Wild Threads 2019

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Written during the Wild Threads Writing Symposium 2019 in Charlottetown, PE, for the participants’ open mic on August 25th. The pièce de résistance.

walking into the bar at Peake’s Quay
slight trepidation
wondering
who?
how?
what?
i find a few people
a friend, and another, and another

connecting

then strangers pour in

still shy
sitting in a corner
feeling awkward
a high school kid
at her first dance

leaving at first chance

knowing it would get better
it had to get better

coffee
cookies
a good sign

then the lounge
strange faces
again feeling alone
awkward
shy
unsure what to say
why?

until he sweeps into the room
takes over
fills the void
no need for other talk
no room for other talk
George Elliott Clarke
loves to talk
we basked
in the presence of literary god
venturing minuscule offerings
lapping up momentary patting
atta girl! good boy!
we intellectuals we!

listening
half hearing
half understanding
non-threatening chatter
over lunch
quickly munched
played a guessing game
too many strange titles
feeling ancient
in the presence of
exclusive elusive agent
Hilary McMahon
dangling bacon
atta boy! good girl!

a short walk
jars bones awake
trotting to the Carriage House
more talk
publishing trends
are dead ends
with Hilary and Craig
but Laurie Brinklow
twinkled and glowed

art gallery
faculty reading
luscious words gushing
from godly gullets
that barely reached
limp mike
thank you, Keith

early morning coffee
muffin
cinnamon roll
thank you Liza-with-a-Zay
hello Brent Taylor-who-works-in-VA

Pauline Dakin’s on today
Julie P-Lush won’t play
Anne Simpson ramps on
a saggy mattress
ramps off
extending the metaphor
until George (still on Toronto time)
sweeps in on golden sandals
Craig Pyette does play it cool
stretching the hour

Anne’s hour
quick sixty Simpson minutes
reinventing
reshaping
revising
radicalizing
reciting
renewal
relief.

processing outlines
with Patti at lunch
pop thoughts on cards
rainbow story arcs
paranormal (L)arsen mystery
did the ghost do it?
poof! typing magic fingers
poof!

Julie P-Lush came out to play
Julie P-Lush did end the day
all of her listeners in awe of her art
shared all their big dreams and opened their hearts

and so over lobsters and oysters and steaks
down at the Row House the writers partake
of laughter and cheer and chatter and make
new friendships and memories to keep them awake
all night as they slave for their open mic takes.

Homecoming

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Poem written during the Wild Threads Writing Symposium 2019 in Charlottetown, PE, during a workshop session with Anne Simpson on August 24th, and delivered at the participants’ open mic on August 25th. Also with a great suggestion from George Elliott Clarke!

Dishes.                                                     

All in place.

Dinner.

                   Bell rings.

                            Rings.

                                     Rings. Rings. Rings.

Spotless.    House dust fears.

                            Mop and broom.

Spotless house.

No.             Spoken dissent.

         No.

                   No.

                            No.

Empty.                 House staring

           Out.

Staring house.     Empty.

         black          black

         black          black

         window      sockets

Will they?

                            Come.                                     

Home.       

Can they?         

Five thousand fires and counting

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This poem was written during the 2019 Wild Threads Writing Symposium, Charlottetown, PEI, in one of George Elliott Clarke’s sessions on August 23rd, and read during the participants’ open mic on August 25th. With some really great advice from George and some techniques from Anne Simpson’s workshop on the 24th.

Five thousand fires blazing

Maybe more

children of the jungles fleeing

Into the world

Down from the north  running

Feet burning on ice

Up from the south  crawling

Hair dripping with fire

Ten years is five is one counting

Marking time

Giants out-shout giants mouthing

Words will not rhyme

people of the world stand watching

Beneath the shadow of hate

Millions of shards of colors reflecting

Black, brown, red, yellow, white

Is this the beginning of human destruction?

The continent lies silently burning

Bonfires march across the world

Sparks and embers leap exploding

Hearts, minds, bodies lying cold

Remnants of reality

Settling ash-like in the frost.

