October 26, 2011

A Review - The Winters In Bloom - A Novel by Lisa Tucker


In writing this review, I pondered over just how to begin. When I say ponder, I mean, I stayed awake thinking about this story; these characters that are as real as you and me. Do I write about me? Do I write about you? Do I write about this author? Of course not, but even if I where to write our stories, it would be just as difficult for me to describe, as it is to tell you what this story holds in their pages for all of us to see. You have to experience this novel, not just read it!

We start out, one morning, seeing a little boy, standing in a wilderness of cut grass, not really knowing how to live in the world around him. The sun rises on an innocent little boy, innocent to what adults can hide; this story revolves around Michael, abducted by a stranger from his own, safe, backyard, and only knowing what his parents had taught him: be cautious of everything - worry about what might, or could, happen. He leaves with a total stranger.

How can he be careful of what he has never experienced? How can he see what has never been shown to him? Who, and what can he trust? These are the scenarios we hear in his head. He meets a new world, after being taken away; it’s also an evolution through time, and place, for Kyra and David, his parents. The pieces to this puzzle start to pop, like fire crackers in the night, as the scenes of the past start to take revealing shapes! A small child, a product of doting, over protective parents, is what we see----as the sun starts to set.

Each character has a voice, they overlap, until their past catches up with them...this story tells us how revealing and important a past can be to the future. 

The Winters In Bloom discloses buried moments in history – it is no different than each and every one of us, shoving something away, unsaid, or pushing something we’ve done, down, in hopes to never see those unwanted secrets surface, again.

Lisa Tucker has an uncanny way of showing us our past in her novels. This one is no exception, as exceptional as it may be! We open up this book, hearing Lisa speak to us from her characters, breathing life and truth into focus by these people; to find the mysteries of the living, as well as the influences of the dead.

I won’t tell you the story, because it’s up to you to find out where this history leads. Lisa Tucker shows us all sides to being a parent, a child, and a grandparent...Michael finds out just who he is, and with amazement, who his parents are and will become....and to be given a world shown to him through the eyes of forgiveness and redemption.

May 02, 2011

New Blog - Prosetry in Motion

I've created a new blog, http://prosetryinmotion.blogspot.com/
In changing the title of my blog, I've had to create a new one.  I'll continue to be posting more stories, poems, and who-knows-what, there.  In my profile, you'll always find these two locations to read at your leisure, and pleasure (I hope).  Comments are always welcome. 

Have a great day!
Kathy

April 30, 2011

The DAIRY QUEEN

 
Susie, Becky and I looked forward to summer vacations together.
In the heat of July we would rush to the DAIRY QUEEN, cooled only by the taste of a soft-served ice cream, the ice-cold creamy softness oozing down our throats.  The sun lowered itself in the blazing afternoon sky, at the corner of Temple and Grand, and the three of us crossed together, arm in arm, aiming our noses towards the big DQ sign.   Inseparable, people would call us.  
We’d sit side by side, under the threadbare awning, shade giving small respite, having no effect on slowing the melting process of soft served ice cream.
Cone in hands, a race to the finish, never fast enough, as our tongues would
lick
lick
lick, watching cream slide down to our finger tips, and stick.  
Susie got her last bite in before any of us, not sure if it was because she was first to the front of the line, or because she had the biggest mouth, I’m thinking back to the 4th of July, a watermelon eating and seed-spitting contest, Susie won, hands down - mouth size must have something to do with it.
This summer, different from past summers
Becky off to camp, Susie gone to visit her aunt
Leaving me to while away the days, licking my cone in the afternoon haze 
Somehow the flavor was off, the sweetness was lost
The coolness was missing
And the fun was gone
Then a post card came, but it just wasn’t the same 
Not having them here, summer was bland that year
Parched was a summer’s first, I wilted from thirst
I missed my friends, I soon stopped going to the DAIRY QUEEN.
I sat at home, mindlessly dangling my feet in the pond, watching fish nibble at my toes; but paying no attention to the time of day, it didn’t matter one bit, no way. 
If I let my thoughts surface, I’d think about the fun I could be having, if only Becky and Susie were here—
Riding our bikes around town
Off we’d go to the park, what a lark.
Catching a movie during the heat of the day, it seemed like months before they’d return, so we could play
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not begrudging them their fun; I just hoped they weren’t, while I was getting sun burnt!
Wading over to the boat beside the dock, good place to park my sorry butt
Clouds and time passed by, into a dreamy mercurial sky
Soon I was fast asleep, never hearing a peep 
Clouds hung below, and the sun was low
Splash! 
Ripples on the pond, I stirred into wakefulness at the sound
Splash!
I rubbed my eyes, I saw fireflies
Splash!
Dreams, as real as daylight
Splash! 
The boat rocks, I grab hold of the dock
Splash! 
Giggles 
I jump to the ground, I look around
Pounced upon, as if by a stampeding herd of buffalo, and the wind knocked out of me, I thought, whoa!
A bright light shown in my eyes, was it the moon on the rise?
Tumbling, in the dark moldy leaves on the ground, I was soon face down 
I couldn’t speak, giggles I hear, and a whisper in my ear
The voices saying one thing, only one thing......
“Let’s go to the DAIRY QUEEN.”

