I remember our conversation, effort to calm emotions, phone glued to ear like a natural extension. Her voice, exhausted… “When will this be over?” She asked Dad days later, more like a plea. He could be gentle or travel the path of honesty. I don’t know the words he pulled from his language of a sixty-seven-year love…how he tiptoed through the reply,though tenderly,I imagine, since his heart was shattering into millions of minute fragments. Her time was close. Our awareness vigilant. Each day, another breath held until the hands of timewould pause. Then as quickly as the sun fades behind rolling hills, raindrops splash upon us. She had ascended. Moments of memories to follow. But not one day passes without celebratingher life. Not one day slips by without her knowing how much she is loved and missed.
Lauren Scott (c) Mom would be 101 today, and since she loved her roses, we dedicate this beauty for her. ❤️
I’ve never participated in a poetry reading before. Even though I’ve sung in front of audiences in my youth, the thought of sharing my original poetry in person immediately starts the internal flapping of butterfly wings. Sharing behind a screen isn’t so scary.
Well, a friend of mine heard of a local poetry night taking place last week, so she encouraged me to sign up. Her exact words, “You should do it!” So I did, but not without jumpy nerves.
There were 27 poets, different ages, even some young voices which was fabulous. I prayed that I wouldn’t be the last reader because we all know the effects of anticipation. Instead, I was second to read, which was a little nerve-racking in itself, but at least it was over fast. According to my friend, I did great. And even in my mind, I thought I had done well, maybe not stellar, but well enough for the first time. I didn’t trip over any words. I didn’t sneeze or fall into a coughing fit. I stayed focused, and afterwards, I received some “Beautifuls”, which I believe is music to any artist’s ears.
Irregardless, I’m glad I finally did this, another box checked off the list. Listening to the others read their original poems or poems written by another author was also wonderful. This event turned out to be an enlightening experience.
Now, for the sake of trying something fun and different, I’m sharing an audio of the poem I read that I recently recorded. I’ve posted “Castanets” before, but I’ve made small revisions since then.
I also can’t help wonder if most people think their voices sound strange when they hear them recorded. I know I do. Nonetheless, here goes…
Castanets
Stepping outside, I stroll down the quiet road with my lab on my left, his gait as graceful as a galloping horse in slow motion. Squirrels raise their sleepy heads because of the early hour. The sky appears to be coal black, but when I turn the corner, watermelon pinks, corals, and lemon yellows take center stage. My camera doesn’t do justice. Then I recall my son saying, “Enjoy the moment.” I slip that device back in my pocket. To my right, salmon-colored roses flaunt their fragrance and I am intoxicated. Passing orange poppies, their stems flutter with excitement, eager for the sun’s ascent, and in the distance, silence sings its serene ballad. As the tempo of our pace speeds up, a breeze joins us, and the leaves on the trees lining the lane sway in rhythm as though dancing a waltz. Jowls flap, he smiles with brown nose set in overdrive. The sun’s gentle touch adds a glimmer to his copper coat. I pause, bending down to his level, fingers stroke shiny, silky fur, his eyes close, contented from contact. When we move again, his nails on the asphalt mimic the clicking of two sets of castanets, and in seconds, I realize these observations are what life is all about… seeing…feeling…smelling…listening… being.
In those early years when possibilities lined up on their doorstep, they saw themselves roaming streets of Italy, savoring pasta, sipping Frappato. They saw themselves walking streets of France in a cloud of romance. They saw themselves driving roads of Ireland flanked by lush green countryside. But over time, they learned plans can be navigated only so far before life takes the wheel. They haven’t sipped Frappato or walked warmly in that cloud, and they haven’t witnessed that countryside…yet. But over mountains, through down pours and gusty winds, and days when sherbet-colored skies lifted their spirits, their fingers remained intertwined. Not only has love in their hearts prevailed, but cravings still carbonated for each other’s company. It seems they have traveled the trip of a lifetime.
Today, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Robbie Cheadle, a wonderful poet and author of children’s books, paranormal historical, and supernatural fantasy. She is also a prolific baker of delicious cakes that she includes in her books and blog posts.I thoroughly enjoyed her poetry book, Behind Closed Doors.
