Kicking and Crunching in Autumn

Fall colors the neighborhood everywhere I go these days and my walks inspired the following poem.


Kicking and Crunching
By Judy Beaston

Leaves litter my path
wake memories
of walks with you,
those canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching,

I smile as I recall
another scene,
me on the sidelines
as you create
color storms
around the wheels
of your tricycle.

Autumn follows autumn,
time marches on,
finds me here today,
my feet alone
on these paths of fall,
remembering

when you were young
and our lives
held all the colors
of laughter

your canvas sneakers
kicking and crunching
fall’s clutter of leaves.

-->

Summer Sizzle

 *

Long days riding above Northwest Oregon's average temperatures have given me reason to label this summer as sizzling. Oddly, though, my body isn't rebelling. Where I once fretted at any temperature above 80, with general preference for 70-75 (still my preference, truth be told), I now effectively shrug my shoulders at 90-95. I won't claim to relish the hotter days, but I function comfortably enough.

Probably a good thing. This may become our new normal. And the fires. Once again the western half of the United States rises in flames -- while the eastern half drowns. Smoke tints sunrise and sunset in burnt orange while masking any hopes of mountain views.

Such was my experience during a recent visit to central Oregon where those mountains were merely vague, ghostly images on the horizon - if that. The stars still stunned and delighted me at night, out there away from the far too many lights of suburban Portland. I'd almost forgotten the power of such a view -- only wishing I could have slept beneath the stars as I'd once done when younger, watching for those star-streakers, this being the time of Perseid Meteor Shower.

My days spent biking, hanging out with family by the cabin, by lakes, exploring lava caves. Here's a poem that came to me as I sat on the deck one afternoon, listening to my surroundings.

Music of the Wind

Begins as a distant low rumble

this song of the wind

traveling through the trees,

each needle played for its special

sound, the music blending, growing,

harmonics picked up along the way

until its very present crescendo,

full bore sound and whipped up air

wraps around the cabin, 

makes nearby trees sway, and sends

waves of wild air across my body

where I sit, reading, in the shade.

by judy beaston

August 2, 2018

My Revision Process

Thoughts on Revision:

Keep the buttons, save

strong stitches,

remove the lint

caught

between phrases

where story importance resides;

catch darlings,

those phrases, sentences,

lines loved "too much"

considered clever,

special and likely not

an enhancement;

weave through, locate

'ing' words, weak cheaters

they steal emotion's thunder,

deny readers access to subtext

or intricate details present

for close inspection like lace on a bodice;

ignore not those adverbs sprinkled

like fancy seasonings, a few perhaps nice

while abundance hides true flavor;

now review this "new" story, perhaps

recognize with delight the light

wakened from below the surface.

The story is ready for final edits.

by judy Beaston

March 6, 2016

December's Cyber Black Holes

-->     
     Late evening arrives before I settle at last to compose my daily poem for my online poetry group. I breathe, toss out the detritus of the day, ask my writing team for something significant, pertinent to the day. 

      But my day involved errands, including finalizing the submitting of my request for a new passport (old one long-ago expired) -- so it seemed there was nothing there. Nothing other than holiday everything confronting me at every stop.

      Additionally, every day requires filtering an abundance of messages from my cyber mail box and seemingly anywhere I click on the Internet. I suspect that has been -- and continues festering in my mind. Not 'festering' like a blister, just trying to figure out how to both ignore it AND take advantage of it. 

      I go to the store for a needed item and feel guilt rise within because I'm not shopping the sales -- what if I need this item this year? Yes, my BLAH-BLAH is wearing out, if I buy now, I can be pleased that I did not pay full price. Only a fool pays full price… etc. etc.   

      The tape is one many marketing and business folks would be pleased to know was running with vehemence within me. BUT, I shake my head with each -- move on. 

      I think my year of purging excess items from every corner of my house, combined with spending a lot on helpful remodels and the items that go with that, has me on a simplicity plane. I do NOT need more material items. When something wears out, I trust I WILL obtain a fair and satisfying price as well as a more satisfying pleasure in the new item -- this vs. a more frenetic, holiday sales pressured purchase plan. 

      ANYWAY - this is the poem that spoke and flowed with only minor tweaks from first draft to final.

