The Owl and Pussycat Went to Sea...

In a beautiful pea green boat.

When I was a very little, every night before bed, my dad would pull out a small green book. Coverless, dog-eared, the gilded lettering worn off the binding, he would carefully open it to a page and start to read. Inside, great men and women lived centuries past the limits of mortal breath, their hearts stamped in slightly faded ink onto yellowed sheets. Cramped and tiny, the print swelled the imaginations of me and my sister as Dad would read to us Walt Whitman, Johnne Donne, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Lewis Carrol and so so many more.

Some kids grew up on Goodnight Moon. I grew up to the Owl and the Pussycat. Not to forget O Captain my Captain, or Tyger, Tyger.

Its from these beginnings I developed a profound respect for poetry. Any way I try to describe why I admire and adore poetry comes out disjointed and bungling.

I'll just skip to the part where I post my own poems and hope they aren't terrible.

Crimsonosity

Life blood, bottled, brewed dark
to crimson, a striking shade of life.
Thrumming, humming, sounding, pounding,
beating an echoless lasting metronome
to existence. Rhythm of the ages;
one to two, two to three, three to four,
Pattern stronger than the stars above
yet silenced as a flame is snuffed.
A river of energy; sluicing through
narrow lanes to the outermost,
fading to lifeless blue, turning throughout
the endless circuit, starting at one again.

~~~~~

With poetry, one of the biggest statements you can make is that last line. If you can create a line that sticks in the mind of the reader, you've accomplished something. That moment when the reader takes in a breath that's maybe a fraction deeper than before, that instant of realization. You can never expect what effect your poems will have on someone, mostly because poetry is a form of writing very open to interpretation. Sometimes, I'd love to have a chat with Walt Whitman or Johnne Donne, to poets my dad used to read to me and my sister before we went to sleep.  I'd ask them what they were thinking of when they jotted down the notes and tidbits that led to the flowing lyrical delights of my childhood.

Now almost everyone has attempted at poetry when they are in that state of eternal suffering call being a teenager. No one understands you, no one will ever know what pain you are feeling. The darkness in your soul, the loveless state of existence. A lot of people have some poems floating around in that box or folder that they never open. Pretend it doesn't exist and play it off.

I wrote some of that stuff. Pardon me while I shudder at the thought of that dreck. After I got over myself and got into my college classes, I started taking a creative writing class. I had no interest in writing poetry. To me, it was just a stupid pastime when you were depressed or lovesick. I can wholeheartedly thank Dr. Robison for disillusioning me of that falsehood. From her encouragement, I learned that poetry is observation. If used properly, it can be used to present an reflection of the world to a reader, to think about something in a whole new way.

This is one of the first poems I wrote for the class that semester. It was eventually chosen and printed in the award winning student staffed literary and art magazine, Imprints. I've edited it bit since then to make it flow a bit better and take into account when I have learned but in effect, it is still that first moment when I realized what poetry can be for me.

Bits of Waking Moments

The mirror lay broken early lay on the floor, bouncing spots of life
across the room, glimmer piercing as they fly though the darkness.
Multitudes shuffle by, moving and shifting the pieces below,
Never seeing the artistry of the beautiful happenstance.
Down nor up, neither does the collective gaze, seeing not a shard
of the shimmering glamour.  Ever so rarely, a stray step shifts
sharp splinters into the eyes of one and wake them to the swirling
motes of living light. The moment of life reflected in that brightness,
a shattered bit of thought. Brought to wake in the light, the new
awareness rolls on as the new soul hungers, greedy for all sights to see.
Grasping for more until others would see the growing glow,
in all bits of waking moments.

~~~~~~~

Its almost 4 am and my eyelids are doing their level best to get together with my cheeks.

Thanks for listening to me rant about poetry and what it means to me, Lovelies.

Sleep well and Sweet dreams.

 

Any less concentration and I'll be chasing lint.

I cannot seem to keep my attention focused on one thing today. My brain is a million miles away, pretending to be a floating chunk of seaweed on the vast waves of Not Caring About Writing Today.

Not to mention, Punk is trying his level best to make my hands stop typing and pet his silly orange butt.

So last night, I buggered my schedule by forgetting Saturday is my new content night. I'm going to use this as a chance to skip a day. I tend to post well after midnight, so I hope to get calibrated some and post content on the day I say I will, even if its 2 or 3 am that day.

