Monday, July 31, 2017

THOUGHT IT WAS TIME FOR A BLOG

Starting about a year ago I decided that it was time to weed out and organize, especially my basement where I have boxes upon boxes, some of which I haven't touched since we moved into this house, ten years ago.  Yikes!!! Well, I knew there were things I wanted to keep and things, well, that needed to go. And so, it began.  Going through box after box and deciding what "needed" to be saved and what didn't.  Besides, I didn't want some health event to happen and have to move it all somewhere else and not know exactly what was in the supposed keepsake boxes.  And clothes, don't get me started on the clothes.  I went through them all the boxes and the clothes and the items decent enough to go to charity, let's just say, the charity got a lot!  I took at least 50 good sized boxes and 10 van loads there. So tonight I thought I should dedicate my latest poem to that endeavor.  Here it is:


STUFF
By Patty Lynn

I started getting organized about a year ago
Because we all accumulate, I knew much had to go.
I started with the basement & I realized, at last,
Unnecessary, much of it, just “stuff” that I’d amassed.

So I went through each box I had, each shelf, each rack of clothing
And thus began the task ahead, some fear of it and loathing...
That I had kept what seemed to me important at the time,
But actually just took up space, no reason & no rhyme.

I had my work cut out for me, purge sentimental things?
But how could I, they’re pulling at my heartstrings?
With every card and every picture drawn in childhood scrawl,
The memories came flooding back as I would thus recall…

The times when I, a fledgling Mom, was new at child rearing…
Then I'd snap back and realize I’d best get back to clearing.
As you can tell this wasn’t such an easy job for me.
I was consumed with doing this, now done, I’ve come to see…

If you throw keepsakes in a box, your memories of your past,
And they’re not organized, preserved, they’re never going to last.
Besides it’s smart to pick and choose, you can’t keep everything.
And since mine’s labeled and pared down, I can find anything!

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

NEW FRIENDS

     Yesterday I met with a group of gals who love writing as much as I do, and let me say, it was really wonderful.  Each of us brought something different to the table, literally.  We sat at a table in the back of a local restaurant.  Do I need to tell you what happens when a bunch of women get together?  True to form and especially because we had a lot in common, we had no trouble keeping the conversation going.  And what made it even more interesting was the fact that we were different in not only our writing styles, but also in the specific type of writing we enjoyed.
     Some were in the midst of book writing, some were into poetry and we all dabbled in the blogosphere. Since I have had Poetically Speaking since 2008, I was a good resource for how to begin and how to get noticed.  One of the women was busy finishing the second book of a trilogy she's both writing and self-publishing and brought a copy of Book One, entitled LEGS, for us to see. She also shared the expense of self-publishing.  Later, she treated us all to an excerpt from the book.
     As we all shared some of our writing, I read my poem, Penelope Pickle.  You may recall that that was the poem I wanted to turn into a children's book.  All the gals were very encouraging and the reaction was good.
     One of the gals does have a blog which is both personal, almost diary-like but uses her personal story to create a devotion of sorts.  We suggested a domain name for her blog so as to get it into the hands of prospective readers.  Our plans are to meet once-a-month and to have accomplished additional steps in our own writing process to share the next time we meet.
     Tonight's blog post is a poetic look at the day's activities.


WRITER’S CLUB
By Patty Lynn

Today I met a group of gals I never knew before,
Our love of writing joined us all, that love was underscored...
As some of us were poets while other gals loved prose.
No matter how you cut it that cake, we each love to compose.

And so we got acquainted, each sharing things we wrote,
Some wrote of things remembered, and certainly of note,
While others were devotional, profound in observation,
Still others wrote for children just ripe for illustration.

We spoke of agents, blogs and books, self-publishing, what joy,
And why a publisher is best, if we each had our choice.
For some, like me, it spurred us on to keep the process going,

Encouraging each one of us to keep the juices flowing.

For even though some hadn’t met until we met today,
Our love of writing drew us close in a very special way.
Though different in our backgrounds, we found this common ground.
A writer’s club was born today, four gals I’m glad I’ve found.

Friday, July 14, 2017

IDIOM NUMBER ONE

This week I found myself teaching someone the idiom, LIP SERVICE.  Why? The person's first language wasn't English and they had never heard the word before.  Why did it come up?  Well, this person was complaining, complaining that no one follows through or keeps their word.  So I explained that that might be an example of LIP SERVICE.  I'm sure this all is extremely fascinating but whether it is or isn't, it prompted tonight's blog.

LIP-SERVICE
By Patty Lynn

I taught a common idiom to one who’d never heard…
It used in any way at all, they’d never heard the word.
I tried explaining idioms, but I was not successful,
It fact, the more I talked of it, the more they found it stressful.

I took a breath and simplified, I asked if this was known,
The old expression, TALK IS CHEAP, now that was in the zone.
And then I took that moment to stress just what it meant
To merely make the promises but not have the intent…

To follow through, to do the job, to mean just what you say.
So often that’s the way it goes, especially today.
It seems your word is not your bond, the way it used to be,
And though I think it should be so, I seldom ever see…

That someone really is on time, the work’s done partially,
And since this has become the norm, the problem lies with me…
Because, well, I expect too much and this is what I’m told,
“Don’t fuss, relax, it will get done, don’t worry and don’t scold.”

No, I won’t preach, I won’t bemoan that some don’t keep their word,
And merely say they’ll do something and their intent is blurred.
For me a promise is just that, my words have got a purpose,
But whether I agree or not, I’ve just explained LIP SERVICE. 

Sunday, July 2, 2017

GUESS YOU CAN CALL ME DEBBIE DOWNER

I've known I was going to write this poem for a long time, but I have to admit, I've put it off as long as I could. Why? I guess I thought if I didn't write it, I didn't have to face the fact that this means so much to me.  But I have to face it, IT DOES! So, as my good friend says, "It is what it is."


IN MOURNING
By Patty Lynn

I’ve figured out the reason, just why I’m feeling glum,
The loss that I am mourning is not a common one.
I mean not everybody feels this deep, abiding loss,
Nor understands just how it feels or even come across…

An innate gift like mine, it’s true, a blessing undeserved,
A blessing like no other one that suddenly occurred.
And I was sure I’d always have this gift of mine forever.
I wasn’t owed, still God bestowed, this gift, my greatest treasure.

You see, I loved, yes, loved to sing, it mattered not the song,
From background music on TV where I would sing along…
To starring roles in musicals or hymns on Sunday morn,
Regardless, singing was “the thing” for which I had been born.

I know too well what has been said, “If it’s not used you lose it,”
I searched the past with heart downcast but found I’d not abused it.
Why then, I said, has this transpired, where is the voice I’ve longed for?
What have I done, why punish me, what is it that I’m wronged for?

No one can grasp the depth of this, my voice was my catharsis;
No matter what went wrong for me, just singing helped, regardless.
It’s true that in my younger days, I’d sing at different venues,
The chances, they were plentiful, these choices on my menu.

But my life changed, as years went by, performing less important.
I had the joy of Grandma-hood, so singing time was shortened,
Replaced with singing nursery rhymes and quiet lullabies,
My audience were baby boys, my payoff coos and sighs

I’m not complaining, no I’m not, I’d do it all again,
I only wish the voice I had was like it was back then.
No volume now, and if I sing I sound more like a man.
An octave lower than it was when all of this began.

And when I hear a singer who, like me, is older, too,
Whose voice maintains the same rich sound they’ve had their whole life through,
I can’t but help to mourn the loss of how my voice once was.
The joy it gave, the loss of which such sorrow it has caused.