A Writer Finds Hope Amid the COVID-19 Pandemic

by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

I’m receiving varying messages through my artistic virtual channels.  Some of my friends are sheltered in place writing, and painting for hours on end.  Their creations, I am certain, will reflect the circumstances surrounding their current reality.  Those feelings, those never before felt nuggets, will flow through them onto a blank page, or canvas.  For some the message will be easily understood, in full display for all to see, while for others it will be hidden, like the Easter eggs I wish my grandchildren could be searching in my back yard on Sunday.

Then there are those who say they can’t seem to create a thing.  I hope for them to have clarity soon, because I find being able to immerse myself in any creative endeavor the best way to soothe my frantic nerves.

Unfortunately, I have not been sheltered in place.  But luckily, there are only a few of us working in the now closed facility, and we can easily manage the six-foot distances, and then some.  As a small business manager, I have been going to my quiet office and attempting to make sense of with the mountains of paperwork necessary to keep said business viable and able to reopen when allowed.  I hope to have dug myself out of this important task by next week. And like many of my creative tribe, I hope to be able to allow myself the grace to not force creativity, permitting it to instead flow easily, and at its own pace.

It seemed fitting since it’s National Poetry Month, and also because this poem begged to be written, that I carve out time to place it’s somewhat chaotic voice upon the page.  Is it the poem’s voice, or my own?  I leave you with these thoughts to ponder as you read on…

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C is for the many closets and cupboards which will be sorted and left spotlessly clean.

Who can sit to write when those cluttered spaces whisper and beg for a bit of much needed hygiene?

But rest assured, when all is put to order, your creativity will kick in.

The laptop, pen and paper,  will come out, and your writing will begin.

 

O is for the oath you took, once self-quarantined,

Yes, we all had this eloquent, if not, foolish dream.

To sit, and not get up until you’ve written at least a thousand words a day,

please for our own sanity, and those with whom you live, let that vow slip away.

I promise it will all be, okay.

 

R is for the mounds of reading you will undoubtedly get done.

Please don’t forget, when your massive pile is down to one, or none,

remember to support your local bookstores, in any way you can.

After all, when your books were published were they not your biggest fan?

 

This O is for those organizational skills not so readily seen, but who have now magically been awoken.

Those stories tucked in desk drawers and saved in computer files are calling to you. Send them forth, for they have spoken.

Now that it’s done, don’t you feel better?

No don’t begin to obsess over some phantom rejection letter.

 

N is for a different type of novel.  The one you’ve labored over for years, the one you know needs just one more revision.

Let’s let this one go.  Why, you can even call it your pandemic decision.

Think of the mighty fire it will create outdoors.

While you keep a six-foot distance as you roast yummy, melting, smores.

 

A is for all the other artistic skills you may possess.  Rip up that shirt or dress,

and make masks so those in need can stress, less.

Or what about planting something green, be it a flower or a vegetable.

Think of the accomplishment when you’ve grown something deliciously edible.

 

V is for the victory and validation you will feel,

when one of those stories comes back with a contract deal.

By then I’m certain you will be able to socially celebrate.

But if not, Zoom with willingly hook you up with at least one writing mate.

 

I is for the insecurities you will have as you sit quietly with all this time to think.

When it gets too much to bare, please call someone before you succumb to that 3rd or 4th  drink.

I is also for the abundance of imaginative stories and illuminating art that will be birthed from this pandemic.

I have been assured of this phenomenon by friends both alchemic, as well as academic.

 

R is for the formidable resilience each and every one of us will possess.

After we’ve come through this arduous cosmic test.

And what about all the budding new relationships that will be born,

as they visited virtual movie rooms, while eating popcorn?

 

U is for the Universal Unity which will ultimately defeat this foe.

Through our joint socially distancing efforts, we can, and will, stop its flow.

Then think of all the varying stories, from every corner of the world, we will write,

Of the time when human beings around the entire earth stood still, to fight.

 

S is for the symmetry this virus has allowed us to glimpse.

Dolphins swimming in Venice’s canals is not mere happenstance.

