what's everyone up to today? i've been chillin with my grandson in town this weekend... he's so easy going.
so, my challenge, i have an art show coming up in november, i'd like to illustrate or photograph some images for a little poetry book. has anyone ever done this?!?
please advise!
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Revision
(Need suggestions for a title :) and any other thoughts or criticism. remember the poet is not necessarily the narrator. :) Thank you.)
My mother is a robot. She has years
of programming. She repeats the words
that were so long ago embedded in her memory.
Boys only want one thing.
When kids become teenagers the iron in their blood turns to lead in their butt.
Don't spit on your own floor.
Brazil nuts are called nigger toes
and flip-flops are thongs.
She had a glitch in her harddrive once
and spent a few years as a young flower in the wind
with long flat hair parted down the middle.
Then she was repaired, reprogrammed to believe in playing
by the rules, spanking her children, and paying taxes.
She gasps when I say Damn it, cringes
at violence on TV, refuses to talk
about sex, and looks away when someone makes a vulgur gesture.
I think my mother needs an upgrade. She is a free-spirit wrapped
in a bible with a man pressing down. She hides her vibrator
in her sewing bag. She occasionally drinks cheap wine for medicinal purposes,
but she makes someone else buy it. An ostrich with its soul stuck
underground, she doesn't speak her mind because someone, somewhere
may not like what she says. She means nothing
and everything. A soft blanket
put away on a shelf until her children are cold.
By M. Qualls
My mother is a robot. She has years
of programming. She repeats the words
that were so long ago embedded in her memory.
Boys only want one thing.
When kids become teenagers the iron in their blood turns to lead in their butt.
Don't spit on your own floor.
Brazil nuts are called nigger toes
and flip-flops are thongs.
She had a glitch in her harddrive once
and spent a few years as a young flower in the wind
with long flat hair parted down the middle.
Then she was repaired, reprogrammed to believe in playing
by the rules, spanking her children, and paying taxes.
She gasps when I say Damn it, cringes
at violence on TV, refuses to talk
about sex, and looks away when someone makes a vulgur gesture.
I think my mother needs an upgrade. She is a free-spirit wrapped
in a bible with a man pressing down. She hides her vibrator
in her sewing bag. She occasionally drinks cheap wine for medicinal purposes,
but she makes someone else buy it. An ostrich with its soul stuck
underground, she doesn't speak her mind because someone, somewhere
may not like what she says. She means nothing
and everything. A soft blanket
put away on a shelf until her children are cold.
By M. Qualls
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Subtle Suggestion
We're already slipping up a little bit. It happens. Perhaps, to get things more connected, everyone can post something about themselves. Maybe even a picture. You know, just a little bio. There are a lot of new people here, and it never hurts to get to know those you already know. Some suggestions might be: Favorite books, favorite authors/poets, your strengths and weaknesses in writing, your favorite color, etc.
Just an idea... ;)
Monday, July 12, 2010
Prompt: Or Prelude to---
Jazz
Dancing, Holding, Moving slowly.
The Lights are low, the air is filled with a mix of perfumes, spiced tomatoes and cigarette.
The chandelier is filled, wobbly-lit candles. The flicker and shake, casting intimate shadowy couples around the room.
Tables surround the glossy floor. They have red and white cloths and one lone large candle stuck into the neck of an old wine bottle. The tables are small, set only for two.
In a dim corner,on stage a tall dark skinned man holds his sax like his baby. The band is good putting heart into their sultry cords..
They sway like I do.
Moving gliding, loving the warmth and smell of him. I love being held by his warmth his scent. It is different when I am closer. Spicy and deep. Just his smell sends slow shivers down my back.
I am close enough to feel each breath-- his heart beat. I bury my nose in the warmth of his neck. He chuckles, softly, deep, knowing.
I feel his laugh from chest to thighs. I laugh a sigh. He slides his hand lower to the small of my back, pulling me closer. We both remember. My face in his neck, his in my hair. The song changes and we sway slower closer our feet barely moving. Anticapation.
Dancing, Holding, Moving slowly.
The Lights are low, the air is filled with a mix of perfumes, spiced tomatoes and cigarette.
The chandelier is filled, wobbly-lit candles. The flicker and shake, casting intimate shadowy couples around the room.
Tables surround the glossy floor. They have red and white cloths and one lone large candle stuck into the neck of an old wine bottle. The tables are small, set only for two.
In a dim corner,on stage a tall dark skinned man holds his sax like his baby. The band is good putting heart into their sultry cords..
They sway like I do.
Moving gliding, loving the warmth and smell of him. I love being held by his warmth his scent. It is different when I am closer. Spicy and deep. Just his smell sends slow shivers down my back.
