Saturday, March 17, 2007

Luck of the Irish

The "Luck of the Irish" broke the glass
Actually
she didn't seem lucky at all.

Reddish hair, true
Dimestore brand.

An inebriated college girl
Playing with a friend
Pushed back into
the door

"You're drunk," probably the words
spoken
in hot beer-breath on the side of a snowy street.

I headed to the door--
A scold upon my lips
First day solo at the Gallery;
The manager had warned me.

"Can't pay me enough to be in town
on St. Patty's Day."

Not fast enough
A second playful push--
The girl's low slung belt studs
Started the crack

It spiderwebbed--
popping.

Look of fear on the girl's face
as she and her friend stumbled down the sidewalk--
away
from responsibility.

I called to them.
A tall and heavy-set dark haired boy moved in,
their protector
or hopeful
admirer
waiting for the booze to dull rejection.

His arm around them
he guided them away, glaring at me.

What could I do?
Alone in the gallery.
They say the first time for things is always memorable...

I called the manager.
Then the posted number for the cops:
"BJ's Wholesale Club" they answered.
Memorable, yes.

20 minutes later
Police,
A bar manager
and landlord
converged on the sight.

My part done,
My information given
"That's an Irish name, isn't it? Somehow fitting."
I offer to walk into the neighboring bar--
Scout for the petty criminals.

I laughed, "They were wearing green and drunk--go figure."

The police laugh too,
Not much else to do.

I have issues with irresponsible creatures
and drunkards.

"You don't want to go into a bar today,"
one officer says.
"I don't even want to be a cop today,"
the other announces.

"My insurance will only go up," the landlord says.
"We'll just fix it--Probably won't file a full report."

He's an immigrant and surely not Irish.
"They busted my bar's door earlier."
He grins.
"But that was handled."

At least he'll make a profit selling green beers
to college kids today
Repairing the doors won't be much loss
for a bar on St. Patty's Day.

Good lord...
What would Patrick say?


~Saoirse

Sunday Scribblings: Inspiration Prompt


Sunday Scribblings: Inspiration

Heart like a child
"Immature," some whisper as I pass

Inspiration is never far away--

The word on the tip of my tongue
Tantalizing mental tastebuds

Whispers on the wind

Clouds and shadows tease my eye
Twist my memory

I still catch snowflakes with my mouth
(Never fast enough for popcorn)

Like Pandora's box
I treasure inspiration...
Still peeking
Letting ideas loose from time to time
Like plague on mankind

Racing grocery carts in parking lots
Dancing down store aisles

My son laughs
My husband groans (sometimes dancing, too)

"The rhythm IS gonna' get ya'--"
(So will inspiration)
IF you let it.

Chase it so hard you tire.
Now--
Pause, dreaming,
catch your breath
Inspiration always twists and turns--
It'll catch you

A treasure chest, I the pirate digging for inspiration's riches
I've missed the X more than once

But digging's great cardio
So I keep at it

We all need mental exercise

Examine your surroundings
Take a child's-eye view
Ask yourself odd questions
Inspiration will break through...

~Saoirse
PS--That's random (unedited--but very true to the way my mind works). Simply, I try to break things down as if I were a visitor from some foreign and distant world. I listen closely to my son (his words and thoughts are golden). I read, I do art (or so people accuse me)... I haven't truly felt uninspired yet (and I stockpile ideas and phrases in fear that some day I might and need a crutch).

Love Grows

Love Grows

"I never promised you a rose garden..."
...Nor tomatoes,
just as red.

But far above the filth
and fertilizer
Our love still grows

Many things left unsaid.


~Saoirse

Friday, March 16, 2007

Wounds and Weather

Wounds and Weather...

The snow came late,
The rain came early.

Now ribs of earth
poke
through white of snowy winter breast,

An oozing open wound.
Brown is not a healthy color for such deep cuts,

It speaks of rot;

Gangrene the color of last year's grass.

Flakes fall again
promising to patch old wounds and
clean
the site.

Stop the weeping.

Purify.


That's just me, peering out my window and getting random...
~Saoirse

I Lied...

Ok, so yesterday I lied. Not intentionally (hmm--not consciously) but I didn't do my Poetry Thursday entry. In bed last night I thought--Crap! I didn't do my dictionary entry poem.

Go check out the work of people who DID do their homework please...Poetry Thursday.

My husband was actually asleep, though. I dared not disturb him (scoff at my reason if you must... ;-) . So I thought: Thank god I didn't give them a permalink for my site yet--Too much like a promise...

Anyhow, still waiting for my "Six Sentences" to be posted... Maybe I should just post it here since I'm not sure who does what at this point...

Eh, I'll think about it.
~Saoirse

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Poetry Thursday... Yikes!

I haven't done my Poetry Thursday entry yet...Frankly I'm a bit intimidated by it at the moment... I'll get to it, I'll get to it...

~Saoirse

Jennet Dreams of Destiny (Sunday Scribblings Prompt)

Jennet Dreams of Destiny...


