Thursday, May 11, 2017
So I'm also breathing a sigh of relief that poetry month is over. I love doing poetry, but don't like to get locked into doing the posts ever single day with all they entail. They kept me distracted from my WIP and Emblyn and Lowen were getting frustrated at being left dangerously maimed...:o) So I'm back to honing and will shortly be back to the actual story-smithing.
My mum called the other day. She's the sweetest person on the planet. Seriously. I crown her the sweetest. She totally made my month. She actually called a couple of days before to tell me she'd gotten the book I'd sent--my latest offering--THE HEART OF FIRE. Then she called two days later to tell me she'd finished it. I just wanted to cry when she said she couldn't put it down. And I knew she wasn't just saying it because I'm her daughter. She really loved it and asked questions about it and said the most wonderful things an author could hear.
That's why I spent all day yesterday making her a book. I can't tell what it is yet, in case she suddenly gets to use a computer and gets on here and reads this (not likely but still....) It was a labor of love. I hope she likes it.
And I'm working on another couple of camps--this time cub scout camps. I work for the Boy Scouts and also have jurisdiction over several packs.
Add to that wedding preparations and taking my children to work at random hours since they have yet to pay for insurance and other driving needs, and that all adds up to being really busy.
Lastly, all my helpful little forest creatures have been scared off by Sir Riles Barksalot, so I have to do all my own stinking chores. I can sing 'til I'm blue in the face and none of them come help (also might have something to do with the snappy traps I have out to catch the loser mice who just want to eat everything and give us diseases). I'm still hoping that same Sir Riles won't go find the yummy peanut butter and get his tongue snapped.
(Just on a side note, I think glue traps are horrible. They're supposed to be so humane but you still have to drop a big rock on them before you dump them in the trash or they'll get off and go back to their old mayhem, taking half the glue all over your bedroom. At least snappy traps are fast and they don't suffer much. With glue traps, they have plenty of time to hope and plan and have their little rodent lives flash before their eyes, contemplating the nature of their souls and their evils and the hundreds of babies they might not have. Go for the snap death that puts you right at those gates.)
My to-do list is Cinderella long, but I am NEVER bored.
Monday, May 1, 2017
I just finished a wonderful book by Dan Walsh called THE DEEPEST WATERS.
Laura met John Foster in San Francisco just before the Civil War. He was her only love and they were wild for each other. They married and chose to sail through Panama to New York to visit his parents and show his sister their wedding gifts.
On the way, they hit a hurricane and the ship sprang a leak. Luckily another ship turned up to take the women and children still remaining to safety, leaving the men to handle things the best they could during the hurricane. The initial ship then sank, leaving the men afloat on whatever they could muster up.
Both John and Laura had nearly unsurmountable problems--no food, little water, anguish that the other was probably dead. Laura had an added problem with a thieving crew member, but also an added guardian angel of an interesting sort. John's was a problem of morale. 0 oOo Oo o
o o O Oo o
O 0 Oo oo o O
o Ooo o O
I won't tell you who, if either of them, made it to safety. But what I will say is that the book was well-written, had finely crafted characters, was gripping to the end, and I couldn't put it down. Even though this is written by a man, I felt he had a good handle on the female psyche. I found myself dying to flip to the last page to see if they made it. But a kindle makes it easier to force yourself not to do it. I had to wait to relieve the lump in my throat. I just can't imagine how it would be to know my husband was dead at the bottom of the ocean.
I would have liked to know what had given John the idea that his parents would probably not welcome him home. What pushed them over the edge and caused John to seek life on the opposite coast? Other than that, I greatly enjoyed the book. And then to find out that most of the stranger things in it actually happened--magic!
Thank you, Dan, for THE DEEPEST WATERS. It was a pleasure to read. If you want to get this book, try Amazon. And now if I was just at the beach reading it over again. My take on it? Five bailing buckets out of five.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
|These don't seem that indigo to me. It's rare to find true indigo. That's why I love it.|
|Probably not Pluto, but to me Pluto will always be a planet, just as Indigo should always belong to the color spectrum. Besides, you don't know what Pluto looks like.|
Indigo is mystery; rare and difficult to find
Like Pluto on the outer edge, a pirate planet waiting to embark in shenanigans.
Like the sky just before the stars send sparks through the velvety night.
As comfy as an old pair of jeans with a new-found hundred dollar bill in the pocket.
|Just a l'il bit of Heaven on earth right here.|
© 2017 by H. Linn Murphy
Saturday, April 29, 2017
It's Poetweet day. If you're not sure what that is, go here. And now I'm going to have to cram everything into 140 tweet spaces, so I'm getting to it.
My memory looks like old Swiss cheese.
Could I have a transplant please?
My mind, unruly as a cat
Goes every which way. What about that?
© 2017 BY H. LINN MURPHY
(Hah! Exactly 140 spaces. And it only took me about 10 minutes and the revelation that I'd forgotten a very important appointment...sigh.)
Friday, April 28, 2017
This is a Clarihew Poem. Don't ask me how Mr. Clerihew rates a poem style, but Stephanie will probably know and tell you here. Anywho, that's what I'm writing today, if I can keep my eyeballs open. They're not hilariously funny, but what can you expect from 2 1/2 hours of sleep? In between stanzas, I'm playing my bodrhan (Irish drum).
BITSY THE BOY
Bitsy the Boy works hard when he works
But when he's not working, he dawdles and shirks
Perhaps if I gave him something better to do
He might not detest going after dog poo.
