A poem for poets

Poets who labor in obscurity write because they must.
Their very being cries out to put pen to paper.
Their bibles, textbooks, receipts, all covered with scribbled poetry,
Written while traveling, reading, pretending to listen.
Poets, writers who do it for trade, who have made a living with the written page -
Do they remember what it is to write for writing's sake?
Do they recall waking in the dark with an idea that must be hashed out?
I write because I must.
Ideas come to me as friends,
Stories that must be told,
Events and characters fully realized,
As if they have come into being without my knowledge and I am merely the scribe.
And yet, how I wish for writing to be my only occupation,
Do I not long for compensation for my work?
Am I no different from those who do write for money?
No, there is a difference;
They are the lucky few.

Java Monkey

I went to a poetry reading tonight at Java Monkey in Downtown Decatur. It was a lot of fun. I even got up and read. I thought people had to sign up in advance (which some people do) but they had space on the list so I read a poem entitled "Ode to the Blank Page." It was fun. I was nervous, but the crowd was very friendly. Really I was amazed at the diversity of the people there. I think it's refreshing to know that poetry is alive and well. I definitely want to go back. Java Monkey has poetry every Sunday at 8pm. Check it out.

Apartment Living

Here is today's prompt: Write about a less-than-remarkable aspect of your life.

Living in an apartment seems to be pretty run of-the-mill. I don't live in one now, but when my husband and I were first married, we lived in an apartment in my hometown in Maryland. I think everyone should live in an apartment at some point in their lives, just as they should have to take the bus or subway to work. These are experiences that make us well-rounded people. The subway for obvious reasons - especially if you're a writer. Where else will you observe such colorful characters? But I digress...
Living in an apartment is a great way to start out, or to remain if you like. Now that I own a house (or more accurately, am paying on a house) I often long for my apartment dwelling days. Yard work which can be enjoyable is never ending. Did you know that when you cut the grass it grows right back? Seriously, sometimes in a matter of days. I hate the winter and yet I find myself longing for winter to come, just so the lawn will cease to grow.
Apartments are much less work, but also allow for rich social experiences. In a neighborhood in suburbia such as I live in currently, it is entirely possible to go a week, a month, a year without any interaction with the neighbors. I was actually naively looking forward to getting to know the neighbors in my subdivision. We moved in, no came over to say hi. No welcome wagon with a casserole or homemade cookies. After we had unpacked, we had a garage sale. That was the first time that people actually came to talk to us. When there's a possibility that you might posses something that they want, they'll introduce themselves.
In apartment living, neighbors are part of everyday life. If nothing else, you have to pass them on the stairs (or in the elevator). We lived on what was called the terrace level. It was slightly below ground. We never opened our windows because they were at ground level. If I pulled up the blinds, I saw people's feet going by - very strange. We lived in an apartment complex called The Chimneys - "all the apartments have fireplaces," they told us. Ours didn't. There were only 3 apartments on our mini underground floor. You might think that only 2 neighbors doesn't make for much excitement, but you'd be wrong. One neighbor was e man in his lat forties that was on disability. Is being an alcoholic a disability? He would be drunk at 10:00 in the morning. One night on my way in, very late, I saw him passed out on someone else's porch. Our other neighbor was even more colorful a character. He was an older man from India. Maybe five feet tall and round. He cooked with curry, so much curry that when you opened the front door to the building, the smell almost knocked you down. I don't even know where to begin with him. He would force-feed us his homemade concoctions. You couldn't take it home and eat it, he would make you stand there and try it. One night he invited guests over to OUR apartment for dinner. He just showed up with a fully cooked dinner and two guests!
This man was a nut-case. He believed that he had written the lyrics to several popular Beatles songs, had invented the jet engine and that Jackie Kennedy was his illegitimate sister (does she look Indian to you?). Perhaps my favorite interaction with this man was when he showed my husband and I a picture of a young black woman (with short hair) and claimed that this was a picture of him in his youth.
Somewhere I have a list of all the insane claims that he made. I knew even then that I wanted to be a writer and that someday this information would come in very handy. So sure, living in an apartment may seem as ordinary as sliced bread, but the people that you end up living with are nothing of the sort.