*This uses characters from the novel I’m deep in writing, although this wasn’t a scene I intended to include originally. Still, the Sunday Scribblings prompt got me thinking (guess that’s the point ;-) and this is the result. No, it’s not polished.

~Saoirse

If you want to know more about my novel, come here.

The last day of the elderberry harvest arrived, mist dotting the landscape and curling towards the climbing clouds. Down the stairs she came, slow and soft of foot, pausing at the door to prepare herself for whatever it was that summoned her so early from her sleep. Barefoot on the castle’s lawn, she stopped to speak to Marion as the nurse plucked berries and thrust them eagerly into the basket hanging from the crook of her arm.

“Marion,” Jennet said, her hand on the woman’s round shoulder. “Something strange woke me...”

The woman continued gathering the tiny fruits, her focus unusual. But so is her love of elderberry wine, Jennet thought, clucking her tongue and backing away. Ignored, she continued to distance herself from the castle and her bed.

“Odd,” she whispered. “I must start leaving the shelter of castle walls more often.” She studied the landscape. “The forest seems...” Raising one eyebrow, she tilted her head. Her brow creased in wonder. “Closer?”

The woods beckoned, branches teasing her gaze like the signaling hands of friends with secrets to share. She shivered, but continued forward, inexplicably drawn to what somehow felt like destiny.

Hidden between weaving trunks and wrist-thick stems with warp of oak and weft of rose sat a small cottage. The thatch smelled fresh, but was dotted with mosses all abloom. The door was small—Intimate, her mind whispered.

Her lips stated what she knew too well, “This should not be here...” Still it felt right, its river rock walls glistening in the dappled light.

Thwack! She jumped at the noise of axe splintering wood. With caution born of fear, she rounded the house and peered at the young man who split logs with a nearly alien ease.

Shirtless, his muscles rippled with each easy bite of the axe. And while he cut, he sang, “Oh I forbid you maidens all who wear gold in your hair...”

Jennet was suddenly aware of heavy pins weighing her head down. She reached up-- stunned and knowing she had descended the stairs with her hair in a long and simple single braid. She tugged a pin free, watching it glitter—warm and golden—in her open palm. Her fingers raced across her scalp, sensing her hair was suspended in a dramatic sweep of braids and curling tendrils.

Thwack! The man sang on, “--To come or go by Carterhaugh for bold Tam Lin is there...”

Jennet looked around, gaze settling on a carved and gilded wooden sign somehow she missed before. Suspended from a branch it spun slowly, reading: Carterhaugh.

Thwack! He split another log and pulled her attention back. He paused to stack his handiwork. The song that had seemed so jaunty and playful now turned on its melody, the words slowing, tone darkening. “There’s none that goes by Carterhaugh, that leaves there just the same, with golden rings a sparkling--”

She straightened by the cool stone wall, breathing hard, her hand on her heaving chest. Rings suddenly glistened on her fingers.

He turned then, hearing her panicked gasp.

His eyes flared a blue she’d only seen in the hearts of all-consuming fires and she stumbled away from the cottage.

“No,” she whispered, realizing she no longer was barefoot and in her loose chemise, but bound up tight in a sleek surcoat and long emerald mantle. Her feet were snug in sparkling shoes, glittering like glass, heels too high for running.

Still, she tried.

A shoe fell free in her haste, and not daring to look behind, she kicked the other one away as well, racing from the cottage and towards what she prayed was the forest’s fringe and the castle beyond.

With a howl of outrage, the man’s form twisted and where once had stood a handsome woodcutter now was a wolf with grim and hungry eyes. He sprang after his quarry, swallowing the ground with great and stretching strides.

Jennet heard his breath—so close behind--and spun to face her attacker.

Wide paws landed on her shoulders and she tumbled onto her back, breath bursting free, lungs burning as the beast stared down into her eyes.

But she was transfixed by the bell that jingled brightly above her, suspended from the slavering wolf’s carefully--No, lovingly, her mind insisted-- embroidered collar...

“No!” she cried as his dripping jaws opened to consume her. Her world went black as deep and moonless night.

She trembled in the dark. Did death equate to blindness? she wondered, sitting up. She blinked. Where...?

And then she heard the familiar sounds of morning.

Birds chirped. Daylight tried to pierce the shutters of her bedchamber. She closed her fingers on the blanket spread across her legs and trembled. As warm as her room was, she shivered, chilled at the memory of the strange dream.

She slid from the bed, tapping her feet on the flagstone floor. Turning towards the window, her hand shot to her head and she pulled something out of the rat’s nest which her hair always became while she slept.

With a cry of disbelief, she let it drop to the floor where the golden hairpin rolled and glinted back at her, mocking her attempt to escape destiny’s cruel grasp.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Random Thoughts While Feeding Chickens

Random...

Dark as Othello's ill-used Moor
But not with beautiful ebony flesh is he suddenly colored.

Feeding the chickens,
I said:
"Wait--
It's icy..."
But he was "All done!"