Behind Closed Doors by Robbie Cheadle is a collection of various style poems such as freeform, tanka, haiku, and limerick. Robbie touches on many aspects of life evoking a myriad of emotions. She writes beautifully with strong convictions about marriage, motherhood, dreams, her struggles of working in the corporate world, living in lockdown during the pandemic, and about social issues she finds distressing. Whether her words speak of joy or anguish, they are fiercely passionate.
I personally connected to “Contrasting Colors” because of my strong marriage and relationship with my husband. Robbie creates a lovely metaphorical comparison between her and her husband, showing just how much they complement each other. I really liked the format of this poem. In “He Walks Away” her words paint the picture of her son who is no longer the little boy whose mom’s kisses cured all pain, but a young man who she will need to let go for him to find his way in the world. As an empty nester, my heart felt her bittersweet emotions.
Environmentally, I was drawn to “I saw a fish a-swimming” and “If the polar icecaps doth melt.” Robbie emphasizes the tragic effects of global warming not only on the planet, but on living creatures. She writes with concern and compassion, and some poems are written as twisted limericks bearing nothing but the truth. My stomach felt just as twisted after reading these powerful reminders. But even in trying times, Robbie includes, “Can you see the butterflies?” This poem offers delightful imagery, imploring the reader to dash outside in that very moment to embrace nature’s beauty.
I highly recommend Behind Closed Doors for fans who revel in finding themselves relating to the messages or scenarios, therefore sinking into the deeper meanings.
Thank you for stopping by, and I hope you’ll pick up a copy of Robbie’s book. Simply click on “Buy on Amazon” below the image. You can also visit Robbie at her blog: https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/
I remember yesterday when I stepped outside, strolling down the undisturbed road with my dog on my left, his gait as graceful as a galloping horse in slow motion. Maybe the squirrels raised their sleepy heads because of the early hour. The sky appeared to be coal black, but when I turned the corner, watermelon pinks, corals, and lemon yellows took center stage. My camera did not deliver. Then I thought of my son who often says, “Enjoy the moment.” I slipped that device back in my pocket. Passing the orange poppies, I imagined their stems fluttered with excitement, eager for the sun’s ascent, and in the distance, silence sang its serene ballad. As the tempo of our pace sped up, a breeze joined us, and the leaves on the trees lining the lane swayed in rhythm as though dancing a waltz. Jowls flapped, he smiled with brown nose set in overdrive. The sun’s gentle touch added a glimmer to his copper coat. There was a moment when I paused, bending down to his level, fingers stroking shiny, silky fur, his eyes closed, contented from contact. When we moved again, his nails on the asphalt mimicked the clicking of castanets, and in that second, I realized these observations on this early morning are what life is all about… the seeing…touching…smelling…listening… the being.
Sometimes, we hold plans with such great importance that when they become derailed, our mindsets are not as toughas we assume, no, not as tough as spider silk – they spiral into grottos of gloom where we keep company with a suitcase of insecurity.
Indulging in comfort that doesn’t judge or bicker occurs effortlessly. The smell of sorrow is overwhelming.
But despite the absence of light, the sunrise slowly unfolds, brushstrokes of vivid oranges illuminate the sky like a painter brightens a new canvas, and the experience feels feather-light as though a burden is lifted.
Our fascination is stirred once again by a hummingbird’s ability to fly forward and backwards, sideways, and even upside down. We hear the sparrows singing their tales, and bees buzzing in jubilation.
Sensing the spiritual presence of hope, we exhale with relief, and we are optimistic for an extended stay.
An unfamiliar word in her circle she didn’t wish for knowledge, but her circle was not so durable. For now, she was aware of the bitter emotions tailing it like a hungry stray, the hit to self-esteem the “did I say something?” Loneliness puffed up like a proud peacock. She held awareness in the palm of her hand pained to know such a two-syllable word.
The day finishes. I grab the dog bed and bone and fill the bowl with water.Drinks sparkle in crystal clear glasses. Dialogue begins over life, the joys and reasons for rising stress levels. Cracks in the concrete absorb emotions.On the patio, no thoughts are silenced.
Baydreamer Writes ~ Lauren Scott, Author & Poet 