I started this blog post and it came out as a poem, a poem about my  own notebooks, my own  writer’s journals. .

Worrying Pearls

by Gerardine Baugh

A few words, in my notebook- of odd thoughts.
Surprising about today was the cold
it froze my nose as if January.
Ice beckoning to me, in one great fall,
while sun passed overhead, inline struggling
with melting ice, ice set to keep its shape.
I could taste the hint of snow in the air.
I realized, my snow thrower was checked
Inspecting its inners. Will it still work?
Nor did I check dark corners of the barn
brushing aside abandoned spiderwebs
digging out shovels. Winter has started.
I don’t want to give it deeper power
by conceding its power over me.
My Notebooks filling with lines of odd thought.
A few words or a full chapter scribbled
into many notebooks taking up space
like a gnome on my shelf, making me smile,
Releasing ideas for characters,
places to have them act out and struggle.
Spit, swear, surely worrying pearls with words
my notebook written one cold November.

This was written in blank Verse, iambic pentameter,  unrhymed, ten syllables.

Notebook or journals are the homes of  snippets of thought you come up with while standing in line for coffee, at work when you’re supposed to be listening intently during the office weekly meeting.  A word or phrase that sounds amazing. A dream you don’t want to forget. An idea. That perfect description of a character that you haven’t yet written a story for. Those ideas all belong in your journals, your writer’s notebook. So when you are bogged down with can’t-do, you can open your notebook and see what triggers your muse’s can-do.

I was flipping through W. Sumerset Maugham’s Writer’s Notebook.

“The night is wonderfully silent. The stars shine with a fierce brilliancy, the Southern Cross and Canopus; there is not a breath of wind, but a wonderful balminess in the air. The coconut trees, silhouetted against the sky, seem to be listening. Now and then a sea-bird gives a mournful cry.” ~pg 145

The interesting part about a writer’s notebook is that reading it can help shake up your muse. Keep flipping pages- keep looking until- suddenly you see it…. and your imagination takes off.

From the Inside Flap of  W. Sumerset Maugham’s Writer’s Notebook.~
“From 1892, when he was eighteen, until 1949 when this book was first published, Somerset Maugham kept a notebook. It is without a doubt one of his most important works. Part autobiographical, part confessional, packed with observations, confidences, experiments and jottings it is a rich and exhilarating admission into this great writer’s workshop.”,

I like using paper, -hard copy- notebooks. I find them easier to access than getting lost in amaze of emails or folder in my ‘documents’ on my computer.

Today I became word-stuffed on this eleventh day of NaNoWriMo. Even taking a walk did nothing to help with writing this Blog post; nothing could remove that word-wall blocking my muse. So, I wrote a Kenning  inspired poem.

A NaNoWriMo Writer By Gerardine Baugh

Word-eater
Coffee-believer
Pencil- nibbler

Title-chaser
Page-Babbler
Daily –counter
Pen-Tootler

Word-hoarder
nemesis- scribbler
Script-twister
Narrative-breaker

Once every November
A NaNoWriMo writer

“Kenning, concise compound or figurative phrase replacing a common noun, especially in Old Germanic, Old Norse, and Old English poetry. A kenning is commonly a simple stock compound such as “whale-path” or “swan road” for “sea,” “God’s beacon” for “sun,” or “ring-giver” for “king.”~ britannica.com

By Gerardine Baugh

Computer-ease a sound that comes out

Mute-mute-mute-id -ed

Chopped up pieces for your ideas

Their ideas, part of my ideas yet not really philosophies-ease

I click on, on, on to see, see, seen  what is not there

Yet, I never notice the absent-ness

In the words a byte at a time

Void of reality

Just a follow-ing  of ants

A step across my keys, in an attempt to find out,

Nothing. Comes of it-it-it

I wonder how can something come from nothing?

Write, write, written later read, without reading

Seeing red, in lines, read

____________________________

Why am I not seeing past worlds, wordily, words  that lack depth,

an- an acumen

That- tat ran-ran  around chasing  tails as an end

of a long line of nihility -ness

Rainbow’s Edge

by Gerardine Baugh

Rain,

moments before had pounded the roof and quenched the needs of my garden.

As the rains    slowed     the setting sun   slipped    around    the fast moving clouds.

