Why I Write
“browned” gets a mention in the press! (Photo credit: mr brown)
“Uncle Dan, what did you want to be when you grew up?” My nephew’s words tore into me, reminding me of people who had stood in my way urging me to do sane sensible things. “Go out into the world and get a real job!” “Do something useful.” “Working for a living is honorable.” Not one of my friends or relatives told me to follow my heart or pursue my dreams. In fact, one of them scoffed when I said, “I want to write poetry and short stories. I want to describe the world.” “There’s no money in writing,” he said. “It’s a waste of time,” said another. “Who has time to read?” My nephew looked at me curiously. He was still waiting for an answer. What could I tell him? I began as I believed I should, honest and straight forward. “I always wanted to be a writer and I waited until now to begin.” In the early evening Cicadas were saturating the air with a steady din and it continued even after the stars began poking through the black velvet sky. I’d listen and try to imagine a far away planet where strange creatures buzzed about giant cities. As the animal kingdom came to life small animals in desperate flight raced to stay ahead of their pursuers. The chasers were relentless. A scream, then silence. Another hunter had made a kill. The actions were out of sight and sudden, but I could imagine even the smallest details. My thoughts would drift back to space where my other world existed. My imagination was rife with possibilities. Were larger animals chasing smaller prey just like the ones I knew about, or did the smaller animals control the larger ones? My dreams were filled with stars and planets and my travels were swift. After hours of dreams, I would wake early in the morning. I would bounce out of bed, get dressed, and go outside ready to be immersed in new adventures. But sometimes my dreams didn’t stop on time. “Danny, wake up! You’re wasting time. There are animals to feed and chores to do.” My brother’s voice stirred me to action. A few minutes later the cows were contented again, eating oats and hay. The pigs were fed and after scattering corn for the chickens I went inside and cleaned up for school. I could hardly wait to tell my friends about the sounds of night and my imaginary planets. As part of our seventh grade English class Miss Brown often let us decide what we wanted to write about. Then she looked directly at me. “Nothing about planets and stars or stories about aliens or animals. Write about things you do during the day.” I wanted to protest but I knew Miss Brown would stand her ground. Many times she had told me, “Write about the things you know, not the things you imagine. Start over, Danny, and this time please follow directions.” After many attempts at describing real things, Miss Brown and I finally agreed upon a compromise. If I wrote and satisfied her requirements, I could write sci-fi and fantasy stories. In order to get my needs met I had to write more. Although my production increased, the quality of my writing didn’t. “Your writing isn’t good enough,” Miss Brown told me. “Don’t quit your day job.” At conference time she told my parents I daydreamed too much. “I don’t think he can be good enough to become a successful writer. Guide him towards the trades. That’s where the money is.” Throughout high school my teachers reminded me, “Very few authors became famous. Many of them suffered through bouts of depression. Some died young and others died poor. You have some potential but get a job that pays a steady income.” In college writing was on a collision course with literature. One professor ranted, “Read every story seven times and squeeze it for meaning. Otherwise you’ll never learn how to write.” Because of him and other like minded souls I decided that newspaper writing was the way to achieve success. But times were hard and over the next ten years several newspapers folded or consolidated for financial reasons. Jobs were hard to find and harder to keep. “Get out of the newspaper business,” a crusty old reporter barked. “Writing doesn’t pay very much but it steals your soul.” By then I had become an English teacher, although I still freelanced for small magazines. I continued to produce articles just for my vanity. I was not the only educator who dabbled with poetry or stories. Education was packed with aspiring writers with distinguished backgrounds. “You’re nothing special,” I was told. “Other writers are ten times better than you.” I joined writing groups but even there the news was grim. “If you submit your stories or novels to publishers, expect to get rejection slips. Even the famous authors were rejected enough to paper the walls of their houses.” Years passed and technology changed. Now older and wiser, I decided to write for fun and to entertain. If someone actually liked what I wrote, it would be good for my self-esteem. I became a blogger. There were a few followers but mostly I wrote for myself. I wrote stories and poetry but I didn’t really know how to entertain. I didn’t know how to add music and color. All I had was words. As I look back I still have not achieved my goals nor have I satisfied my soul. I still write because I want someone to understand that life is more than video games and TV. Perhaps I also write because I want to learn more before I die. As I write, my understanding becomes deeper and sharper but I think I’d have to be immortal in order to become a good writer. I still have so much to learn and so much to describe. Life is real. Life is earnest. Life is too short. I looked at my nephew. “I’m still growing up,” I said. “I’ve only changed on the outside.”
