Mindful Writing Day

My small stone:

Drizzle peppers the garden from a grey flung sheet.

Geraniums and Begonias pinprick red and pink hope.

http://www.writingourwayhome.com/small-stones/mindful-writing-day-1st-nov/

April 15th poem

April 15th (a small stone poem)

Sun glistening on rain drops,
silver specks, diamond gems
shivering in the breeze
on the glass top of the cold frame.

Winter 'small stone' poem

My poem for Issue 8 of What the Dickens? magazine has just been published.  You can view it online at http://ow.ly/jmGxH  (page 29)

The magazine is taking a break now so I will have to look for some new outlets for my poetry.

Just put this poem on to the Small Stone Facebook Page - haven't put much there lately :(
It's getting lots of 'likes':

Winter, when will you shake off your white coat,

unravel with the north wind, change direction

and depart from these shores?

Where are the colours to give us hope,

the sun’s re-birth in these lengthening days?

All hovers on the cusp - the going out and the coming in,

such is the shifting tide of nature.

Writing Challenge

The small stone challenge is over and I managed to stick with it.  Their dedicated Facebook page is still open so people can still post.  The new suggestion is a Small Stone Sunday and I did manage a post on Sunday. But what now?

I would like to get back to the story I am writing but time is against me still.  There is too much going on at present.  I only have myself to blame and I knew it would be like this but basically I have over committed myself in other areas.  So please bear with me over the next six weeks or so.  There are likely to be more posts on my other blog than here for now.

To keep you going here is a writing challenge:

Find a postcard or a picture in a magazine of a place, find a picture of a man or woman and write about their character, what they do, their family, personality, desires in life.  You could even find a picture of a child and see life through their eyes.  Now put the person into the location of the postcard/picture and write a short story (up to. 1000 words) or a poem.  Why are they there, what do they see, what happens?

Feel like sharing?  Please do!

Small Stones (31) Last Day

Small stones cast like runes across a page
cause a ripple on the surface,
letters reveal shared stories,
likes and comments boomerang back
and within in this protected place
friendships form
and small stones gather in our hearts.

Small Stone (29)

The fleece is snuggle soft.

It reminds me of those early days of motherhood

before the teenage silences and not sitting with me on the bus!

Then he sat close, cuddled and fell asleep on me.

I could wrap him in my arms, kiss his blond hair and wonder.

*

Just two more days of small stone writing to go.  The last few days have been a struggle and Tuesdays (today) is always so rushed as I have to be in London by around lunchtime and then don't get home until about 9pm. I slump into the sofa with a cuppa and watch Death in Paradise on TV!

Small Stones (28)

As I work the box lid off

the pent-up aroma of chocolate is let loose

and I come undone.

Small Stones (27)

Freedom - the act of going hatless again!

Small Stones (26)

The sun has a clear run of the sky,
flooding the morning in yellow hue.
In its low slung shine
it casts grey shadows against stone and tile,
larger than life,
stamping its mark.

Small Stones (25)

Morning creeps into me,
the hum and click of the heating pipes,
the hiss of the shower.
I drift in and out of sleep
happy to acknowledge the sounds
but happy to linger in the in between.

   *

Editing......can you over edit?  Yes,  sometimes I've gone so far that hardly anything of the original is there and it becomes impossible to work as a poem and I end up having to start from scratch.

I do like cutting words that don't add to anything, so I do have to be careful that I don't over do it.  I try to leave things for a while and go back to them.  With small stone poems I haven't always had a chance to edit before posting them on the Small Stones Facebook page and a couple of times I've gone back at a later stage and thought that to rearrange some words would make for a better poem.  But poems are never really finished and I can go back to them another time if I want.  I think I've got better at editing over the years but having someone else read your work can help (not family or friends because they will probably not want to say anything negative).  This is where an online group/forum or a class helps.  Feedback is very helpful because others can see where a poem isn't working and often straight away you can see it too!  However, at the end of the day whether you take advice is up to you as it's your work and not everyone's thoughts are helpful.  Within a class there is usually several points of view.  I base my final decision of the majority vote.  If several people pick up on the same thing then  it's worth taking notice.

Small Stones (24)

Melodies weave through me;

the lifeblood of songs and lyrics,

mood makers with stories I claim for myself.

Small Stones (23)

Winter’s hunger feeds on the fleshy tips of toes.

Then when comforted by heat the damn things itch!

Small Stones (22)

The twiggy raspberry bush dons bubble bath snow,
dolloped like the foamy spittle of insects.

Small Stones (21)

The grater lying on its side has slivers of cheese
clinging like milk teeth to the holes inside.

Small Stones (20) and other things

Something my son said yesterday about the contrast of day and night while we have snow had me commenting 'There's a poem in there somewhere.'  There was and this is it:

Grey hangs its head all day,
gloom settles its mind.
In the night snow is in reflective mood
brightening dark spaces
where they sleep the hours away.

           *

I was reading a free magazine given out after the TS Eliot Prize readings last Sunday.  There were some new poems, one was by Jackie Kay but the one that really stirred me was by Sam Willetts about a hotel room, the aftermath of losing someone you love and a thunderstorm.  There were a couple of lines that I loved and wished so much I'd written them.  My sort of thing, so descriptive but to the point, not a ramble, you know? I already have one of Sam's poetry books and this has made me think perhaps I should look into his poetry again. Some poets keep coming back to you.  He's one.

Here he is reading that poem:

I also read an article about writing a long poem.  I'm not good with long poems, reading them or writing them.  If a poem goes over two pages I'm inclined to skip it!  It really has to grab me quickly or I am lost, and not those poems about Greek gods who I've never studied (but I'm not saying I won't at some time) which mean nothing to me.  But while I was reading the article I was moved to consider the possibility of writing one.  Why?  I don't know.  Maybe I see it as a challenge, and I do like those!  So perhaps this year I will attempt one just for the hello of it!

Small Stones (19)

Monochrome scenes through my windows

touched with dots of terracotta and green,

still, like a snapshot,

a winter world softly draped in snow.

Small Stones (18)

Fine flakes fall,

soon to cover in gossamer threads

the path, the fence, the roofs,

then faster, swirling as the wind worries them

and heavier, filling in the untouched surfaces

like an artist at his canvas.

Small Stones (17)

Frost glistens, sun kissed jewels;
grass crisp under foot,
breath, a vapor in puffed intervals
follows my path as I go.

Small Stones (15 & 16)

No time yesterday to write, so here are two Small Stones together:

Day 15:

Eailing Abbey

So spacious is this Abbey,

modern, light, yet quite stark,

not what you’d expect from the Catholic tradition.

Wooden roof slotted together, no nails.

We are shown where the relics are sealed into the altar,

where the monks sit for Matins.

Each of us is given a tiny medal of St Benedict

blessed with Holy Water in the palm of our hands.

Day 16:

Sun shifts and suddenly it blinds me

but I am happy to be in its light

for soon it will move away

and shine elsewhere.

Small Stones (14)

Slabs of white I see through the condensation of the bathroom window.

It has snowed! It has snowed!

As I descend the stairs I see through the front door a path that is clear.

I am wrong! I am wrong!

But on entering the kitchen I see a dusting of snow in the garden,

and there a few flakes are falling.

It has come! It has come!