Clouds

bluish-black tinged with yellow edges of gold,

bright,

quiet pillars of God’s rays mirrored inside those clouds painting a rainbow and exposing an invisible edge.

An edge of a planet that stays out of sight,

except when the earth drinks from the sky,

soaking up color,

then spiraling back to the Earth.

Giving rise to songs as it appears,

shimmering,

within a semicircle of color and hope.

                       Then quietly disappears.

I choose greed. Why? Well I really, really want stuff right now, stuff that I can’t afford, so greed seems fitting.

Greed is not just ‘wanting’ what someone has, but, the complete ownership.

Winds battled over and around the Old Oak tree pushing,

Pushing a Squirrel out of its den of Oak leaves, sticks and tuffs of grass and chicory

Flattening his body into the deeply furrowed bark, the Squirrel weary and old,

Old hollow branches, and deep set roots, holding tight against the winds

Light slipped around the fast moving clouds, snow falling high above turns

Turns to water and ice spears rain down hitting the Tree and Squirrel carelessly

Fields stretch-out and around the Squirrel and Oak Tree, winds press the prairie flat

Flattening the tallest milkweed pinning it to an uneven ground,

Then pulling out what it can and combing over the rest

“Rest if you can!”  The winds mocked, ripping up and tossing pieces of dirt.

Seeds and human cast offs, controlled by the wind, the ground appears to be rolling

Rolling out with the same voracity that gale spun in with, the winds were moving on,

Seeds and berries were taken away from the Squirrel, the Tree lost topsoil inside the winds

“Winds can be harnessed,” muttered the Squirrel, “Use its power to spread seeds and light”

The tree laughed, “Greed won’t allow it!  Greed is for one not all! Wind power profits are for everyone”

“Everyone can survive, save and flourish with wind power. Think about it little squirrel and ask yourself …

Is it Greed when the heavy winds blow away what can be used or eaten?

Is it Greed when a tiny rodent squirrels away food for winter?

Is it Greed when I, the mighty Oak, digs deep and drinks all I need?

Or, is it Greed when the fields are cemented over in the name of economic growth and profit,

“Profit? What is profit?”  Asks the Squirrel,

“Money to line your nest.” answers the Tree,

The Squirrel’s eyes got big.

 The Oak Tree laughed “You and I are not profitable.  

The ground vibrated under the tree the squirrel looked out.

“Hold tight, old Tree, Greed just rolled in!”

I posted this poem for today’s prompt “write a snapshot poem” this afternoon I also took this video with the new camera, – it’s a Nikon.  

Link to poem a day challenge: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2011/04/16/2011AprilPADChallengeDay16.aspx

 I used up the Cannon after eight months and the Sony barely made it a month.  I had bought the extended warranty at Best Buy so I was able to try different cameras. So far the Nikon is the best.

Michael is beginning to think cameras don’t’ like me. I keep explaining that some electronics have gremlins in them

I thought I would have trouble with setting up a video, then I found using, Microsoft Live I could fix it and upload it to YouTube

Here’s April 16^th, 2011’s poem..

“Freeze Frame”

by Gerardine Baugh

It is snowing

Uriah runs up to me

His thick coat is covered in water droplets

Looking up, he gives me a doggy grin

Knowing what’s coming I cringe and step back

He begins to shake

That, slow movement

Only his pudgy, furry body can accomplish. 

Where he turns his head one way, and

His body fat slips in the other direction

Water is launched from the ends of his fur

Encompassing him in a shower of reflected light 

I turned my back on him and the wind  

Time stops…

My hair covers my eyes

Snow blasts past me

An invisible serpent writhing as an updraft

Bellowing out my coat it slides up the naked trees.

