Free Range Fiction (and Occasional Poetry)

Hobbit writing

I’ve been considering putting this blog up for some time, so that I would have a good place to put shorter fiction that I just wanted to make available and which did not fit into the context of the Arveniem materials. I’m planning on posting short fiction, of course, and possibly chapters of works written for fun. No charge for these.

I also plan on posting some of my longer poetry. I have some pieces that are too long for the type of graphical presentation I’ve been doing with the shorter poems. And then there are some that I don’t want to present that way.

I hope you will find it all interesting. I will endeavor to entertain you!

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Dementia

Early this year, I ran across a call for submissions to a poetry anthology about grief. The call made a point of indicating that they were looking for grief born of various life experiences. I had been thinking about my mother and the dementia she endured at the end of her life, so the call for poems gave me an opportunity to give expression to what I had been feeling.

In addition to the poem(s), the call also requested a short essay from the writers about the poem. They did not specify any exact content of the essay, it could be about the prosody of the poem, or the story behind the writing, or anything else the writer felt connected to the poem. So, I am posting both the essay (first) and then the poem.

Image for the poem "Dementia"

Essay

As my mother went into her final decline at age 90, her memories were peeling away backwards through her life. Memory lapses had been occurring over her last few years; short term memory breaking so that she would forget why a particular shopping errand was being run. Then, slowly, her familiarity with her own children and grandchildren grew confused and then lost.

In her last month, it was obvious that only her oldest memories remained clear. My brother told me of visiting our mother in the hospice. She did not recognize him. She was anxious, distressed to be in a place she did not know, among faces she did not recognize. She asked plaintively, “Where’s Morrison?”

Morrison was her older brother, her only sibling. They were the children of a Presbyterian pastor from Nova Scotia who was serving in Trinidad. When she reached the age of 11, she was sent to boarding school in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It was a long way away from the Caribbean island she had known.

In my brother’s recounting I could almost hear the plaintive question of the 11-year-old girl about to board a ship heading to a far-away place. “Where is Morrison?” The one sure thing in her discomforting, changing world.

As she was declining at age 90, her brother had been gone several decades. But all the long years of memory had been peeled away like onion layers, leaving only the lonely core of a small girl about to set out on a long journey, alone.

In thinking about this personal situation, I felt there was a double thread of grief spun from it. One thread was that of the unspeakable grief my mother must have felt, of losing a world that made sense to her. The other thread was the grief I and my siblings felt is watching her sink into her past where we could no longer connect with her through any memory. She looked for comfort in that memories remained to her, but none of them could be physically present to her as she faced her shrinking unknowable world.

When it came to writing the poem, I borrowed some aspects of prosody from Irish poetry, although I wrote in iambic pentameter. One aspect of Irish poetry is the repetition of the first (major) word of the poem in the last word of the poem. I used the imagery of peeling an onion because the fragility of dementia reminded me of the fragile outer layers of the onion, as well as the pungent, stinging juices of the bulb. Our memories are both flavorful and fragile, and their substance can bring tears.

(Poem) “Dementia”

The tears produced by peeling back the skin
Bring bitter sting stretched out thin every day
Each loss leaves wet frustration to provoke
A sense that each woke morn brought less and less

The pungent juice that jolts each favored dish
Becomes a weak wish crying to know why
A thing known yesterday has disappeared
Leaving weird thoughts of moldy memories

As each thin slice of memory is shed
And recent recollections are bled dry
Each laugh and love today becomes a loss
An onion skin fate will toss out in sleep

And then the long ago child light at heart
Stands weeping at the dark dart piercing sharp
The sense of unsought and unknown release
Of peace approaching treading through fresh tears

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Sun-Glow Singer

Someone has taken up the mantle
One voice had left us caged, unsinging
Taken by the fiery chariot of mortality
But out of a winter season
Came a young singer
Wrapped in sun-glow
Re-igniting dreams and hopes
Speaking in the heart rhythm
Of our beloved nation

Art image of Amanda Gorman
Art image of Amanda Gorman by Nadine Grant Daley

During the Inauguration of Joe Biden as President, 22-year-old poet Amanda Gorman dazzled everyone with a telling reading of her “The Hill We Climb.” After the ceremonies, I was enjoying how her work had reminded me of Maya Angelou’s, in her playing with words. I enjoyed her work so much that it inspired me to write a poem about her, and how I felt she connected to Maya Angelou.