April 27, 2011

Standing In The Shower - FindingThat Sense of Place


Okay, here's the deal
in finding Sense of Place
I've searched to feel
until I'm blue in the face

I stood so long
with the shower running
singing my song
in monotone humming

I ran out of hot water
teeth started to chatter
turning the dial to hotter
I said, "What does it matter?"

"Oh, heck," stepping out of the shower
I reached for the wine
tripped over the PC tower
and sloshed the divine

I lost my refrain
setting my face with a scowl
I thought, "you're insane!"
and said, "F**k, WHERE'S THAT TOWEL?!"

April 25, 2011

Boundaries No More

Stars on a sunrise
Soap through a loop
Bubbles in a bath
Foam on the shore

Boundaries flow
Boundaries saved
Boundaries escape
Boundaries go

Floating upon fingertips, boundaries await, waiting to drop.  They drop, they burst, no sounds to unyielding streams, liquid as tears end, ending between fractured seams. 

Catch their birth, catch their death, and bring them home to living mirth.  As a lore they are gone, boundaries no more, in to the wind, the air we breathe, we cried, we grieved, so lost was the essence to which boundaries reside.

April 23, 2011

Ten things or more to write about

I'll share my list of things to write about.
I think I've come close to one...Number 21. 
So much fun.
I'm having to laugh...I "bing'd" computer keyboard images, and got a naked woman....you gotta hand it to these research programs....they're incredible unpredictable!  Number 23 to write about...


 1)  Life in general or as it applies to writing.  The grand philosophies of yore.
 2)  Creativity - What is it?
 3)  Bells ringing in the New Year, or out
 4)  Horses taking off from the gate.  Huh?
 5)  Friendships
 6)  Hearing songs that clamber in your head
 7)  Writing when you can’t think of something to write about
 8)  Coloring your hair - Or -When is gray hair a bad thing?
 9)  Sitting eating a toasted-hard bagel with cream cheese, and feeling     the inside of your mouth start to shred.
10) Spending the evening getting your feet stepped on by a well intentioned dance partner
11) How to tell your story, without spilling your guts
12) More than ten things to write about...shall I go on?
13) Art in the form of writing
14) Writing in the form of art
15) Freezing your ass off in front of a blank screen.  Turn the heat on, dummy!
16) Thumbing through a fifty-thousand word manuscript and wondering if there is one word that is salvageable
17) Falling on you face, while running for the exit
18) Playing soccer and landing on your butt in the icy snow
19) Fending off your admiring audience – the laugh track of the century
20) Writer’s cramp, while typing on a junky keyboard.  I bought a new one.
21)  Feelings about that “stuff” that’s in your head – the good, the bad, and the incredibly absurd
22) What to write at the stroke of midnight, while sitting alone in the dark.
There is more, don't worry, but I'll surprise you another time.

April 22, 2011

the scent of you

     When there seems to be a type of confusion in my mind, as to what it is I'm trying to convey in my writing, I let free thought flow. In the end, sometimes a simile or a metaphor sneaks in.  I read and reread these poems, changing, and letting them take on a visual effect, a sculpture of sorts.
    Before I post whatever it is I post, I think about what picture I want to show you (if any), to attach to what I write.  When reading this poem, I thought of Auguste Rodin and his beautiful, sensual sculptures.  There are times when different senses take over while writing, and for me, with this poem, the most sensual aspect of the human anatomy are the hands.  When you watch a ballet, a singer, a musician, an artist of any sort, that's what I see. I picked Rodin's hands to give to you....If you're wondering why the hands, that's why.

I close my eyes
tendrils grab and hold
warmth of evening dew
branches hugging lattice
fragrance fights the night
and feels the subtleness of you
out of sight
sings the air
up you climb
into the dark
wraps a cloak
never to let go
inhale the night
longing to evoke
around all things
stronger you cling
smell the sweetness
I close my eyes, anew
knowing you are there
I breathe the scent of you