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Favorites I Keep
Redbuds (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The world opens up to show,
My favorite things,
Which can be enjoyed by paupers,
As well as wealthy kings,
They are not so secret,
But within, favorites I keep,
They can be easily aroused,
Whether I’m awake or asleep,
During stormy weather or fair,
They always bring a smile,
To my heart when I’m down,
They’ve kept me in awe for awhile,
I don’t share them all,
Not all of them are exposed to view,
But others can enjoy,
Some of my favorite things, too,
I didn’t enumerate or keep score,
Although in order the list is set,
I wrote them down,
Lest I forget,
It reminds me of childhood when,
The smell of fresh gingerbread,
Entices me to the kitchen,
Nothing needs to be said,
Spring brings a gentle view,
The first flowers of spring,
Mighty oaks standing tall,
Trees blossoming and greening,
Thick green grassy lawns,
Redbuds and dogwood,
Irises with broad beards,
Beautify my neighborhood,
Remembering and humming,
A happy song,
One that lingers in my head,
All day long,
The silence is broken,
After a swim in the pool,
When excited kids come home,
After a great day at school,
I’m reminded I need a nap,
With the purr of a cat,
Lying in the sunshine,
Contented and fat,
Water splashing in my kitchen sink,
A precious liquid and often the link,
To a shower after camping,
And a tall cool drink,
I watch with intense pleasure,
Water bubbling from fountains,
Sparkling with diamonds,
Cascading from mountains,
Burnt umber and scarlets,
The dazzling colors of fall,
Winter’s first blanket of snow,
Flying geese as they call,
Quiet things impress me,
Frost when it glistens,
A long soft kiss,
A friend who listens,
In the dark or in shadows,
Playing love’s sweet game,
Cuddling in the moonlight,
Whispering a name,
In the worlds I keep,
There is much to discover and see,
But my most favorite thing,
Is the love of a woman who truly loves me.
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Remembering 9/11
Image via Wikipedia
I watched with horror,
As the mighty towers fell,
Felt my anger rising,
At this hard glimpse of hell,
Yet I was off to brave the world,
Bravely waiting for my plane to land,
I refused to stay at home,
I was ready to make a stand,
I saw the excitement of first encounter,
As friends, family, or lovers greet,
There was relief in their voices,
Because they worried catastrophe might repeat,
Around me cell phones were springing up,
As contacts with loved ones were made,
Keeping in touch, a heartbeat away,
Unwilling to let their love fade,
Security was tight and lines were long,
Fewer travel bags to slow me down,
I would face my fears by visiting friends,
Who resided in a far away town,
I was frightened by the latest events,
Now while minutes stretched into hours,
I was feeling all the aches of aborted sleep,
But my thoughts were filled with towers,
There were fewer children with excess energy,
Because mothers wanted to keep them from danger,
Most people were traveling with purpose,
Afraid to connect with any stranger,
One destination to another,
There was a tightness expressed in their faces,
No one was sleeping,
They watched each other’s places,
Suspicious eyes glanced about,
Looking for anything foreign,
Life was precious after the attack,
Our senses were ripped and torn,
Patriotic apparel and flag bandanas,
Small flags were proudly shown,
Perhaps 9/11 woke us up,
And we preferred things homegrown,
We would look for the cause of this hate,
That hurt us deep inside,
Our country would surely act with haste,
And protect the world with pride.
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Yes, Tis True
Image via Wikipedia
Oft I tend
to ignore,
The angels
among us,
For they tug
at my conscience,
Right to the
very core,
They pull me
in nobler directions,
Out of my
selfish self,
Until my
heart turns loose compassion,
With few
strings left,
There is no
better explanation,
For what I
have learned,
Angels are watching
over me,
And they work
hard for wings earned,
Angels that
are grounded,
Will stay
afoot I’ll bet,
For I am far
from perfect,
My feeble
ways are set,
My heart
calls out to angels,
To fill its
empty rooms,
But my
vanity has grown big and bold,
Over my life
it looms,
And angels
that I’ve known so well,
Over years
that quickly fly,
Wait at the
corners of my life,
Helping me
climb on by,
I might tell
you once or often,
There are
angels among us, tis true,
They come in
many guises,
They’re
there for me and you.
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An Angel Is Watching Over Her
Image via Wikipedia
She is
vibrant and alive,
Her youth
shows,
An angel is watching over her,
For he
knows,
That her
life is yet to live,
The angel
calls her name,
Tries to
convince her,
That life is
no game,
She has
plans, so much to do,
Life can’t
wait,
She has love
to give,
And years to
follow her fate,
The curtain
of life is woven strong,
And it has
to be,
For life
courses through her veins,
And her
angel sees,
Her world
laid out before her,
Each and
every day,
He’ll guide
and protect her,
For she has
reasons to stay,
Her life
will ring true,
Until she
completes her list to do,
She’ll look
back and smile,
At all the
things she did worthwhile.
