as the wind blows through a valley or a hollow. The slippery ground we walk upon, formed by her tears of letting go.

    She looks brittle but she is as strong as ever. Her roots run deep and her heartbeat thrums its pulse . . . so powerful we feel it in our bodies.

    The snow will come and create a blanket, one to shelter the earth, making her pure once again. And then spring will come, and the sleeping woman will awake. She is revived and fertile. She is waiting to open, and to blossom once again. To birth the world anew.

    But for now, she rests. She sleeps in peace. She trusts the cycles of the year and refrains from worry, for it does no good. Her elegance is born from this faith of safety, and she continues to bring comfort to her creatures, for the earth will always be our person, our go to, and when getting back to nature we meet up with her. She embraces us, the hug is full of confidence and pride.

    Looking out the window today, and noticing the dark morning and the purple haze of tule fog, I know that it has begun.

    The transformation of one year into the next. I know the Maiden lies down as a Crone and sleeps . . . and I will, too.

    Resting is what is needed to rebuild.

    Having patience releases worry.

    Less worry means less wrinkles.

    Tina Deason is a mom, writer, and a spiritual leader.

    She lives in Rohnert Park with her fur babies, The Mitten, Dewey, Freyja, and husband. Visit La Bona Dea’s Journal of Everyday Magic to learn more about Tina.

    Marlene C