Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Bittersweet
by Lynn Levy
Lynn Levy lives in Northern California with her husband, an overly familiar wild scrub jay called “Bubba,” and an enormous wisteria. She and the wisteria are in negotiations regarding ownership of the patio trellis.
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
My Pen Tonight
By Cheryl Moore
My pen seems to have run out of words.
Minutes tick by—tick, tick, tick
But no matter how hard I try
All starts dry up and say good-bye.
When Cheryl Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever get.
Travel has taken her to Europe and the Middle East. She has written on these memories as well as on the flora and fauna of the local river and her own garden.
Chery’s writing has been published in “The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries,” available from your local bookseller. Print and ebook available through Amazon. Also available through the Sonoma County Library system.
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Jumpstart in Meter
By Ken Delpit
I wonder if it makes good sense, to do Jumpstart in meter.
I mean, what’s the point, masking oneself, like a blindfolded trick-or-treater?
It all depends, I suppose, on the prompts that we are given.
It could turn out to be mere folly, or crazier still, madness-driven.
Marlene always says, “Just write,” so just write is what we will do.
We will contemplate the prompts, one at a time, and stir them into our stew.
Time will tell us, as our words spill out, no need to pre-distress.
We’ll know soon enough if we’ve got a yummy meal, or just some metered mess.
Prompt one says: What bothers me…, I don’t care…, I’m tired of dot-dot-dot.
So, right away, we must gaze inward, and put ourselves on the spot-spot-spot.
One thing that can be tiresome is overuse of ellipses.
But truth be told, I’m as guilty as most, oft’ with the “and so on” tipsies…
Or, maybe I can find a rhyme in things I care not about.
But then again, who wants to take in some testy writer’s careless blowout?
Or perhaps, fluency may lie in what bothers me the most.
Though, it surely would confuse, were I to make a bouncy meter morose.
Prompt two asks, innocently enough, what it is that’s nagging.
It’s hard to answer, when there is so much, but might I be humble-bragging?
Or, what I really want to do might spark a burst quite wordy.
Though, honestly, I’m just plugging away, trying to get to ten-thirty.
Prompt three wants to know about those who might be my role models.
It’s a marvelous idea to ponder, but a thorny prompt to coddle.
For, were I to list those who’ve inspired, and cite them in report,
I could not possibly do them justice, and I would come up stupid short.
So, what am I to make of this, this Jumpstart done in meter?
Well, if I’m real, I’m surely no Ogden Nash, but more like Walmart greeter.
Ken Delpit is, in chronological order, a son, a brother, an Argonaut, a Bruin, a software engineer, a husband, a father, a technical writer, and, Ta-Da!, a grandpa (aka “Poppy”). But hold the phone: Now that he is retired and freed from the odious burden of doing real work and being responsible, he has embarked into the wide-open adventures of creative writing. Ken welcomes the freedom and spontaneity of Jumpstart workshops, the inspirations that they inevitability evoke in participating writers, and the warm camaraderie of all.
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Identify with Trees
By Cheryl Moore
Looking at the Chinese Zodiac, I don’t find an animal I can identify with.
Why are there only animals? Why not plants?
If there is a living thing I mostly identify with, it is a deciduous tree.
Trees are tall, stand upright. They reach up to the heavens; I am tall, upright (at least most of the time).
I reach up to the sky doing my morning exercises.
Trees are more silent than most animals—no barking dogs or yowling cats, trees only whisper when they sway in the wind.
Their annual cycle ranges from quickly budding in spring, like childhood, then full glory in summer like the energy of early adulthood, until their final flash of color, ageing until their bare branches in winter resemble skeletal bones. A bit rough perhaps, but in a loose sense, how I identify.
When Cheryl Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever get.
Travel has taken her to Europe and the Middle East. She has written on these memories as well as on the flora and fauna of the local river and her own garden
Chery’s writing has been published in “The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries,” available from your local bookseller. Print and ebook available through Amazon. Also available through the Sonoma County Library system.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).