I took Bitsy Boy to the Oinks place to eat.
I mean how can you go wrong with bacon for meat?
But when he came out with two bags full of food
We found out you pay through the nose for what's good.
Bitsy the Boy is not very small.
And since he graduated he's gotten quite tall
I feared we would soon have to roll him to bed
If he sat there for too long he'd prolly be dead
But then Bitsy Boy got a really nice job
Lugging fertilizer and cement for ten bob
So it looks like he can't get away from the poo
Whether it be from a bark, or a cluck, or a moo.
© 2017 BY H. LINN MURPHY
|Sheepdog trials--Bah, ram, ewe!|
TAKE ONE TSP OF TINCTURE OF IRELAND
"Come with me, girls," Mum said.
"I need my daughters around me,
And an adventure to fill me up."
A bus-ride full of old ladies
Knocking about Ireland,
Buying shamrock key chains and
Erin go Bragh shirts? Bah!
|Mum--guess where she's from--but isn't she cute?|
How would I fit
What I really wished to take
From Eire's shores
Into that infinitesimal time and space?
A mere ten days, an instant
To be paid for in careful
Herding of pennies.
I hardly thought about it--
Something so un-graspable.
The letter languished
While I scoffed.
To find oneself suddenly transplanted
Into a place one has so long
Though could never make real.
Mum kept at it.
In very fact, she worked to make
Phantasm a reality.
She must have had her own list
Of necessary souvenirs--
Mainly smiles and wind-swept hair.
|Oldest and youngest at Blarney|
And suddenly, without a means
Of catching breath
I found myself on Eire's shores
Whisked there as if by fey magics
One minute breathing stale,
And the next day?
|A two lane road with gorse hedges coming right up to it--everywhere|
My soul filled with emerald richness
The scent of sea never far away
I wanted to own it,
That first breath of cloud laden air,
That lilt of Gaeltacht,
Lamb stew, and music.
I craved the right to pull it
Into my soul and keep it there,
Burnishing the memory
Until it shone like polished brass.
An underlying drumbeat,
Heartbeat of aged place.
|A day at Muckross Abbey|
Not for my soul so much the
Shopping and choosing and
Counting of Euros, taxes and customs,
The boarding of a careening bus
At the behest of others
Exhausted and tense with
Of who am I with them, and why?
|From the bus, Murt driving, thankfully|
I took hardly a chance to pull it all
Inside and make it my own,
To fill reservoirs with green traceries
On peat bogged pebble.
But had I only known,
Each encounter added a stone
To the walls which hedge
My memories of that place.
I would have inhaled
The yeasty laughter,
The creak of aged oaks,
And the pattering of rain.
|I had a really hard time getting a pic of a house with the keeper boards on the ends, but they were everywhere. The boards keep the shingles from flying away in the wind.|
I now see I must return!
Like a necessary drug,
I must breathe it in once more.
Perhaps to share,
But maybe not.
To be dragged hither and to? No.
How can I say
What things are necessary now
So they'll understand?
I must seek again the sound of a
Lonely whistle as painted sheep graze
On far-flung green hills.
|Cliffs of Moher--me not jumping|
I must savor the age of the stones
In my bones,
Fill the air with my own drumbeat
And the haunting notes of an old new song.
Find that place to be
Which hasn't felt the weight
Of a million other hurrying feet.
Layer upon layer of aching History
Lives cherished and lost to the
Brazen new world.
I must tie my own rag
To the whitethorn tree.
|Tying one on at a whitethorn tree|
I ache for kinship with those who stayed
Who dragged a life
From the stony soil or the angry sea.
Those who watered that soil
With their blood
In order to breathe free.
Need to feel, not an interloper,
But a daughter, long lost
|Harder than it looks. The wind blows your breath straight back into you.|
My soul must find roots and
Sing them to life.
I must be in the music. Akin.
|Ancient me at Bunratty (or Mouth of the Raite) Castle|
I am your seed, Eire.
Lap me up and we two
May spread wing together
Take flight o'er peat bog and heath
To be the stones and the light
To be the flowers
Gripping tightly to cliff-sides,
A safe haven for those without.
Let me help. Let me breathe.
Let me own.
Bid me return, not out of necessity
But from kinship.
|The standing stones at Blarney castle|
© 2017 by H. Linn Murphy
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Today is Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day. You can go here to see what that is. I'm going to write one and then go hibernate because someone kept me up all night....
A big part of the problem is both of us do it,
That cacophonous commotionous, incredible feat
In spite of the contortionly positions I sleep in
To stop up the sound of two walruseseses in heat.
But last night, long before I could even position
My head on the pillow to start my deep breaths
Your maw opened up and let loose a great aria
Of nasal proportions that featured great deaths.
I lay there and fidgeted knowing that too soon
The son for a ride into work would come knocking
But there you were, singing, with pompous bombastion
Oblivious to poking and prodding and boxing.
So now, in the morning, I'm a hag-ridden zombie
Stumbling around like I haven't a head
And I wonder how often I've done a disservice
To you, who must work, despite feeling dead.
Perhaps it is time to acquire a concoction
Which quiets the sound of embattled brown bears.
For then we'd sleep frapious and rise in the morning
All cheerful, callooing and doing loud cheers!
Until then I suppose there's a chair or the sofa
For those nights when you sound like a rattling train.
Or, I guess I could fill up your bedside with popcorn
Or nap so I won't go completely and absolutely and in all ways insane!
© 2017 by H. Linn Murphy
And now I'm off to bed for the second time. Good night.