Be grateful

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Always be grateful for everything.

The good things

the bad things

the in-between things

They all add up

to what life

is.

Everything.


~cindy2010

Because my sister-in-law shared this, a poem came to me!

Why I’m Not a Singer

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My dad had a record or two or a collection of Marian Anderson’s songs and I loved listening to her alto/contralto voice. It was so rich and textured I wanted to be an alto and practiced my speaking so my voice would be lower and well-modulated. Singing in choirs and with my voice teachers, I was always put in Soprano I or II; once in a while, though, I would be put in alto when a strong lead was needed. No matter what my voice coach or choir directors said, I never thought myself a singer and I never thought I had the voice to sing, mainly because of a tape reel of us singing nursery rhymes–I was only 6 then–that my mother would play for visitors; I hated it because I thought my voice sounded awful and childish and weak. I envied and idolized singers in school with naturally powerful and musical voices but was always too shy to sing solo. I tried to audition once for the glee club but was refused; I did get to perform in a handful of musicals, mainly because they were school productions, but listening to others, I have admitted to myself, time and again, that there are many amateur singers far better than me.

When I was turned down by the glee club, my brother (with a powerful singing voice and, of course, my mother’s darling) was rehearsing for a musical. I met their voice coach, who somehow convinced me to sing a few bars, which led to chords and, before I knew it, she had convinced my mother to allow me to take vocal coaching from her and to join a choir she was putting together. In her words, I had a “lovely voice”. I could not believe it because I never really heard myself sing except on that awful tape with our nursery rhymes, but it opened up a small dream I had tucked away as a little girl. I soon found myself rehearsing after school and on weekends and, before I knew it, the choir was booked for a gala performance at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. (I shall post photographs when I find them.) We were all fitted for gowns (my first gown ever!) and I was excited, singing in Soprano I or II for most of the concert.

After our gala, we started rehearsing Christmas carols because we would be caroling for our sponsors and donors, who would host us (and boy, did they feed us!) as we sang for them and their guests. We went to around 4 or 5 different homes, each grander than the last, but that kept us on the road past midnight. Somewhere past 1 a.m., I was finally dropped off at home where I faced my mother’s extreme ire. She ranted about what kind of people stayed out so late at night, got angry at our directress, and forbade me from ever going to another voice class or rehearsal. I was devastated and disappointed and embarrassed all at once, because my fellow choir members would occasionally call and ask why I wasn’t attending anymore. I told them the truth, that my mother would not let me.

A couple of years after, when I was in university, I joined a youth ministry group which worked with communities and did a lot of singing, and I could stay out as late as I wanted because I no longer lived at home–at least most of the time. I joined several extra-curricular activities, including a dance company, the school paper, the math society, the forensics society, and a reading club that I formed, so I spent a lot of time doing all sorts of activities after school and late into the nights. I also sang, danced, choreographed, and co-directed a couple of original musicals staged by the scholars in the program I was enrolled in.

I occasionally picked up a tiny solo part in choirs but I always felt my voice disappearing when I was asked to sing. The one time I braved it was when my close group of friends and co-teachers in the high school where I taught decided to perform in a benefit concert before the whole high school audience. That brought the house down–the whole concert, that is, but not so much, I think, because we were accomplished singers (we had a couple of really good singers) but because the students had never seen us perform that way before! Besides that, I did sing a lot for my kids when they were little. I haven’t really sung in a long time and am often tempted to join a choir but for the time. I have far too many other things to do, as it is, so I am saying good-bye to my singing aspirations. I was more of a natural at writing anyway, so that’s what I’m sticking with.

And that, my friends, is my singing career in a nutshell.

Wasteland

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I see the USA a desolate wasteland

Bare stretches of plundered earth

Unbroken by trees

Drab browns and greys

Inhabited by scavengers

Two-legged or more

Squabbling over carcasses

Slaughtering out differences

With beak, bullets, or brawn

The last bald eagle

Perched indifferently

On the churning arm

Of an oil well.