Cyber Black Holes

December upon us once again,

holiday scenes proliferate

multiply like rabbits breeding

no stopping strong urges

by businesses for green seed

their vacuums on full-power

sucking hard-earned dollars

into their silk purses, sugar-coating

debt with syrupy sweet deals

swirling about us like a budding

black hole, Friday after Turkey-day

caught like a star exploding

Cyber everything from one week prior

and on through one week after

with no real end yet in sight.

I tuck my wallet in a cyber-proof vault

yet still sense the contents siphoned

into the lightless coffers somewhere out there.

by judy Beaston

December 5, 2014

summer pleasures

polished

feet, glorious feet

guide our walks from here to there

toes freed or toes crimped

inside socks and pointed shoes

or laughing with painted nails

by judy beaston

July 1, 2013

With summer comes the pleasure of exposed feet and toes and an opportunity to decorate toenails in bright colors, even add flowers. My feet smile when the weather allows for more freedom. There's just no breathing inside winter's socks, no matter how thin the fabric. 

The above photo represents three generations enjoying the fun, and we each included flowers on our toes. I must admit, that was/is a first for me. I'm not generally one to gravitate toward painted nails on either hands or feet, but the opportunity to share the experience with my daughter and granddaughter could not be passed up.

A Writer's Place - tanka

-->

A Writer’s Place

dreams hidden below

office landscapes, beg a song

their story be told

how ideas flowed, gave them life

then held them frozen in time

simple collections

gather upon the palettes

of creative minds

story snippets, colored notes

pregnant keyboard awaits birth

Photo and poetry by Judy Beaston, 2013

Cannon Beach - a tanka

Cannon Beach

ocean air dances

sand, salt, and sea spray hold hands

coax beach wanderers

onto soft sandy reaches

for long walks, meditation

Photo and poem by Judy Beaston

tanka - spring synergy

spring synergy

winter’s chill undone

beneath clear warmth of spring’s sun

stretched upon the deck

slender cat soothes aging joints

eyes closed, body drinks pure bliss

Photo by Judy Beaston

Poem by Judy Beaston, April 26, 2013

poetry - tanka

flower field

waning rays’ soft glow

deepens tulip buds’ blushes

magenta, crimson

soldier on, row after row

silent stewards of beauty

Photo - Bing.com/images, Tulip Field, wallpaper 
Poem by Judy Beaston, April 25, 2013

Gardens of Writing

A Garden of Possibilities

Words weave

thin green lines

like vines

busy with spring climbs

up, around, across,

above then behind,

a tangle as they spiral

before reaching

for the stars.

By August, blossoms

cover what tangles

today.

Will the words I seek

coalesce, return

as blossoms for me?

Mother's Day

generations

today

unlocked with sun

streaming upon my face,

cat curled by my side, mother’s day

begins

beyond

my room, toddlers

play, laughter echoes of joy,

love unbound, of family here

right now

my child

and her children,

embracing our special

day together, mom and nana

shared bliss

my son

calls, no longer

living behind fences,

his voice reflects maturity

released

one more

call to my mom,

changed by a stroke, but still

present, she remains distant but

alive

we are

generations

sharing a common thread,

womb to womb to womb interweaves

our lives

by judy Beaston

May 13, 2012

May Day

April has ended and so too the AtoZ Blog Challenge. I joined that challenge to help determine the direction of my blog. I learned that posting vignettes, micro-flash and the beginning of longer stories, suits me with delight. Is it just a place for me to project my own writing? Perhaps for now that is true. I suspect I will branch out to explore the tales of other short-story writers at some point.

What I enjoyed the most this past month was the discipline of daily writing, especially since each post was an impromptu effort. Creating related poetry is another part that I liked, so there will probably be more of that, too. Going forward, I intend to create a flexible schedule vs. daily posts.

Thanks to any who stop by to read. Leave a comment or two so I know you've been by. All comments are appreciated.

May Flowers

I remember singing songs about May in grade school. In sing-song rhythm, we repeated the words about May flowers born from April’s showers. On the first day of May, we danced around a pole, a celebration of life emerging from winter darkness, of birth and renewal – fertility, I learned in later years.