Fiction "The Whir of the Car's Engine"

So I'm working my way through a writing prompt book. Here's the prompt: Write about a noise, or a silence that won't go away.

The whir of the car's engine. On the highway at night. Late, night. 2 am. There is nothing out here but me and the occasional car. My husband sleeps in the passenger seat, the dog, thanks to some wonderful pills from the vet, sleeps in the rear. Both periodically inhale deeply. A deep sigh. I find these sighs so comforting. They sound like life. Lungs filling to capacity and then air flowing out through the nostrils. The breath of life. I've turned the heat off and when they sigh I can see their breath - evidence of the existence of it, as if the sound wasn't enough. Between their sighs, just the engine. The radio is off. We have travelled far today, we have talked, sung with the radio, listened to books on CD, but now in the solace of the dark night, I am still - still aside from the vehicle around me cruising through space and time. What an amazing feeling being still and yet travelling. Seeing the world go by around me. I roll down the window. A rush of cold fall air forces its way inside the car. I glance around, checking to see if I have disturbed my travelling companions. No. I am alone in my consciousness. I inhale the cool air. I have waited all summer for this. The smell of autumn, it has come early this year, and I'm not sorry. No longer the smell of fresh cut grass, but the smell of leaves. It's the season of chocolate chip cookies and earl grey tea. I revel in the cool fall air as my car slices through it, the engine whirring, the lines on the road reflect up onto the inside of my windshield, constant motion. I am free. I have power. When they awake I will have taken us somewhere. While their bodies lay fallow, resting, I am at the helm.

September 11

So I know that today is the 14th, but I wrote this on the 11th.

The Enemy
I watched part of the memorial services on TV today.
I cried.
I didn't cry in 2001 - when it was all happening,
I was too shocked.
But this time I cried,
cried for all that has happened since,
for all those who were lost,
for their families, who six years later, still gather,
laying flowers and wreaths,
holding pictures,
reading names.
How long will our nation mourn?
Sadly, I know it will mourn forever - perhaps not for the 3000 lives lost that day,
but for the next great tragedy -
whatever it will be.

We will continue to mourn because the enemy is still out there.
No, not the nineteen hijackers,
nor the terrorists groups that they were working for,
nor Osama Bin Laden.
The only one - The one who turns men's hearts to stone.
the one who allows them to hate so strongly that they can take human lives with no remorse.
The enemy is not Muslims,
not Al Queda,
not even the suicide bombers themselves.

The Enemy is the Prince of Evil,
the source of HATE,
the one who thought equality with God was attainable,
the fallen angel.
The one who battled God and lost.
He was sent away and allowed to reign here.

Our job is to fight that enemy,
not the people who fall victim to his whims,
but to fight the enemy himself - The Prince of Darkness.
This war will wage till the end of the earth.
Wars among men cannot cease because the source of war is vigilant,
constantly seeking out new battles,
building his army.
Only when the final battle is won will the hatred of men cease to be.

First Post

This is my first blog post ever! I just went to a writer's conference this weekend and the panelists stressed how important it is to utilize the web...so here I am. My summer officially ended 9 days ago when Ben and I returned from our vacation in Orlando, so I'm a writer now. I mean, I quit my job, so my new career as of nine days ago is writing. Too bad the last 9 days have been filled with laundry, dishes, trying to figure out how to buckle down and write and having a really bad cold.

It hasn't all been unfocused time. I did manage to finish yet another draft of my book...The Tales of Sally O'Malley...The Orange Door. What I have to do now if figure out where to go from here. I need an agent, a publisher, a clue.

I'm also trying to write a song (something I haven't done since like the 3rd grade!) I lead a college/high school writing group called The IMPACT Players and our first assignment for the year is to write a personal theme song. For more about The IMPACT Players, check out www.myspace.com/mwimpactplayers