Where once there was death,

Mother Nature has been allowed to take a long, overdue breath.

Now it is up to we the human race to follow suite.

How do you feel about a socially sensible reboot?

 

What creative projects have you taken up, or completed as you shelter in place?

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Crawling Hearts

 

By Cheryl Owen-Wilson

It’s February, a month where we are inundated with the all too consuming concept of romantic love.  I’ve shared previously in this blog that when I’ve attempted to write straight Hallmark movie stories I fail miserably.  Inevitably, someone dies!  Please don’t misunderstand. I do believe in love and all it entails, but I also understand how much pain an unrealistic Hollywood colored love creates. So I thought I’d share my idea of a love poem.  I chose this poem in particular, because it was the first poem to create a vision in my mind for its very own painting.  Happy Valentine’s Day Y’all!

Crawling hearts skitter across my floor.

Their breath beats like thunder, as they shout—”Forevermore”

Their tendrils reach out, seeking to find,

a love that does not bind,

yet, is intricately intertwined.

A love, that knows its own soul,

without taking a heavy, breaking toll.

A love, that will last beyond this world,

taking into each day, a hope, easily unfurled.

Crawling hearts skitter across my floor.

Through their long search, they came knocking at — My door.

“Tell us, does it exist?”

Their pleading whisper, brushes my face, with a warm mist.

“Tell us, will we find that one to connect to?

That one who will forevermore, be true?”

“That one, who will bring us happiness,

as we revel in loves undying, sweet bliss?”

“That one, who will make us complete,

as we dance to the rhythm of our own heart’s beat?”

“That one, who when the long day is done,

will wrap us in their arms, as we watch the setting sun?”

Crawling hearts skitter across my floor,

disconnected bodies, searching forevermore.

They search for answers to questions as old as the Universe.

Questions, that for centuries they have rehearsed.

“Where do our answers hide?”

“Has true love really died?”

I reach deep within—my own heart,

for words of wisdom to impart.

My reply is simple but true.

“To find the love you seek, you must first love, YOU.”

“For how can we offer this great gift to another?

When our very own heart, has yet to be our lover?”

Crawling hearts skitter across my floor,

seeking to escape my simple metaphor.

 

What are your favorite love poems?

Crawling Hearts

“Crawling Hearts” an original painting by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

My Holiday Gift to Writers, by Eric Witchey

Sitting female teacher surrounded by school-aged childrenPhoto Source: iStock, diego_cervo.
Please pardon my abuse of form, line, and rhyme.

A Holiday Story

Eric Witchey

Twas three weeks until New Years, and Wrimo was done.

The revisions had started. They weren’t very fun.

Plot  stickies were strewn o’r the coffee-stained floor

And my phone was turned off. Ha! Ring nevermore!

I hated the tinsel, the red and green lights

That draped from my bookshelves and flashed in my nights

My pumpkins and witches, bones, and fake gore,

With my raven were stuffed in a box by the door.

My letters to Santa went out in e-mail.

“Buy my book. Leave reviews. It’s right here on sale.”

Santa ignored me. He did every year.

My stories lived only in ether, I fear.

A notice of email pinged on my box.

Damn, I forgot to shut off my intox.

Better than fixing a flaw in the plot,

I clicked on the notice with nary a thought.

“Mr. Writer, it started”—innocent enough.

“I read your last story and think it’s real buff.

It made me think of my mom and my dad,

And I couldn’t help wonder if you knew how sad

My parents are that I’m leaving real soon.

They’ll miss me. They love me. Please grant them a boon.

Stories are healing, though I can’t be healed.

A story for them, I hope that you’ll feel

Is worthy of time, of love and attention.

Please, when I’m gone, if you could just mention

Our names in a story about love and joy.

Remind them that they still love this small boy.

Remind them that love makes a life and a family.

If you could do this, that would be dandy.”

After I wiped away my sad tears,

I read the kid’s closing and let go selfish fears.

“Please do this for me,” the brave child said.

“Give them a vision of love when I’m dead.”

Now, Wrimo meant nothing. Revisions felt lame.