** ** ** **

Lotus

flowers

emerge daily

from dense muddy chambers,
arms open, embrace life, petals

speak peace

Z-words

Z-words include Zoo, Zipper, Zeugma

Simon and Garfunkle composed a song that fits the letter ‘Z’ and is a song that flows readily from the recesses of my memory. Is it really “all happening at the zoo?”  Well, maybe yes, because I think life is a kind of zoo.

Just think about the diversity of people, cultures, philosophies and responses to both mundane and exciting experiences and you have a zoo in the making. Different body shapes, living environments, housing arrangements – zoos do this for their animals.

Also, we’re caged behind bars of our own making. How much of who you really are at the core of your being do you present to the world? Or do you harbor talents and skills, fears and emotions behind a mask, held like a gambler holding his cards so close, even he can barely discern their numbers?

Zippers, another word that is also fitting to the way people close themselves away from reality. We zip up our cocoon, draw on a mask, and push our essential self into hiding. While perhaps a protection mechanism, the result is a loss of freedom to embrace the wholeness of our chosen presence on this fabulous planet.

Zeugma, a disconcerting use of language, as in: On his fishing trip, he caught three trout and a cold. The “official” definition: the use of a word to modify or govern two or more words when it is appropriate to only one of them or is appropriate to each but in a different way.

What does that have to do with the rest of this blog? Everything and nothing relates to what’s happening at the zoo!

** ** **

Zillions

the years

I will live as

abstruse small pieces,

in dark corners of memory,

buried

UNTIL THEN,

old age

resists borders,

shifts in time as years rise,

once sixty, today arrives when

health fades

Y is for Yesterday

Yesterdays With Parker

The far edge of Parker’s large yard softened from sweltering late summer sun, to cooler evening shadows. I watched from his living room, looking out across the hand-hewn wood deck, lovingly crafted years past, watched the sky shift from azure to fire-orange glowing rays as the sun splayed her farewell banner.

Behind me, Parker’s raspy breath remained a sad, rhythmic reminder of why I was here, in a home I’d left years ago after one final battle for independence. We’d partnered, he and I, as renegade youths, bent on freeing the world from materialistic ways, seeking spiritual nirvana around the globe. We'd trekked across Asia in search of Shambhala, then across Europe in search of pleasure. Eventually, we'd landed in California’s coastlands, found a community of like-minded families and settled down.

Parker’s talents with gadgetry landed him a high-paying job in Silicon Valley and our battles began. I was always a writer, poet, philosopher of life. As Parker’s income grew, his acquisitions followed – cars, boats, toys of high expense. Journeys to exotic lands, now paid for by his employer, did not include me.

How I longed for yesterday, for yesteryear – those times of owning what we could carry on our backs, earning enough to eat and survive, bartering our skills for a place to stay.

When Parker’s new partner, Janine, contacted me, I hesitated to respond. What do I care that he is dying? But she said he’d asked to see me, had something he wanted to tell me. Yes, I’d thought, now he wants to apologize, a bit late in the game for me.

I took a day to meditate on everything I believed, sought a release of the anger and bitterness that rose up in me, surprised me by its intensity – and even its presence. Forgiveness, I knew, was necessary for true internal peace. But could I forgive him for giving up everything we once embraced together, forgive him for choosing to sow his seeds in a consumerist society? And, then, could I forgive him for turning from me, selecting Janine over me and lying about his affair?

Seeing Parker tucked into a portable bed, propped up for this view out his living room window, wires and tubes attached to his body, his breath a raspy wheeze, sucked the last morsel of resistance from my heart. “I forgive you, Parker,” I’d said before he had a chance to speak. “Can you forgive me?”

Parker won’t live to see many more of these day-night-day transitions. I will. That awareness churns within me. Hearing Parker cough, I turn from the sunset, approach his bed. Standing next to Janine, I take his hand in mine and say good-bye.

** **

Years Gone By

Yesterday,

so near, so far away,

yet it is today embraced

I most seek,

a treasure trove

of experiences

seen through lenses

fine-tuned,

polished by years

of grit, oil, fire and pain,

etched by desert sands,

lightning strikes,

love’s deep attachments

adding textures and colors

too quiet to notice

yesterday.