Even if I change up the schedule, I think I'd like to keep Sunday for Character Bios.

I said earlier that I'd be doing a bio on Valkyrie, so here goes,


Name: Valkyrie
Age: Unknown exactly, early to mid twenties
Species: Gryphon
Colorations: White with brown patches, barred wings and beige tips

Valkyrie lives in a world where the air is explored the way the sea is sailed. Massive Airships skim the clouds, ferrying people and goods to ports all over the world. Instead of a few large continents, most of the landmass is comprised of islands, the largest being 3/4 the size of Australia.

Valkyrie was born on a small island on an archipelago off the largest island. She has no clue about who her parents were. She was found asleep, bundled carefully on the top of a laundry bin in a circus caravan. Custody was shuffled around the various families and members of the caravan so many times her age became fuzzy.

At around 8, she was apprenticed to the tight rope walkers. The secondary and more secret objective of these members was to pickpocket in larger crowds. From a trained skill, she escalated into, what she called, an expert in covert acquisitions. She left the circus after 10 years as an rope walker to rely on her own skills.

For a year she hitched rides around the smaller islands before hitting a large port. From there, she picked up more lucrative jobs.

She is cautious when on the job and reclusive when not. She remains armed at all time, with a wide range of weapons. She prefer to attack in ways that immobilize and or silence her targets. A garrote is her weapon of choice, with one kept wound around her wrist, made of a brilliant red wire with a set of three large beads in the center for crushing the windpipe. On her person, she keeps two knives in each boot, a musket in a holster under her shoulder, and a black jack strapped between her wings. Also hidden in various spots are other items of use to her profession. She has no home that she returns to or even recalls. She feels uneasy when she stays in once place longer than it takes to get a job done. All of her possessions fit into a military duffle bag. This she leaves in the care of a trusted associate when going shipboard or on a job. If for some reason, she cannot pick it up, she telegraphs the holder to send the bag to her location via the soonest cargo vessel.