I am close enough to feel each breath-- his heart beat. I bury my nose in the warmth of his neck. He chuckles, softly, deep, knowing.
I feel his laugh from chest to thighs. I laugh a sigh. He slides his hand lower to the small of my back, pulling me closer. We both remember. My face in his neck, his in my hair. The song changes and we sway slower closer our feet barely moving. Anticapation.
HEY THIS IS IMPORTANT
Just a quick FYI for all of those posting here: this is a PUBLIC blog. Therefore, everyone on the internet can read your work. While this should not pose a problem, please remember if you want to submit any work to be published and it is posted here, you need to take it down here. Online publishing is considered publishing by many magazines, and you don't want to hang yourself. It's pretty simple. If you're going to submit a piece that you've posted here, just delete it. No harm, no foul. We'll all understand! If you need help with this, or have any questions, let me know. I just wanted to be sure everyone was aware of this!
Thanks!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
RE: prompt
basking in his presence
his face pressed against mine
thighs aligned, tongues intertwined
breathing through his mouth
i rise to the occasion, drenched in sweat
i clench my teeth as my muscles spasm
me, wriggling out of control
i scream in sheer delight
my toes unfurl
as a sigh is released
from him and i
his face pressed against mine
thighs aligned, tongues intertwined
breathing through his mouth
i rise to the occasion, drenched in sweat
i clench my teeth as my muscles spasm
me, wriggling out of control
i scream in sheer delight
my toes unfurl
as a sigh is released
from him and i
post #1
I seem to have lost a lot of the works I had done on my computer. I am left with the beginning of a short story and a very short poem. The following, in bold font, is the beginnings of what I hope to be a novel one day. I always have trouble starting a story, so I began with dialog...any suggestions are more than welcome!
"The altercation began approximately here," Officer Don Rudlow pointed to his shoe, which was next to a pool of blood, "in the living room and ended in the kitchen. From the information we've gathered, Detective, it appears that the assailant arrived and left by foot. We've surveyed the area for footprints to no avail. No dice on fingerprints either."
"Well done, Rudlow. Take five, my men will contain the crime scene."
"Thank you, sir."
Detective Thatcher pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket to cover his mouth as he coughed. He turned to his crew and motioned for them to get started. As they began tagging and photographing all potential evidence, Detective Thatcher began to follow the trail of blood with his eyes. The observations the officer had given him were clumsy, at best. The puddle of blood the officer had pointed out, and claimed to be the initial point of attack, was spattered in a way that there would be no entry, nor any sufficient space to hide for such a gruesome attack. Not from that angle, Detective Thatcher was sure of that. No, the attack had to have begun in the kitchen, worked its way into the living room, leaving the assailant with one exit, the kitchen window.
Thanks in advance for the criticism! I could use it :)
"The altercation began approximately here," Officer Don Rudlow pointed to his shoe, which was next to a pool of blood, "in the living room and ended in the kitchen. From the information we've gathered, Detective, it appears that the assailant arrived and left by foot. We've surveyed the area for footprints to no avail. No dice on fingerprints either."
"Well done, Rudlow. Take five, my men will contain the crime scene."
"Thank you, sir."
Detective Thatcher pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket to cover his mouth as he coughed. He turned to his crew and motioned for them to get started. As they began tagging and photographing all potential evidence, Detective Thatcher began to follow the trail of blood with his eyes. The observations the officer had given him were clumsy, at best. The puddle of blood the officer had pointed out, and claimed to be the initial point of attack, was spattered in a way that there would be no entry, nor any sufficient space to hide for such a gruesome attack. Not from that angle, Detective Thatcher was sure of that. No, the attack had to have begun in the kitchen, worked its way into the living room, leaving the assailant with one exit, the kitchen window.
Thanks in advance for the criticism! I could use it :)
Prompt, The First.
I will occasionally post prompts here, and I recommend that you do the same. If you do use one of the prompts, maybe let us know when you post it. That'd be super.
Prompt:
Write about your sex from the opposite sex's perspective. This can be parodied, funny, serious, sexist, worshipful, loving, whatever. Go there.
(I'm not going to lie, most of my prompts are for poetry, but some of these can be useful for fiction too, I presume. If not, fiction writers, get on it!!)
Here We Are Again
After talking with Judy, I decided to try an online style workshop cite in addition to the Tuesday night group. I prefer face to face, but let's face it (har har har) life happens and people get busy. This will be a place to workshop at your leisure (both fiction and poetry and whatever) and also share other information. I've added a bunch of you as posters, so let me know. Thanks. Love.
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