Only one thing mattered. Not fortune or fame.

Only the love that a story can weave

Into the hearts of the people we leave.

Stories are doorways, or windows, or paths

Into hearts and minds to do work as salves.

Distraction, or message, or battles with dirks,

Stories give healing for foibles and quirks.

By telling in paper, e-reader, or chant…

By ink or by stylus, by pen or by rant…

The word shamans’ duty since stories began–

To bring healing and peace to just one fan.

That letter to me, no Santa would read

Santas don’t write. They can’t plant a seed

Deep in the hearts of those who must heal.

Word shamans do that—we whom muses wield.

For a child who loves beyond life and reproach

To the pen, to the page, to the tale we approach.

The years that will come are made of our vision

One family from all should be our heart’s mission.

-End-

Happy National Poetry Month

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I’m a writer not a poet, an artist, but not a poet. Yet, I have shared several of my poems in past blog posts. For me, poetry serves as a shorthand expression of creativity that I do not spend a great deal of time obsessing over.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I do take poetry most seriously. From Henry David Thoreau, to Sylvia Plath, to Maya Angelou, their lyrical words have healed my broken psyche, made me feel I wasn’t alone in the world, and allowed me to see humankind, and Mother Nature, through new eyes.

When I do take my own poetry seriously is when I’m using it to see/understand more clearly—and in less time—the “underlying message” behind the story banging against the walls of my brain insisting on a way out.   Those short clipped sentences have proven to be a most useful tool in the honeymoon phase of writing a short story, or novel.

To date, my relationship with poetry has been a secluded, solitary association. But to my surprise, I’ve recently discovered another use for this impactful form of expression.

Do you like playing games?

Many of my writing friends use games, role-playing games, dice games, tarot card games; the list goes on and on. They utilize these games to allow the fates to determine the story they will tell. I personally have never done this, but….

In a small bookstore on the Oregon coast I stumbled upon a poetry word game. It was one of those, hair standing up on the back of my neck moments. I felt this game literally calling out to me from its hidden, dusty shelf.

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It was as though this game was made specifically for me—“A Game of Color and Wordplay!”

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Color and Wordplay!

For those who’ve not read my past blog posts, as stated above I’m also an artist. But this game didn’t just catch me with its title. No, it gave this extrovert writer the added bonus of being, either a solitary game, or a game to be enjoyed with others.

There are several ways in the “How to Play” rules. The first time I played this game, I had the good fortune of being on a weekend retreat with three of my adult daughters, a nine-year old grandson, and a sixteen-year old granddaughter.

There was admittedly, hesitation, from my offspring at my request to play this particular game. But some time later, after many stories magically appeared through randomly picked colored tiles etched with whispered words, they were hooked.

The rules we played by were quite simple:

  • Stock your palette with a dozen paint chips.
  • Draw a Prompt
  • Make your Poem
  • Show & Tell
  • The “judge” declares the winner who then receives the Prompt card.

The final winner is the player who collects the most prompts, but we didn’t play to win. We played for the fun, creative story reflected as each palette was revealed.

Here are a few of the stories created along with the prompt, and paint chips:

Once Upon a Time1

Once Upon a Time

There was a dragon fly,

who lived in an herb garden.

He found a looking glass.

When he looked through it, he saw an emerald.

The Sunshine hit it,

giving him a new zest for life.

 

Once Upon a Time

In outerspace,

on the red planet.

A bluebird lived,

in a cedar chest,

made of driftwood.

 

In a parallel universe

 

In a Parallel Universe

A fairy mustard seed,

woke in the shadow of midnight,

by a babbling brook,

and her lover, Supernova.

As she sat next to him eating nectar,

she blushed like a pink pearl.

 

In a Parallel Universe

An iron gate opened

To a genie in a lamp playing a saxophone solo

It created a pyramid, tree house of bone.

The result—a total eclipse of night.

 

 

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Heartbreak

We began with a lightening bolt.

It created the bright fire of our love.

But through boundary waters we slipped,

separating us for an eternity in Outer Space.