As of the start of the Fall of Valkyrie, she has not killed anyone. She has left lasting damage on some and made enemies of others. She picks her marks and targets carefully but is not above mistakes. Her most regretted mistake to date is taking the job that led her to Blood Basgut's airship.


~~~~~

My train of thought has completely derailed. Its past 4 am and I am beat. I'm going to call it and say I'm bound for bed.

I know I plead for comments and feedback every time, but lovelies, I really do want to hear from all of you.

Maybe if I get enough, I'll eventually explain why I keep calling you all lovelies. Because its not a random endearment, I promise.

Sleep well and sweet dreams.

Its really late/early in the morning and I've been watching Mythbusters.

I watched around 5 episodes of Mythbusters while trying to write for today's post.

Not that this is particularly relevant to the post. I just really like Mythbusters.

I know the more I post this on my social media sites, the likelihood of people reading it rises, but that knowledge doesn't change the fact I am quite self conscious. So when my boss asked just what the blog is about, my first thought was to hide and never show up to work again. I guess it all comes down to what I said before. I put a lot of myself into every piece I write. Each piece, once I get done with it, becomes precious to me. So I fear being teased about it.

That being said, my friends can and do tease me. Just not about my writing. Also, if you chose today to click on the blog, Hi Bosslady. Don't judge.

As Friday is my day to post original or completely new pieces, I decided to continue with the character I introduced with the Fall of Valkyrie.

Fall of Valkyrie
Part Two

Even from the other side of the ship, I could feel the hum of the airship’s engines. My ankles and good wrist were lashed to the sides of a hammock with tough cable, while my free hand was covered in a plaster cast. Deep inside the cast, an itch was making my efforts to focus on escape almost impossible. A thick musky mat lay under my stomach, padding the rope frame of my bed prison. I twisted a bit to the side to look out a small porthole, cloudy from the night fogs.

It had been a week and a half since I had been thrown off Blood’s ship into the wild blue yonder, with many of my flight feathers ripped out. The bolas that snared me and saved me from falling to death had done considerable damage. I pulled in a breath, slow and gentle, the cracked ribs screaming pain down my side as I wiggled to see out the window better. Splinted and held open with a crude frame, my healing wings stopped me from laying on my back or side. The fractures there and my hand were minor but I could still feel the gaps where my feathers used to be. I wouldn’t be flying my way out of here any time soon.

The door rattled for a moment before swinging open for a giant bear to enter. The covered tray he carried looked tiny, compared to his paws. On his belt dangled the stone bolas, the wide rounded weights clicking against each other as he stomped into the infirmary. He set the tray on the table in the center of the small room and squinted at me. The goggles over his eyes made them look large and watery as he sniffed loudly.

            “Stop wriggling or you’ll twist the braces for your wings and they’ll set wrong.” I felt a pinch as he ran his paws over the frames holding my wings open, tightening the cords. “I don’t think I’m good enough to rebreak and set a gryphon’s wing more than once. Now, do you want to feed yourself or are you going to make a run for it again?” He slid his paw to the bolas, sliding the grip stone out of his belt.

I nodded, eyeing him as he stood planted near my hammock, unaffected by the shifting of the airship. “I’ll eat civil this time. Word of honor. “ He loosened the knot around my wrist. After he untied my ankles, I swung my legs over the edge to drop to the floor. I fell to the wooden planks as my calves cramped and buckled under me.

The bear grabbed my good arm with his massive paw and plopped me into the chair at the table. With no further speaking, he watched me demolish the meal in front of me. From the dried fish to the mushy, too salty boiled potatoes, all washed down with a canteen of recycled cloud water, cold and clear. I probed the chipped edge of my beak again, already smoothed by a steady hand and file.

            “Thank the sky I was asleep when you filed my beak. I’d have bitten your hand off.” I picked at a couple pieces of preserved fruit, thick with a layer of honey and cream. “And thank you, for stopping those doses of laudanum. I’m of no mind to be hooked on it.”

            “It did the trick while you were shrieking when I was trying to set that damn hand, birdie. But you’re welcome.” He adjusted his goggles and stared down at me. He had to be at least two feet taller than me. “And you can thank the ballisteer, Prajan, for the beak. He’s a feather, like you, so it t’were his idea. Said you’d be better off with a groove than a sharp chip.”

I nodded, cleaning the honey and cream off my talons. “Why am I being held as a prisoner after being saved, Gabriel?”

            “No one gets thrown off a ship for being a great old pal.” His shaggy shoulders heaved as he burst into laughter. I cringed as he thumped his massive paw onto the table. “If that were the case, old Rule would have been chucked long ago.”

            “Granted. But I told you what happened. I was taken captive at the Futansi port, from my troupe’s caravan.” I looked him straight in the eye. “When I was apparently too dangerous to have their way with, they threw me overboard.”

Gabriel shrugged, a feat I had thought impossible by those huge shoulders. “Aye, Ms. Valkyrie. But I’m sure Cap didn’t get to own this ship by being a sucker for a pair of big eyes and a convincing story. And this.” He picked up a long thin metal tube, battered and dented. “The fact this was strapped to your leg, with papers inside, don’t really make me believe you too much.”

I fought the urge to look at the tube. “I run messages as a side job from the caravan.” I shoved the empty plate away from me. I glanced up at Gabriel to see him staring down at me,  heavy brows close over his eyes. I was getting nowhere with this one. “Will I be freed at port at least?”

            “That’ll depend on the Captain’s decision. Since you ate civil this time, I’m supposed to offer you a place at the officer’s table for tomorrow’s supper."

Before I could respond, he held up one of his plate sized paws. "To be sure you're not up to anything funny, you're not to be wearing your own things." He glanced at my tightly wrapped bandages, covering me from my neck clear to the bottom of my ribs. "You'll be wearing what I can give ya. Do you accept?"

I tugged at the bottom layer of the bandages. I really wanted my own clothes. Even though Blood had stripped me of almost every weapon I had hidden, they were mine. "There's no chance of me convincing you that I'm no more harm with my own duds than not?" I whinced as Gabriel shook his head in stern reply. "If I'm to ever have my case heard and believed, I'll have to accept."

Gabriel nodded as he collected the dishes back onto the tray. "Then I'll be back before the first galley call. Captain takes his meal usually around the third call. Now up you get, birdie." With one solid heft, he grabbed me by my good arm and plopped me back onto the hammock. He easily looped my unbroken wrist against the side of the swinging structure, moving to my feet next. Once I was firmly tied to my bed prison again, Gabriel picked up the tray and plodded to the door.

~~~~~~

 

I decided that this was a fair enough stopping point for the adventures today. I am seriously considering turning Valkyrie into my NaNoWriMo project, if I can get enough ideas for her. But I'm also considering using an older story I am quite fond of. I'll be posting Valkyrie's character bio this Sunday, if anyone cares to know.