April 20, 2011

The Circle of Love


Capture new love bending supple and warm
into arms, as bough bends in its form
Strong in inception of thought holding high
with new strength I hear
the ripple and sigh
forgiveness
At length, and bonding within
go forward in motion, my love ever long
Kiss the cheek's flesh, and blood flows unending
touch
the softness of heart, tender and yearning
years
flowing by, the testing of time
speak
my love
to
hear
it says that time in its stillness lifts me again
caring
for truths we hear from within
flowing two hearts which gives us
time
I see in your eyes, I hold fast to those
moments
hands reach
love holding
strong
we dance,  we fall, we are
caught within frailness
with passing of time
in
tenderness
we clasp with warmth where love
lingers
and
circles all


April 19, 2011

Falling Upward

 
My earth holds still
Laments for acceptance
Give me night or give me day
Give me what no others want
Give me time or give me space
Give me place with no repent
Give me these to stand upon
Give me dreams to fly away


I moved my hand across the face of the sky, your face, I saw changes. I pushed away the shadows, these clouds to the side, feeling the soft, lightness of air passing with every movement, feeling the weightlessness between my fingertips.

What is this place?
Down, down this dream takes me - I plunge into the sea, wanting more. The sea is you, no, it is me.  Is it the sky, is it the sun, oh, is it the understanding of the moon I crave?

What is this dream?
Give me more, a star - I’m desirous of meaning to all that is withheld.  The warmth of the sun, I send these feelings sailing to every corner of an unforgiving universe - Castaways, am i forgotten in time?

April 17, 2011

Choisya's Garden

This is a small poem I'd written for a once particpant on the Barnes & Noble book clubs.  This woman, Choisya was her name, talked about her garden and how much she loved it.   I simply wrote it down

I went into my garden early this morning, I saw my spring flowers, soon to be opening.  The morning sun's rays were shining bright, and my cares of the day now out of sight.
Rivulets of shadows no longer exist, my days fill with flowers that bloom in the mist.  My laughter and light gives through the day, as earth sends her glories in every ray.

April 14, 2011

Can You Win With Honesty?


I’ve wondered, lately......how honest can you be with someone, someone you care about? 

How far can you push or pull, with your straight forward, shoot from the hip honesty, before there is complete and utter breakdown?  I’ve wondered this, lately, and I’ve wondered why I push, and push, and push----See how honest I am, and see how honest you can be with yourself, along with me!

Who am I, here, the teacher, or the student in this potentially destructive tug-of-war of psychological drama?

I’ve come to realize, it’s not just being honest with someone, it’s why this honesty seems to be so necessary, important for me at the time, and that time speaks volumes for skewing that so-called honest perspective. Frayed ends, ......Speaking while being hurt, or angry, or I might add, disillusioned in myself, or in others.......

I run and run and run towards, and I pull, and I pull, and I pull myself back....pushing and pulling that someone along with me.  I’ve found I’ve worn out that connection - starting to unravel and destroy myself, and the link between us, while never knowing the outcome on the other side.  I hear an echo of a tearing.  How many bodies do we lay waste in this tug-of-war of honesty?  Silence, deadly silence, is what I now hear from the other side.

HUMMINGBIRD LITTLE BIRD

Hummingbird little bird
Flower to flower
Stop stilled
Tummy filled

Small drink
Nectar sweet
Tweet tweet

Little bird
Moving fast
Shadows cast

Hummingbird little bird
 Little wings
Precious sweet
Hear them beat

Frightened now
Wings lift
Flying swift

Fast you can
Sweep away
Cannot stay

Hummingbird little bird
A bright flower seeks
With humming wings
Your Beauty speaks

April 12, 2011

Hello Solitaire

 Slipping off into nothingness, or everythingness, is the world of mindscapes and soulscapes, and shapes with colors to escape scapes

Mindlessly playing Solitaire
Mindless?
How can this be?

Numbers, Hearts, Spades, Clubs and Diamonds
Kings and Queens and Jacks
Reds on Blacks?

Colors match, but no match
Coming close becomes a mystery to me
Where is that Three?

  An     Ace
 There it’s gone
An Ace of Hearts
Ouch, that smarts
That’s my heart
In a song?
Hum
A
L
O
N
G

Minding my own business
Playing Solitaire
It isn’t fair
It isn’t fair
It isn’t fair
No
It’s
Solitaire

April 11, 2011

Now



No need to turn a leaf
to feel the veins
you know they are there
No need to smell the fragrance
of blossoms
in the air

No need to feel the thorn
its sharpness is always felt
No need to feel the thirst
touch the ground 
Where you have knelt

No need to wipe the dew from the pane
you know how high the moon
No need to look at stars
the light shines in the room

No need to wipe a tear
No need to brush the brow
No need to kiss the lips
you know the moment’s now

Where is the mind
when it circles the moon?
Where is the mind
when it catches
a tune?

How do we listen
when voices are loud?
Where are the words
when caught in
a crowd?