Gathering up dry leaves from the ground, and

Playing with them around the tree tops

In a millisecond, sound stops

Then, the winds skate back down the trees

Letting go

Raining brown leaves within the white snow

Slipping across the grass, then

Like a playful child, pulls at my legs

Snowflakes hit my face stinging cold

Uriah doesn’t seem to notice the wind, or the cold snow

Staring expectantly

He whines and nudges at my hand for a treat

There was a little boy who walked across the road

He wanted to see where the wolves had gone

His mother warned him not to wander

Nature is dangerous and needs to be feared

Still, he only looked back once, then sprinted

Between the trees into the darkened corners

Leaves formed a canopy over his head

He delighted in that secret place, and ran on

He saw a flash of grey fur and a shimmer

As the sun flashed off the wolves’ laughing eyes

Without fear he stepped into a clearing

An upsweep of flowers white and yellow and blue and red

A place where cinnamon perfumed plants grew

The boy stopped, his mother’s warning echoed

And fear grew, and he picked up a stick

A wolf cub ran up to him and pulled on his pant leg

Fear had him raise the stick above his head

       Fear had him swing the stick at the pup

Its mother looked up, when she heard the yelp

The eyes of its mother showed fear

             Fear that had shown in his own mother’s eyes

                   Fear that that placed that stick in his hand

                         Fear that now mirrored in the pup’s eyes

The boy dropped to his knees and cried

             He cried for seeing a threat that wasn’t there

                   He cried for what he lost by allowing fear, control

                         He cried for the pup he had hurt

The mother wolf trotted over to her pup

She licked his wounds until he wiggled happily

Then she turned to the boy and licked his tears away

When the sun touched the edge of the earth

And the sky turned pink, then red, then purple, then black

The boy came out of the trees

His mother was waiting, tortured, with fear

He raced to her and tired to explain what he saw

                     She did not hear him

                          She clung to him in a panic

He patted her back and hugged her shaking shoulders

Then he pulled away, and looked back towards the trees

             …without fear

*

Remember, June 21st World Peace and Prayer Day. I posted a poem on June 4th.  Take a minute and send out a prayer for the earth, a prayer to stop the oil spilling in to the Gulf and our oceans and all our lives.

 Take a moment, one second, to pray. Pray for the earth to sustain.

I was able to grab the camera and take pictures without waking up Tomoe. She slept for three hours before she had to hit the litter box. Tomoe owns the bed after I get up. It was very early and I wasn’t ready to get up.  She didn’t care.

Then Uriah needed to go.

 I resigned myself to the day starting very early and set off outside into the early morning sunshine. Birds screamed at me as I carefully walked around spider webs and newly opened dandelions. Uriah barreled under the pink crabapple blossoms and stepped on the greenish-reddish stalks of unopened peonies. I noticed the Lilac’s flowers were still in the small budding stage in a few more days I will smell their fragrant perfume. I probably won’t bring them indoors, Sano eats everything. I don’t believe they are poisonous to cats.  But he will make a mess of them.

When I came back in I noticed the coffee was already brewing. Michael had gotten up when I took Uriah out and set up the coffee pot. In a daze of complete coffee bliss I told Michael he was like a God to me. Bad move! He kept repeating that all day. Very irritating! 

Yesterday I had heard on the radio that the Tick season has started in Illinois. Great! Ticks love me! Any Tick, in a ten mile radius, will jump its way on over to me.

Michael thinks it’s hilarious, when Ticks leap from the grass and trees towards me.

We are not amused! Heavy sigh!

Well, yesterday evening I took Uriah for a walk and came back inside. Not thinking about Ticks at all… It was a cool evening, not summer cool but that spring cold where you’re wondering if it will snow by morning, definitely not insect weather. I walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water and noticed a slow moving black bug on my arm.  I brushed it into the sink and called Michael to tell me what it was.  I didn’t have on my glasses, so it could have been a spider or a piece of dirt.  I was surprised he said it was a Tick and quickly washed it down the drain.

I asked him if he could see any more. Arms out, I did slow turn.

Leer, leer!  Wink, wink!  

“Just look for Ticks!” I grumbled and rolled my eyes.

Michael announced I was Tick free. He was wrong…I was wearing black pants and Ticks love dark colors. I sat down and noticed a shiny little body crawling on my pant leg. Then another and another…Eeek!

*

*

If you’re interested here’s a site about ticks:

http://www.idph.state.il.us/envhealth/pccommonticks.htm

I am not Kate Gosselin

I don’t have eight kids

Really! I don’t!  Believe me, I looked!

My divorce was never on the internet

Or television, or in the tabloids

Could have been…

At one point I did a walk-on for Jerry Springer

I was working, installing a sign 

Across the street from where they were taping

Up on a building, standing on a ladder..

They asked me to be the jealous girlfriend

Does that count?

If I was Kate Gosselin

I would have a reality show

Dance across the screen

And hit the talk shows…

Wait!

I’m still looking for those eight kids

They have to be around here somewhere!