Its been a blast, lovelies, but now I am exhausted and have ensured the high chance I won't be waking til well after noon.

Put your opinion in the comments! I want to know what you think! Its free to comment!

 

Sleep well and sweet dreams.

Bumbling, tumbling, rambling along this strange toil

Ever feel like a plastic bag? Oh wait, someone did that one already.

Ok, really, I'm not in the middle of some soul searching quest to find myself. I'm just trying to be funny. I'm not so good at that, apparently.

I hung out with one of my roomies most of the day. Meaning, I subjected her to dealing with my chatter, questions, bothersome presence. I dragged her to the mall to come with me to pick up my online order of clothes. Even after me dragging her around and wandering like a dolt, she bought me a thai tea. I cannot, I repeat with the utmost emphasis, drink enough thai tea. That glorious, cream and orange colored drink is strongly brewed Ceylon tea, mixed with sweetened condensed milk.

Another task of the day was to bathe the furious furballs. Three cats, three baths, almost no injuries. Its not an insurmountable task, just so you know. Everyone is so afraid to try, that bathing a cat is just not attempted. My Punky was raised with monthly bathes and Morgana introduced to it rather later. I usually don't get anything worse than scratched. Sadly, one debilitating injury was sustained this time. I stubbed my toe on the door guard to the bathroom.

Onto the real reason I keep this blog. To get on track with my writing. I know its only been about two weeks of posting, but I really want to get back into practice of posting new material.

I want to do two prompt days a week. Starting next Tuesday, if someone doesn't happen to shout me a random prompt, via facebook, twitter, or DeviantArt, I'll start using a random generator to create a theme and do a flash fiction for it.

I know, boring, boring, boring, capital B boring.

Poem incoming.


This poem is a practice in duality. On each side is a picture of the same emotion, taken in the light and dark.

Light

I am the spirit within the preening stag.

Urging him onward to clash with bravado

his branching antlers against his rivals'

for the attention of the hinds in the rut.

 

I am the muse of the daydreaming writer,

inspiring the fancies of his world within,

to sprawl across the page, a haphazard map

of his inner mind.

 

I am the love in the heart of the growing child,

watching as her mother works to fill the father's

empty place. She reaches out to hold

her mother's hand, a strength she strives to match.

 

I am the pride of the graceful dancer

as she spins across empty floor to music

only she can hear, not caring if the world

watched her as melody guided her feet.

 

I am the honor of the fighting man,

defending the land reverent to his heart.

To life and death does he march, to ensure

the sound sleep of his family as he is abroad.

 

I am the dawning joy of the new mother

as she counts the pudgy pink fingers

on the small clenching fists and breathes

in the sweet smell of her firstborn.

                                          

Dark

I am the hunger of the night stalker
aching to be sated in the warm flow,
falling from the veins of my latest kill.
Only to rise again, to strike when I feel fit

I am the nightmares haunting the sleeper,

stealing their rest to hoard in my lair, brooding
as a dragon over the invaluable moments of peace,
the true monster hiding in the dark spaces.

I am the obsession brewing in the spurned suitor
as he pursues the one who jilted him around his world.
So if he may not have this precious prize
then none shall behold her beauty at all.

I am the hubris swallowing the pontificating over pious

who assume themselves better than god to judge
and cast those aside, unequal in their eyes
And ignore the bloodstains covering their filthy robes.
 
I am the hatred of the harsh opinionated few
pushing their ideas down the gullet of our lives,
to see the lies ooze out our mouths and down
our necks like tainted blood and tears.
 