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Part 2, Going Camping
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Going Camping, Trouble in Town
At six in the morning I strolled down Main Street,
Admiring the small shops, enjoying the sun’s heat,
I went into Roger’s, a café with customers waiting in line,
I was told by a waitress, “It’s always like this, rain or shine,”
Inside on a wall there was a sign bright and bold,
WEAR SHOES AND A SHIRT AND DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD,
A sudden thought whizzed around in my head,
“It doesn’t sound positive, it sounds negative instead,”
Another sign, “If you ain’t hungry, you’re wasting a place,
We only serve those who’re feeding their face!”
I was tempted to order the Sasquatch Special Plate,
But I was sure the special was meant to feed at least eight,
I ordered the smallest dish, called the Redwood Tree,
Aware that several people were casually watching me,
The waitress sashayed by, several times or more,
Then she stopped and said, “Before you go out that door,
There are three men in the corner with words to say,
And they look serious, they don’t have time to play,”
I was still feeling positive so I strolled over to see,
“Good morning, Sheriff, officers, you wanted to see me?”
“We’ve been searching all morning for three of our friends,
We thought you might know just where we should begin,”
“I’m sorry, sir, I really don’t know where they went,
They came to greet me but little time was spent,”
They looked at me dubiously, “We’re watching you double,
You can’t come into this town and start causing trouble,”
“I’m on my way to the Prairie Creek campground,
As soon as my pickup is finished, I’m leaving town,”
“If our buddies don’t show up, we’ll be looking for you,
There’s a connection, even if you’re just passing through,”
I didn’t know what to say so I turned and walked out,
But before I got through the door I heard the sheriff shout,
“Remember, don’t go far, we’ll be watching you, Stranger,”
Something inside of me kept saying, “Danger, danger, danger,”
If I could get my pickup I would hurry and get on the road,
I didn’t want the sheriff and his deputies to add to my load,
The mechanic was still working, meticulous but slow,
“It won’t be done today, sometime in the morning though,”
What point was there to argue if the results would be the same?
A man entered the garage, “I don’t think I gave you my name,”
“I’m Nathan,” he said, “I drove you here late last night,”
Even without his hard hat he was a welcome sight,
“My wife and I would like to take you out to dine,
Then show you around our town, we won’t let you decline,”
He got into his pickup, waved, “I’ll be back at six,”
I found a motel, checked in, “I hope this isn’t a trick,”
When Nathan and his wife, Melissa, arrived, I was at my best,
“The food is delicious, the people great at The Logger’s Nest,
You’ll like the long benches that fit at each table,
We all crowd together and talk while we’re able,”
The conversation was lively, between Nathan and some guy,
While Melissa and I talked quietly, squeezed thigh to thigh,
She plied me with questions about my city life,
She wanted to know everything, why I didn’t have a wife,
Later they showed me what they liked about their town,
Stopping at bars to visit friends and throw a few drinks down,
I became the designated driver as the night took its toll,
Water and sodas had been my fare, so I was left in control,
Finally I drove them home, determined to walk to the motel,
“No, no, no,” Melissa said. “I’m almost sober, as you can tell,
Nathan can put himself to bed, there’ll be no debate,”
I didn’t want to argue, I was tired, and it was late,
On the way Melissa slid to the middle of the seat,
Then closer, thigh against thigh, I could feel the heat,
She leaned her head against my shoulder and sighed,
“I can’t drive with you close like this,” I lied,
“Nathan neglects me and leaves me all alone,
Why don’t you stay a few days and your camping trip postpone?”
I got out quickly at the motel but I heard the other door slam,
“I’ve got to use the girl’s room,” she said, and I was in a jam,
“I’ll just be a minute or two, and then I’ll be on my way,”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting at the truck, so please don’t delay,”
Time passed slowly and Melissa never came out,
Maybe something happened, although I had some doubt,
She was in bed, the covers tucked up under her chin,
“I’m cold,” she whispered, “so hurry up and get in,”
I shook my head, “Melissa, I can’t betray Nathan’s trust,
You and Nathan are my friends, I won’t give in to lust,”
She looked at me as if I had arrived from deepest space,
“He’s drunk and asleep, you can have me and leave no trace,
I’ve been waiting all evening for you, don’t you want me too?”
She was beautiful, I was needy, both of those were true,
“I’m sorry, Melissa, I’ll wait in the pickup until you get dressed,”
That was not what she expected for she looked quite distressed,
I shut the door behind me but not before I heard breaking glass,
Finally silence, I was sure positives won’t let negativity surpass,
She stormed out, her hair disheveled, her blouse torn,
“You could have made this easy and fun, now you they’ll scorn,
When I made plans to be with you, I must have been dreaming,
Now get out of my truck before I start screaming,
I’ll tell Nathan you laughed when my blouse was torn,
I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,”
One day of vacation used on this camping trip,
Negativity is winning, I’m in its grip.
(Part 2)
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