On his rump
in the mud
he grabbed me.

My tan coat now shades darker
Panicking at the filth on his hands
"Ewww--" he shakes them.

Frantic, this boy with normally filthy fingernails.

I think back to a strange t-shirt.
"Who Flung Poo?" it read.

Now I know,
Something far worse than egg on my face.


Today--ugh.
~Saoirse

Friday, March 9, 2007

Lucky Thing

Lucky Thing

It was a lucky thing
I looked outside while on the phone
yesterday.

The dog was on the lawn
halfway gone
to the neighbors.

I called him back
frantically.
Tried to sound excited
at seeing him.

I was excited.

Fear
will do that to you.

He came running.
I grabbed him.
Yes, a lucky thing.

Now he's chewing
on my slipper.

Lucky.

~Saoirse
written 3/9/07

Thursday, March 8, 2007

Killing Chivalry

I've heard a bunch about chivalry being dead recently, so here's a simple set of my thoughts on it, as a grrrl ;-)

Killing Chivalry

Killing chivalry felt so good when we were burning bras.
It was all freedom in our younger,
firmer,
days.

We shook free of oppresion and
knights
in shining armor.

But now that gravity and age have their hold on us
--mortality creeping along, sheltered in unshakeable shadows...
grasping--
some courtesy, some
support,
is expected.

Now we call it "respect."

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

We all want it--
need a "little bit."

A door opening when we're heavy laden
("I can do anything a man can do--Better!")
A cab called while we wait with grandkids in the rain.

Not degrading--no finger in the face of equality--
Just kindness.
Call it chivalry
or
whatnot.

Courtesy, just the same, is courtesy by any other name.

~Saoirse
written 3/8/07

Poetry Thursday: Red

The prompt was "red." Apologies in advance ;-) this was written/typed "off the cuff."

Untitled

Red as blood on roses,
the ruby sparkles yet.
Held in thorny golden crown,
the stone flames where it's set.

The dragon's tongue flicks in and out--
the knight dare not forget
his mind, his mission--
Destiny...
And the drake's most fiery threat.

Protect the poor and brickmade homes
of peasants
Far and wide.
A quick sword prick might stop the blight
If placed in dragon's side.

The beast's scales glow like lava--
Heated deep within.
The knight stands still in wonder:
Can such beauty hide such sin?

But hesitancy can spell death
And our knight wishes to live on...
He draws his sword
Approaches now,
the battle's nearly won.

With one quick thrust
the foul deed is done--
Bright ichor bursts
through flesh like sun.

The knight pulls off his helmet
Red hair spills all around.
No knight is this, but princess bold--
Protector of her towns.

When no man dared step forward
to wipe the threat away
She took up armor and weapons
to keep danger well at bay.

She lifts the crown from pedastal,
A lovely prize is this
Her work now well-rewarded
She crowns herself with bliss.

But what is this?
A change befalls our lovely red-haired lass!
Her eyes turn amber, and her skin--
burns and hardens beneath ash.

Her feminine form does twist
as her skeleton bends and writhes
In horror she feels the inevitable--
The beast that grows inside.

Through serpent's eyes she sees the fate awaiting her so soon...
The dragon that she slaughtered is freed from scaled cocoon.
A human corpse--the long lost king, her father on cavern floor.
She shrieks, but the sound turns on itself, becomes a dragon's roar.

The crown again does settle
upon pretty pedastal--
A grim temptation to the next
Who thinks Fate to forestall.

The new dragon settles on its hoarde,
Its eyes lose human soul.
From deep within a hunger rises
That sense cannot control.

And so the pattern changes,
But not the cycle--no.
Wherever man seeks balance
Will magic surely flow!

~Saoirse
Eh, it was fun to write and that should matter at least ;-)

Winter

Winter

Frost paints my window.
Clouds stain the sky.
Beautiful snowflakes come trailing by...

Lost in the moment
I wonder why
Spring must return
and Winter must die.

~Saoirse
written (obviously) before February 13, 2007

Snow Storm

Snow Storm

The hills are hidden,
blanketed,
the neighbors' house is gone.

And from all around
a whooshing sound
sings the snow storm's song.


~Saoirse
February 13, 2007

Poetic, Ironic...Whatever!

Damn it, my new blog title is prophetic. It seems it's somehow poetic that although I wanted this site to just be something I occasionally add some pitiful poetry to (not attached to my name), because I didn't do a whole new account, my name and profile just "naturally" show up here.

Fabulous.

Anyhow--really fast...

I've dabbled with poetry for years. Had a journal of poems (as an adolescent) that seemed so dark (did I mention I was an adolescent?) that my mother suggested therapy, not realizing writing was my therapy.

My poetry goes from the absurd to the dark. I get stuck in rhymes (apologies) although I used to do a lot of free verse. I'm mainly using this blog as an occasional escape from my other writing. I've found poetry helps "break my block" and get those creative juices flowing. It's like playing with words for me.

Anyhow...
C'est moi!