I am the sorrow drowning the newly widowed
as she watches half her soul slip into down
into cold heartless soil. Her hands grasp
a forgotten book as tears fall unchecked.

~~~~~

Shoot me a topic or theme for my prompt nights. It can be on any of my social media accounts.

If you don't know my facebook, tweet at me!

www.twitter.com/Alscye

With that, I'm calling it a night, lovelies.

Sleep well, and Sweet dreams

Crafty day and all that mess.

I like Little Big Planet. I love the designs, the concept, and the gameplay. So when my sister offered to crochet me something, I HAD to jump on the chance to have my own SackGirl.

Amber made the body, and I made the hair, bandana, clothes, and picked out the accessories. Its quite a call back when I used to make some silly little rag dolls with my sister and play out games with them. We called them games but a more understandable term for it would be roleplaying. Just two little girl playing characters we brought to life. Princesses and fighters of great courage and ability, mysteries and origins unknown. The villains were the worst of the worst, terrible people who deserved to be punished and defeated.

There I go again, rambling about my childhood. I seem to have a habit of doing that.

So I didn't post yesterday because I was in a butt of a mood. So I'll post something tonight to make up for that. Sorry!

I chose this one, because I thought a bit about my dad today. He passed away just short of a year ago, in September, 2012. I wrote this poem a few years back as another assignment for my CRW2032 class. The teacher, Dr. Robison, was a great encourager of those who wanted to write. If I could repeat that last semester of her class, I would. It wasn't a good time for me and I let myself drop out without finishing it.

Duck Pond

The day started with a trip to the store. Two little hands held in mine,
soft and small and shy, trust in the warmth of mine. Up and down the aisles,
those little fingers point and touch, until we see our  goal. Two boxes,
less than the five in my pocket, cheap fun for a family. Silly games and songs
fill the car with laughter. Peace seems just beyond my fingers today.
The pond is still, the sky streaked by long white wisps. My two angels run
across the field and their tiny feet thunder down the dock.  Stoic ducks
wait with knowing patience for the crunchy tidbits to land in the water below.
High pitch shrieks tumble to the pond, racing shivering ripples over the shining surface,
A whole bag fell, ducks scrambled in, dipping, flashing feathered tails to dive and grab.
I watch my life wander down to the lapping edge to skip crackers, square Frisbees
bouncing once, sinking sodden to the fish below.  Their laughter makes the day
sail by on iridescent wings and back to the car we trek, whispering as the sun sets,
our time to be free flown away.

 ~~~~

Well, I think its time for me to crash. I'll chatter at you on the morrow. HIT ME UP WITH A COMMENT! Thursday is another prompt day, so chatter back at me, lovelies! I want to hear from you. I feel so alone here in the white space otherwise.

 

Sleep well and Sweet Dreams.

 

 

Day off I guess?

Long day, lots of me freaking out and being a general worthless price of garbage.

Forgive, but I'm too tired and in no mood to be posting a meaningful and insightful symphony of words.

Sleep well and sweet dreams, darlings.

Crocheting and Sailor Moon

I will come clean and admit this post was shamelessly delayed by a show. Sailor Moon to be exact. Its no secret to my friends I am in love with this show from my childhood. Just like the Wizard of Oz, this will always be one of my all time favorites.

I spent most of the day today with my friend Ama again. I can't even remember all the strange things we talked about! We spend a good amount of time window shopping and Ama got to show me her favorite store for clothing. A bit later, we hit up Michaels Crafts to say hi to my sister. One requested Java Chip with a triple shot later, we headed back to my apartment. Later in the day, my sister came by after work and spent time with us too.

Thanks to a suggestion from Ama and my sister using a book my roommate gave me, I am going to have a SackGirl from Little Big Planet! I need a name for her. She's going to be crocheted with a soft grey yarn woven with shiny bits! I painted a couple of buttons a deep glittery blue for the eyes and the decorative stitching will be done with strips of bright blue leather. I'll post pictures here once she is all done. Words cannot accurately convey how much I love this idea of having a SackGirl. I adore Little Big Planet. I've only played it once sadly but it was with good people, not to mention a lot of fun!

To keep with my schedule, as this post as started on Monday, I'm posting a poem today.

This is another poem from my CRW2032 class. The assignment was to write a poem about a precious possession.

Woven Devotion

Knobby, faded fingers curl around the soft
cotton counterpane, unfinished, bits of material
by her side. Slowly the minute needle rises to
rheumy gaze, appraising the challenge.
Next came the serpentine thread, twisting,
writhing, always at the wrong angle. Stop.
Try again. She continues constantly, the hands
cannot hold the spiteful metal shard. Tears fall
openly down hollow paper cheeks as fingers fumble
for a thin slip of wire. Pinching, the metal loathsome,
she quickly threads the needle, casting aside
her most helpful tool as it binds her
to her growing dependency.

~~~

Well, I am quite tired and have a day of work ahead of me. Once again, Tuesday is prompt writing day. Toss me a comment on a prompt idea! I know most of the people reading this are from my facebook friends, so guys, come on! Shoot me a comment over FB! Or via @Alscye on twitter!

I might just dream in Japanese, lovelies. Sailor Moon is in my head!

Sleep well and Sweet dreams.