The Hook

The Hook

Making another cup of coffee for the road and the valley below! Last night at midnight I saw the pattern of my story, with a day and a half left to finish and submit it! I'll just write flat out all day and started editing tonight, polish tomorrow and voila! Feeling free to clatter away at the keyboard is enervating! Like Pegasus I'm rising! It came to me while I was looking at other blogs and was reminded of the things I value most! It's amazing how the brain works in mysterious ways, especially the creative brain! Afterwards you can see the pattern. I was going to describe the process, but my right brain won't let my left brain work at the moment, because it's time to create! Makes you feel shivery!

That's all I have to report for now, as I must get to my story! More soon! Keep writing, keep creating!

Poetry and Prose

Passion

People only love passion when it is exciting, revitalising and inspiring. They like it when it suits them. The moment they feel tired or distracted and don't want to be bothered they condemn the same energy they adored not long before. Suddenly they resent and reject it, condemning its owner for being inappropriate, too demanding or going too far. They will even lie to prove their point. They try desperately to quench that very energy urging them to open up to life, to themselves, to reality.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Ruby

'Twas a hard scrabble

life for an uncut Ruby,

a girl with nothing,

just strength,

often clopping

slowly down the days,

consumed with shame

at her sadness and

cultivating an

outward dress of

competence,

confidence

and always put

the best foot

forward, even

despite its

leaden weight.

No one knew

she lived

with a bullet

in her heart

and a worm

in her brain.

All they saw was

a will of iron,

a stalwart,

a saviour,

someone to help,

someone to use,

someone to save

them from themselves,

if only they'd let her,

but most preferring

kicking

beating

tricking

cheating,

for they know not

what they do,

nor what they want,

nor how

to get it,

nor if they should.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Learning Love

She learned to love

from the sweet, warm

ponies at the

stables up the hill.

Joseph the dun,

a wall-eyed menace

who loved to

nip and kick -

Javanah

dapple grey

with her

velvet mouth

and gentle spirit -

patient Josephine,

a shiny bay

who loved children

and never baulked

nor bolted -

Blossette,

with her Arab spirit

and towering courage,

- her favourite -

who jumped like a cat,

taught her to ride

without tack,

won red and blue,

laughed at her,

and loved her

and still has her heart.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Losing Helen

In some places the black asphalt glistened with little puddles of rain. Occasionally sounds penetrated in a muffled, dampened sort of way. Greyish cumulonimbus clouds wandered in a crowd, hardly any distance above the ground. The car seemed to drive itself and he reflected inanely it was good it was a Rover. He started to think and stopped immediately. He knew he couldn't bear it. He chose to continue cocooned in his dull numbness.

He fought not to remember the way she'd suddenly stepped back, flinging her arms outwards, then slumping forward as if punched in her centre. He fought to return to the earlier memory and the warming moments of relief when the other woman had laid the gun on the ground and he'd smiled to think Helen safe. He'd barely heard the taunts of the man stepping into the Rolls, hardly seen the woman reach for the gun and level it, nor seen Helen step forward into the line of fire, while he was moving towards her, ready to reach his arms around her, enfold her and keep her alive and safe forever.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Baseball

Why does the pitcher get four throws and the hitter three misses?

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~