 

Heartbreak

Revenge,

                  Blazing Sun,

                                    Bullseye,

                                                Easy Peasy,

                                                            BlackWidow.

 

So in this month of poetry, I encourage you, if you’ve never written poetry or used it as a creative outlet please give it a try. Paint Chip Poetry can get you started.

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I can’t wait to open the box on this wordplay game again.   With its never-ending source of creative story on paint colored chips, it waits for its players to imagine new worlds, new stories revealed.

What tools do you use to spark your creative muse?

2018’s End and 2019’s Beginning In Poem By Cheryl Owen-Wilson

Working on my latest painting (see below) allowed me to complete my annual year end poem, The Spirit of Christmas.  The process of creating the painting gave me a sense of peace, renewal, and an overwhelming wish to stop time so I could live in its otherworldly glow.  So dear readers, my wish for you in the coming year, are those same things–peace, renewal and an abundance of time to stand in nature’s glow.

The Spirit of Christmas

Our Christmas tree is once again frosted with fine strands of tinsel glowing, bright, and white.

And when Grandson Max frosted his own tree this year, a next generational tradition, took flight.

Yes, the Spirit of Christmas has us in its thrall, a time of year, when its magical essence, captures us, big, or small.

From the smell of earthy pine filling the air, to the mouth watering scent, of the sweet confections, we prepare.

It is one of my favorite times of year.

One where even opponents, can raise a sparkling glass together, in good cheer.

But before the year of 2018 sounds it final note,

let us look back on some of the highlights, worthy of a quote.

Wasn’t the world’s faith in miracles restored with unerring belief?

When from a flooded cave, emerged 12 boys, and in unison our worry fled, like a thief.

And we must give thanks to Nobel Prize winners’, Dr.’s Honjo, and Allison.

For through their immunotherapy research, our fight against cancer, will yet, be won.

Now to the House we must go, as it sports a new vibe, a fresh coat of paint if you will,

when a palette of all sexes, and shades of color, reclaimed a part of the, infamous Hill.

And have you ever seen the phrase, “never say never” played out in real life?

Well in April, North and South Korea’s leaders actually met to discuss, their decade long strife.

A new addition is forthcoming in England’s royal bloodline, perhaps, even something new.

For what will the Queen say, if the bundle in the baby blanket, is of a decidedly, darker hue?

Here ye, here ye, we have a new “word of the year” Dictionary.com, has proclaimed.

“Misinformation” is the winner as the guilty, continue, to not be named.

Then there is Oregon’s youth, and their legal action over climate change.

Let us hope for a swift, suitable, resolution in this life altering exchange.

On a lighter note, if you’re Barbara Streisand, and for your beloved dog Samantha, death calls,

you simply have her cloned, and release a new album titled, Walls.

Now we must not forget, those who this year, have gone beyond the veil,

even as their art, spirit, and legacy will eternally prevail.

Here’s to Ms. Aretha Franklin the Queen of Soul, who will forevermore,

with the greatest of “RESPECT”, be on the “Highway to Heaven” tour.

And let us not forget Oregon’s own David Ogden Stiers, who with his snobbish, balderdash, gave us fits of laughter through his iconic role as Major Winchester, in the TV series, Mash.

And how will superheroes blossom in the imaginations of future generations,

without Mr. Stan Lee to cast them in such vivid, story illustrations?

Now to the stars we must gaze looking toward an illusive black hole.

For this is where Mr. Stephen Hawking, has set up camp, in this, his final role.

Dear friends, I know there are many more for whom we should bid a final farewell.

And there is also an over abundance of life altering quotes, yet to tell.

But alas, I must end this annual poem of mine,

as I attempt to once again capture the final stanzas’ in rhyme.

We are each and every one of us, hurtling through space on this big, blue ball.

Would it not be easier if we took on the mantra of the musketeers? “All for one, and one for all.”

For in reality, it is within each and every one of our own, hand’s grasp,

to reach across the aisle, and simply ask,

“Help me to understand, let us work together, to make the lives of future generations, that, much, better.”

