Zane Grey? Really!

My poor husband. He must get this no-win feeling every time I sit him down and say, "let me read this to you."

He doesn't like or 'get' most of my writing. Especially poetry.

So I try to just make him beta read only a few of my stories. I try to save it for when I really need an opinion. I know family is not the best judge, they are biased, but sometimes I just need to bounce things around a bit. Talk through what is not working.

Last night, I needed someone to read a story I have started for this off-site contest. So I tied him to the chair and read it to him.

When I got finished, he said "Wow, that's really detailed, kind of like Zane Grey." Zane Grey? Really? I was writing like a published author. How exciting!

"Yeah, you know, when I read Zane Grey, it's too much. He stops to describe every flower of every field, and then, when he's describing the horse the guy is riding on, he details every conch in the saddle, every hair on the horse's head. I just want to know what color the horse is. Not it's whole life story."

Oh. Maybe not as much a compliment as I thought!

"So you're saying I need to lighten up the description?"

"Yeah, that story sounds like a really long poem."

Back to the drawing board!

Thank you honey for your patience. Oh...and by the way, I have this poem...

As some of you already know from my excited facebook post - Vox Poetica has accepted Spring, After the Drought. I'm very excited about this poem. It was part of the April initiative on writing.com. Some friends and I did a 30 day challenge, we did 30 poems in 30 days. I wrote "Spring After the Drought" about my husband, and it's one of my favorites. It's scheduled to appear the night of Sept. 19th. I've also included an audio file, my first recording of one of my poems. This is all so exciting! Thank you so much to Vox Poetica for giving "Spring" a chance.

Reposted from Facebook: Yeah! I have had two poems accepted! WEEE!!! "I am delighted to accept "Lovers" and "Trollop", and will let you know when each is posted, ten days or so." This is a great place to submit poetry. Be sure to send a photo, and read the submission guidelines carefully. http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/ The moral of this story? Think about the intended audience when you submit. I wrote/modified pieces that I thought might fit the feel of the venue (A virtual bar) and submitted those. And keep submitting! Best wishes Sil

Sitting in Ellen's Office

Sitting in Ellen's office, I find
remnants of her pre-retirement days.
A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses
tucked askew at the back of a drawer.

Did she think she wouldn't need them?
Or did she have so many
they are like sticks of chewing gum
used and thrown away.

I am a pale imitation - a shadow
sitting behind her desk
looking out the dusty window,
watching clouds and foggy trees.

I look down the endless hallway
and listen to the slap of the staples,
the aluminum ping of a microwave,
the "Firework" ring of a cell phone.

I take a chair out so it
won't feel so crowded.
But in reality, the ghosts of those
who sat here before me
keep the office full.

One of my 30 for 30 - "Poem a Day" for April: Sitting in Ellen's Office Sitting in Ellen's office, I find remnants of her pre-retirement days. A pair of tortise shell reading glasses tucked askew at the back of a drawer. Did she think she wouldn't be reading once she retired? Or did she just have to so many pairs they are like sticks of chewing gum used and thrown away. I am a pale imitation - a shadow sitting behind her desk I see out the dusty window, clouds and foggy trees. I take a chair out of the office so it won't feel so crowded. But in reality, the ghosts of those before me keep the office full.

Reverse Advertising (Poem Just for Fun)

Alternative Title - "I'll Keep My Old Wife Thank You."

Sale streamers flutter at me
Like a flirtatious look from a new wife
Come hither, they call from the street.

I step out of the shadowy afternoon
And into the brassy showroom.
I am showered with flowered guises.

They parade on stage, tufted, or buttoned,
Pink petals, pert and perky.
Their frames, flexible yet strong.

Their looks hold up well under these conditions.
But what, after the turn of twenty years,
and the weight of bouncing of children?

In front of me, a taught one shimmers.
A butt so firm, it’s quarter worthy.
THAT one would promise me no rest.

Over there, another advertises,
"No springs" - and dreams fit for a King.
Her sighs are silvered whispers.

I turn to go and she tugs me back,
"I promise an unforgettable memory -
and I know how to not spill the wine."

But I know better.

In one soft exhalation, she would return to her former state,
And welcome a new lover without giving me
a second thought. So much for remembrance.

I think I’ll keep my old one.
She’s saggy in all the right spots,
And knows which side I sleep on.

Who cares what they look like anyway?
No one ever sees them naked.
Except maybe for a few minutes in the spring,
when we air them out on Sunday.

Grief

It ricochets off the walls,
a push here, a pull there,
on the hunt
for a weakened seam.

I know
if it finds one
it will unfurl
and fill all the space

like an automatic lifeboat
expanding,
sucking in all the oxygen,
a balloon
of unwanted air.

Until fully bloated
it displaces everything
and crushes it
beneath.

So I clutch my fingers
over my belly,
and will it
to stay
inside.

Reclaimed

Reclaimed

Hot sand refracts and cakes
gritty on sinking soles.
Mirrored shards in waiting
reflect the wave’s laughing children.
Their foamy tongues lap and tickle
between grips of loamy toes.

There for an instant they hang
until reclaimed by their mother.
The sea’s grasping hairs
pull rivulets in undertow
and the very ground beneath me
disappears.