The later in the day, a friend shared a graphic that someone else had already done of Ms. Gorman as she came to the podium to read. It’s so spot on! So I asked the artist, Nadine Grant Daley, if I might use it here on my website, and she was pleased to permit it. (You should check out her delightful works!)

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In Memorium, Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou

This poem was written at the time of Maya Angelou’s death, but I’d forgotten about it. I had posted it on Facebook on May 28, 2014, and it was only when it showed up in my “Memories” on the site that I remembered it. It says what I can say about her.

*****

She taught words
to fly
to soar, to sear
a soft gentleness that knew the hard things
a clear vision that saw through passion’s fog
a lyrical voice
flowing through the modern noise
now fallen silent before mortality
a vacant space left
rest now, lady grace, rest
you leave your flying words with us

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Mortal Thread, Eternal Cloth

I’d written this poem years ago, after a friend’s sister died unexpectedly. It seemed to me that our lives are woven together whether we think we are independent or not. God makes interesting things of bringing our lives together.

Mortal Thread, Eternal Cloth

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In the Now – Repost

I am working at updating the whole of my website, moving as much material off stand-alone HTM pages (for easier management). The poems that have been placed on graphic images have been a problem, in terms of where to place them. Do I put them with the artwork on the Graphics blog? Or here with fiction (and other poetry). I’ve decided to bring them here. Of course, as I move them, there are some hyperlinks on the site that I will have to update, but that’s the way it goes.

Anyway, about this poem: this was written in remembrance of Jack Gilbert shortly after his death four years ago. He was a gentle soul, a quite soul, a truly godly man in the best ways. He is much missed.

poem in the now over picture of sunset

Update: This poem was originally added to my website in April 2012. So I am creating backdated blog posts to match the original uploads, so it will appear twice in this blog.

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Morning, at a Tomb

About the woman morning spread its wings,
a gentle dove of rose-golden light,
the fluttering of its wings a patient breeze.
The earth was quiet, secret, holding back
the clatter of a waking world. She wept.

Garden of almond trees

She wept, while gentle clouds swept clean the sky.
She wept, while shining lilies danced delight.
She wept, while two small birds looped through the air.
This woman wept with heavy grief, her heart
As grey as stone. Surrounding her, the day
drew out from sleep, but in her eyes dark night
had claimed the world as its domain. Grey stone
before her formed a tomb, a well, a hole
which two nights since had swallowed up her Lord.
That night, the thought her heart would break with grief,
when, wrapped in hasty cloths they laid his form
upon the hateful, cold, unyielding stone.
That night, the sky had shared her grief, had stormed
majestic woe upon the world. But now,
that fickle sapphire dome welcomed the sun.
She thought her heart would break that night, but now,
where she had thought to find the form of love,
the hollow shell of him who gave them joy,
the corpse behind the sealing stone, was naught,
no man-form cruelly killed upon a cross,
no sign that he had once moved forth in life.
The thieving sneaks who stole his form away
had only let the cloth. How dark had day
become, how cold her heart, how empty lay
the world spread round her grief. A well of tears
sprang from her soul, a never-ending flood
of emptiness, a stream unnourishing.
How hollow was the world, was life, was love!
In death and darkness nothing stood secure,
and all the words and deeds were stolen clay.
“He’s gone! He’s gone! Why have they taken him?
They’ve robbed me of the dream I thought to keep,
the memory of love, when love was killed!
He’s gone, and now there is no dream, no ghost
of hoarded love to keep me on the Way!”
She wept, while morning broke the shell
of aging night. Yet still she was night’s thrall.

“Ah, child, why do you weep?”
_____________________She raised her head,
for youth had long deserted her, her age –
though not advanced – was well matured, her life
before her Lord had crossed her path, a thing
of vast experience. She was surprised.

The empty tomb

His feet seemed clad in earth, a rich brown soil
which sang of life, and ornamented too
with dirt the hands which gestured round about.

“Why do you weep? The day has come to life.”

She started up, and thinking him to be
the gardener, perhaps the one who stole
her Lord, her love, she cried, “Oh, please, tell me!”
Where have you taken him? Oh, give him back!”