Night Dreams, Original Art by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

Night Dreams copy

 

 

A Writer Gives Thanks, Yet Again

By Cheryl Owen-Wilson

T is for the thousands of words pulled from deep within your gut.

H is for the few hundred to make the final cut.

A is for the armor you must don through each and every edit.

N is for the nerves of steel required to re-submit it.

K is for the knowledge your writing tribe of friends freely impart.

S is for the spark of an idea, and knowing where to start.

G is for grinding through the muddle of the middle.

I is for the intuition of knowing what to leave, and what to whittle.

V is for the humble verb that alone will make your story speak.

I is for the inspiration that at times plays hide and seek.

N is for the final novel you, and you alone did create, and pursue.

And the final…

G is for the immense gratitude of readers, and their very positive review.

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Patiently Pondering Puddles in Pursuit of Poetry

by Christina Lay

The other morning as I pulled out of my driveway on the way to work, I found myself waiting for a little kid who, squirrel-like, was meandering around in the street right behind my car. I watched him out of my rear view mirror until he was finally far enough away I could continue. Only then did I see what he was doing.  He was going puddle to puddle and jumping in each one, then standing there, transfixed. Maybe field testing his galoshes, or measuring the depths in scientific pursuit, or imagining what it felt like to be a tadpole. Probably delaying arriving at school, much like I delay arriving at work every day.

As I drove away, I flashed back to myself at that age—about seven-ish, I’d guess—and a rainy day on my way home from school. I had to cross a big playing field and that day, the field was more pond than grass. Oblivious to everything else, I wandered back and forth, jumping in puddles, watching the ripples, most likely feeling how cold rain water and wool socks aren’t a good mix and basically having a jolly good time until I heard a car horn beeping. My mom, in a valiant effort to save me from getting soaked in the torrential rains, had driven the five blocks from our house to the end of the field to give me a ride. And there she sat, watching her crazy kid go puddle jumping.

Not much has changed, I’m happy to report. I’m still much more a first-grader in galoshes wandering through the world in questing admiration than a sensible adult who actually arrives at work on time.  But what, you might ask, does any of this have to do with writing?

Not a hell of a lot, except for the fact that it’s April (or was when I started writing this), which means torrential spring rains and poetry. April is National Poetry Month and my first thought as I drove away watching that crazy kid standing in the gutter was that he was seeking out little moments of poetry. A scrap of haiku.

Puddles in the path

How can I not jump when

School, the big nap, waits?

So I’m not a poet. But poetry has always informed my writing and when I want to go deeper into a character’s emotion, or the quality of a setting, or the truth behind a relationship, it’s the quiet moments that I seek out. The feel of rain soaking into socks. The reflection of a hazy sun in a puddle.  The things not said.

I’ve been attending the symphony a lot lately, and one thing I’ve been learning is how to appreciate the silences. The purposeful pause, the breath held. With all those instruments clamoring away to create a glorious noise, the moment of silence can be an extremely powerful thing.  As can a reflection in a puddle.

I am naturally a curmudgeon and the louder things get, the faster, brighter, ruder, and more brutal movies, books and music seem to become, the more I resist. The more I want to be the kid in galoshes, oblivious to all but the simple wonders. Like waiting for a hummingbird’s buzz or the trickle of a stream, it takes more effort these days to hear the silence and notice what is not moving, what is not flashing, blinking, or shouting for our attention.

If your characters are in the middle of a screaming argument, a sudden silence might be much more powerful than a string of obscenities. If your character is racing to battle, the sensation of rain soaking into his boots might give us a better glimpse into his heart and mind than the thunder of cannons and the vision of body parts flying.  If Cinderella is arriving at the ball, having her notice a dandelion sprouting through the cracks in the brickwork might prove more telling than an extended description of the palace.

And then everything can explode. Or not.

As entertainers, we do tend to focus on the grand and exciting moments. Nothing wrong with that, as long as we don’t forget the importance of the threads that hold the crazy quilt of reality together. When the ordinary and divine meet, and we look up from the page, and say “oh”. When we as artists achieve the goal of expressing the inexpressible and using words to say what is beyond words.  That’s poetry, and we could all use a little more of it.