W is for Wolf Tales (Tails?)

The wolf is my spirit animal. Any opportunity to engage a live wolf up-close, erases all common sense, thoughts of others. I’d joined the Wilderness Rangers in hopes of an opportunity like the one facing me today, across a tree-ringed meadow.

I’d spotted the wolf when our group arrived at a small hut used for warmth in winter and getting out of the rain during other seasons. While my companions ate lunch and socialized, I’d headed around the edge of the meadow, hoping to secure a clear view of the wolf.  And, I did. What a magnificent specimen she was, face fur whiter than new snow, ears appeared soft like down, twitching as my movements snapped a twig. But she stayed, no fear in those eyes that located mine, just a steady, knowing depth.

“Exquisite beast, No?” The voice, just off my right shoulder, startles me.

“Oh, I thought I was alone.” I blush when I see the male equivalent of a wolf next to me, his face softened by a short beard, curly hair closely cropped, his blue-gray eyes mesmerizing.

I quickly turn back to the wolf in the meadow. “He’s not a beast, you know. Wolves are intelligent creatures. Perhaps more than humans.”

He laughs, then, a patronizing yet friendly chuckle. “Ah, so you are ‘friend of wolves’ now?”

“Do I know you?” I look more closely at his face but find nothing familiar.

“I observed you at the hiking club meeting last week.”

“But you aren’t with the group today?” The vibes from him are not as comfortable as I’d like, but if he was a late arriver to the group I’d joined for today’s hike, I could calm my anxiety.

“Alas, no. I was too late to join.” He smiles, and I notice him peering over my shoulder toward where that group waited behind me. “But, the hike sounded interesting and I decided to enjoy it alone.”

Yes, he was alone, that I could see, and carrying only a daypack, just like the rest of us. He also has a very nice set of binoculars hanging from his neck and a camera with a long lens hanging near his hip.

“May I borrow your binoculars? I’d love to get a closer view of the wolf.”

As he hands them to me, I gasp. “They’re so light! Oh, my – Leica. These must have cost a fortune!”

I train my eyes on the wolf, still watching us from across the meadow. “The view is outstanding. It’s as if I’m standing next to her, could touch her fur. Oh, those eyes – such a deep, piercing blue. Most adult wolves eyes are gold not blue!”

“Would you like me to take a photo for you?”

“Oh, would you?” I know I sound too eager, but I notice his camera is also a Leica. This guy must be rich. Then I realize how dopey my excitement must sound.

He’s already taking photos, not reacting to my words, so I lift the binoculars to my eyes again, watch the wolf watching us.

Our enjoyment soon ends, however, as something startles the wolf. “That was a quick disappearing act,” I say, disappointed.

“I know where the den is located.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I could show you.”

“Oh, but I’m with the group.” I gesture toward the top of the hill, though don’t turn away from him. He shrugs his shoulders and nods his head toward the hut. I spin around.

The area near the hut, where the group had been eating lunch, now appears empty and I don’t hear any sounds. When did they depart? Didn’t anyone notice I was missing? I had mentioned my intention to Marianne – or did I? I remember I tried to, but she was chatting with the director and I grew impatient, just left. So nobody knows I am gone.

“I think you are alone .. ?”

A statement, a question – I hesitate, still puzzled over the group’s departure. Finally, I understand what he is asking.

“Tegan,” I said. “And you are?”

“Raoul.”

I sigh. “I suppose I should try to catch up with them.” I say this but I have no idea where they are headed next. I’d failed to pick up one of the maps at the start of the trip. because I’d arrived late. I just figured we’d remain together. With this big of a group, I’d decided, not everyone needed a map. I figured wrong.

“Or, you could stay with me. I could show you the den.”

I stare into those intense, blue eyes, hooked, my heart beating fast, my gut sounding cautionary bells that I don’t want to hear. Forcing my eyes away from his face, I glance toward the top of the hill, consider again the discomfort in my gut and make my decision. “Okay. Show me the den.”