A moment becomes moments
as ships pass in the night
The moment is now
with each and every flight

No need to explain
No need to expand
No need to tell a story
just march with the band

Hear with your heart
Hear with you mind
Hear the beat within
no steps left behind

How to take a step
How to run a race
How to play a tune
questions not faced

Your mind is the book
Your eyes are the words
Your face masks the truth
when nothing is heard

The moment is now
as time will fly
Reach upward
your mind is the sky

April 10, 2011

A Million Miles From Nowhere - Prologue


She Sits By The Window

As two are one, she sits alone
smiling wisdom from darkened halls
she casts a glance at past memories
finding answers as distance calls

I walk into the room and see her sitting alone by the window, I smile at this sight, not that I think it’s a humorous one, but it’s a familiar one, one in which I’ve seen so often and it makes me love her all that much more. 
She usually has her thumb stuck between the pages of her book resting in her lap, with her eyes gazing out the window, focused on some far away object on the path that meanders by our house, only this time something is different, her book is closed, not marked with her thumb; just simply closed in her lap and her eyes are cast down. I could see her mind ruminating over something that is secret only to her within that story she holds inside.  I see with those eyes, how she runs carefree in the field or walking on the path, or lying by the stream.  I feel those moments alongside her.  I wish she could speak of those times which were so dear to us, but she cannot.  To persuade her or coax her to illuminate her world to me is no longer possible.  But, I sometimes try.
She hears me enter the room, her chin turns upward and she looks in my direction. I see a strand of her hair has fallen across her forehead, it catches the light from the window. Her eyes come to mine.  I go to her and take that silk thread between my fingertips, replacing it amongst its companions of silver . She smiles.  She had been caught in a time that was part of a past so complete, one we both knew and shared, but for only her that time stands still, a time sweeter than anyone could imagine. 
So abruptly her book is closed and comes to an end.  My breath catches when I realize that day, that day in the past.  As I sit down next to her, my memory becomes that of two - she sits by the window, with her book gently held between her hands.  This is the book I will now open, this is the story she wants told, this is the beginning of her life.  Once again she smiles at me, I smile back, we become one.



What's In a Name?

Creating this blog has been an interesting experience, it’s given me a few things to think about:  The title, my name, the over-all design, and the stories that I will give you.
 
At first, I thought I would use a pen name, Sara Randall Holmes, and found that I confused some of my friends - they not knowing if it were I who wrote these pieces, or another person.  Explanations had to be made.  What a pain.  I wondered if it was worth the confusion, or should I stay with my real name?

Even though Sara is my real middle name, I use Randall, my grandmother’s maiden name, and Holmes, her mother’s maiden name. I figured these names were in the family, and they could become mine.  I liked the sound of them when put together. I may still use Sara Randall Holmes, it feels comfortable.

But, for the time being, I’ve changed back to my real first name, and middle name, leaving off my last name.  I sign my name, on my pottery, KSara...and this is where I’ve ended up, with Kathleen Sara.

The title of my blog, Alice In Wonderland, was chosen because it is about a little girl with adventures to tell.  Am I Alice, or am I the little girl, Kathy....or the grownup who can’t figure out which name to use?

In 1862, these stories of Alice were told to children, these stories were known as Alice’s Adventures Underground.  When published in 1865, the title was changed to Alice In Wonderland.  The author’s name was Lewis Carroll.  His real name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.  Lewis Carroll was his pen name, a pseudonym, becoming a version of his first and middle names in reverse order. I wonder what confusion these names became for his friends, family, and readers.

I recently saw a documentary about Mark Twain.  Of course we know his real name was Samuel Clemens....but the question became, for him....Who am I?  Later in his life, it was said he became more like Mark Twain, than Samuel Clemens. This makes me wonder.....

.......What’s in a name?  When changing your name, does that name change you in the process?

April 09, 2011

April Love


Exasperating moments
sun shadowing the leaves
enters through the window
the window
ah, the window
the blossoms on the trees

Love is in the air
who can get it right?
throwing caution to the wind
the wind
ah, the wind
across the seamless night

Smell the grasses growing
harvest green unfolds
how you make an ant hill
an ant hill
ah, an ant hill
into a surly mole

Plummets sincere desire
into depth's terrain
masticating air
the air
ah, the air
breathes April's refrain

Love, sweet, oh so sweet
together two strings
crossing frayed tips
frayed tips
ah, frayed tips
what plucks to sing?

April love, April showers
breaking space
tying me in knots
I look to your face

What days bring joy?
what nights are ours?
where are we going
minutes to hours

Ah, night, ah day
a heavy sigh I expel
how can I love?
how can I tell?

Strings pull tight
together again
but where is your heart
oh where, or when?

April love?
I asked you to stay
I held your hand
and you slipped away




I Am a Liberal

This sums up my beliefs.  I am not the original writer of this, although I have altered some words.  Ins tead of using the reference to “...