The man seemed puzzled. “Give him back?”
_______________________________“Oh, sir,
you see this tomb of emptiness, where we
had laid our Lord! Have you removed his corpse?
Oh, give him back, that I may have some form,
some mass, some substance of his love, e’en if
he’s dead!”
_________The stranger stood before her, still
and calm as posture pools in early light.
His quiet spread about her like a cloak
to warm a chilly winter pilgrim’s way.
Her inner night-child tempest stilled its storm
as she regarded him in solemn peace.

His shining eyes began to dance with joy –
a strange surprise to her – and then he said,
“Ah, Mary!” Chiding laughter lit his voice,
the Lord of Life’s delight in his domain.
And at her name the woman’s heart was healed,
and all that she thought lost returned ten-fold,
not stolen or destroyed, and not confined
by any limits she had ever known.
His smile was light and life, and she who helped
to wrap his corpse would never more despair
of having all his gifts of godly love.

NOTE ON THE POEM: this was written several years ago, but I’ve not published it anywhere before. I’ve been meaning to post it the last few years, but kept missing preparing it for the Easter of those years. 

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Law & Order: “The Weapon”

The problem with writing spec scripts for television is that they become outdated fairly quickly. And then they just sit around. This is one reason why I’ve taken to posting out-of-date specs on my website as writing samples. I enjoyed writing them, and hope that at least one person out there might enjoy reading them.

Cast of Law & Order

With that said, here’s some background on this script: Law & Order: “The Weapon”

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I worked for a few years at the LA County Law Library in a clerical position. I got to see a lot of publications directed at the legal professionals, and some of their discussions interested and intrigued me. One issue that caught my attention was that for lawyers, there can be a distinction between legal competence to stand trial and who can qualify as a credible witness. In other words, credibility doesn’t have to be tied to mental competence.

This led me to wonder what would happen in a case where someone was not legally competent to stand trial, but might be considered a credible witness. Which led to this story.

Also, sometimes as a writer, you just can’t help but imagine certain actors in roles. The part of Jennifer Everett in this script was written with Blythe Danner in mind, her cool elegance and social grace.

To give you an idea of the period this script was written, the following list gives the names of the then-current characters:

Lt. Anita Van Buren; Det. Lenny Briscoe; Det. Ed Green; ADA Jack McCoy; ADA Serena Southerlyn; DA Arthur Branch.

Law & Order: “The Weapon”

As always, this script is offered only as a writing sample. All rights to the characters belong to Wolf Films and Universal Studios.

 

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In the Winter Night

I hadn’t been able to send out Christmas cards for a couple of years. But the impulse to do something creative for the holiday remained. The result was this poem.

A Christmas poem

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Psalm 4

house-in-rain

Oh Lord, bring me to a home,
@@@a place set for me;
Bring me to a resting place
@@@that restores my spirit,
A haven from the battering blows
@@@that attempt to knock me over.
You have walked with me in my wanderings
@@@and always I thank You for Your shield.
You have laid my path to stopping places
@@@blessed with loving care.
Even in the darkest night, in cold solitude,
@@@You held me safe.
And yet, oh Lord, I have no spot of my own.
My heart aches for a home
@@@where I know it as my own,
@@@where I can play host to others,
@@@where the works of my hands can give me joy.
I trust in You, oh Lord,
@@@to lead me to a home.
Let my place always be a shelter of Your grace.

cottage-in-the-rain

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Psalm 3

walking-strong-wind

When the challenges of life
@@@block me, oh Lord,
@@@be with me and guide me.
Unexpected stumbling blocks
@@@delay my forward movement.
Frustration of choices
@@@weighs down my heart.
How many times will I find myself thwarted,
@@@anxious about what might come?
I wind myself tight in the dark of night,
@@@and then the morning breaks
@@@and I see Your light over the jumble.
Many times Your hand has held me up,
Many times You have provided for my needs,
@@@I know You watch over me.
Help me in the winds of turmoil,
Help me weather the showers of worry,
@@@Calm my heart with Your love.
You reach through my thrashing,
@@@and bring me to a quiet place.
In the tempest, I remind myself
@@@of Your steadfast presence.

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