** ** **

two songs for Wolf

wisdom

gleaned from years

engaged with nature, hunts

haunt humans, sustain the wolf pack

offspring

across

moon-lit meadows,

tranquil air, howls resound

songs of joy, love, each note projects

promise

U is for Ubiquitous

ubiquitous – existing or being everywhere, especially “at the same time”

omnipresent – constantly encountered

The silence had a subtle beginning. First, the leaves stopped rustling, the wind failed to whistle as it brushed the branches, found its way through cracks in the window frame. After that, the frogs quit singing and the forest grew eerie in its sudden still quiet.

She walked along the trail, boots crunching dried twigs, leaves, shells and yet she heard only the absence of sound. The trees parted near the edge of a wild, raging river. Not too distant, she thought, to hear the churning and bubbling of the turbulent water. Still she heard nothing. 

A dark shadow drew her view skyward where a hawk soared. Even the birds, the screech of the hawk, the hoot of the owl, the dancing melodies of the songbirds – all silent now.

Above the bird, a small plane churned across the sky. She imagined it being a new technology, the motor barely broke through the still air.

The silence surrounded her – ubiquitous.

She sighed, sad for the loss of so much that once delighted her. The loss was gradual at first, then dove like an elevator set free. Now, even with the aid of a hearing device, she lived in a world where silence held more power than sound. She considered her life akin to that of an alien on Earth, arriving without ears to hear, she navigated her way by sight, visually interpreting what she needed to understand, avoiding most social interactions.

Attempting to find a silver lining, she took consolation in being able to tune out the ubiquitous noise grown ever-present, never shut off, that most people endured every day and every night.

Maybe she did have an edge in her own unique way. Certainly made it easy to focus on her writing in a crowded coffee shop.

She turned from the river and continued her silent walk through the forest.

** ** **

ubiquitous quiet

silence

surrounds, black hole

siphons sound away, steals

birds, a child’s song, compromises

quiet

hearing

layers voices,

subtle notes; harmonics

required for fullness, clarity,

beauty

music

speech, natural

sounds feed my inner soul,

hearing loss fragments notes, disrupts

comfort

T - Time Transforms

I pulled up her Facebook page, smiled as I viewed her profile photo. It was a Christmas shot of her mom.

“How sweet,” I thought. I read through her posts, clicked on her photo albums.

That’s when reality smacked a blow to my psyche. “All those photos of her mom, aren’t of her mom at all. They’re her!”

Time transforms.

I remember hearing what I considered a silly saying when I was a young lady. It had to do with making sure to check out the parents of the man or woman you intended to spend your life with, because that’s how they’ll look in twenty or thirty years.

I used to laugh, figured it was a joke, a complete exaggeration. As I physically transform from the young lady I still see in my mind’s eye, I realize that we often become those who bore us.

Not everyone, of course. But photos of many of my high school friends, the ones whose parents I also knew quite well, reflect those parents I recall. And, since I haven’t been physically near any of these friends for twenty to thirty years (or longer for many), I still recall them visually at their younger age. That makes those Facebook photos seem odd, every time.

Not me, not my photo, of course. But, then, I’ve always only found bits and pieces of family genetics in my physical features, as if I never was a full-fledged member of that family that raised me.

I do see family traits in my sister, not of our mom but of an aunt, a sister of our father. I also see our father in my brothers. No doubt there. In me, perhaps going back a generation or two will reveal more likenesses.

The real tell is putting my photo next to my daughter’s image. Over the years, people have often spoken of our strong resemblance; at times we were considered sisters. Not so much now that I’m headed for the senior citizen status, though I can still see “me” in all of her photos – the “me” of a much younger age. I guess that means I hope she doesn’t mind looking like me once she reaches her sixtieth birthday.

And then I found a recent photo of the first boy I ever dated in high school. My shock at the realization was softened by having seen parental images in other old friends,  but I was still stunned to find his father. This recent image is a spitting image of the man standing in the doorway when the boyfriend and I arrived at two AM, attempting to explain how we’d gotten lost looking for a party at an apartment complex. It was a party the boy’s parents had invited us to attend after our school event, a dance. We really did get lost but, yeah, I know, who’s going to believe that one? I was there, and even I find it doubtful.

But there he is, the father – or the son, now the father. Wow. Transformed.

** **

green-eyed wolf stands firm

father’s white-gray mask now his

tribal link complete