Working Title????

by Beth Alexander Walsh

  I am suffering from writer’s avoidance. In the last week I have opened my laptop and clicked on an offending essay that needs editing five times, only to talk myself into attending to something more important like laundry, and I hate laundry.  So here I am up early on Sunday morning determined to finish editing an essay by noon so I may enjoy the rest of my day off. The following is a synopsis of my writing schedule:

6:45 a.m. Take the dog out and fix a hearty breakfast; fuel for the writing muses!!!

8:00 a.m. After leafing through the Sunday paper and watching two episodes of M*A*S*H, my laptop and I make our way to the living room.

 8:00-8:30 a.m. Work on essay!!!  😊 Change title three times and furiously delete and add sentences. Rearrange paragraph structure. Click “undo” nine times.

8:45 a.m. Light candles in fireplace for ambiance and inspiration.

8:50 a.m. Spend ten minutes on Thesaurus.com looking up words that are not even in my essay.

9:00 a.m. Delete entire paragraph and replace with two sentences.

9:10 a.m. Play with squeaky toy in hopes the dog will come and distract me.

9:11 a.m. Play with dog.

9:30 a.m. Re-read essay three times without losing concentration.

9:40 a.m. Facebook ☹

10:10 a.m. Stare vacantly at candles in fireplace.

10:20 a.m. Start grocery list.

10:23 a.m. Remove dog hair on couch with lint roller.

10:30 a.m. Add Bailey’s to coffee.

10:32 a.m. Decide to put pen to paper to get creative juices flowing.

10:35 a.m. Draw pictures of sun and moon and stars.

10:40 a.m. Wrap dog in blanket and take pictures with iPhone

10:44 a.m. Google “writers block”

11:10 a.m. Decide essay sucks and put in file of misfit writing.

“After all tomorrow is another day.” Scarlett O’Hara

What to Have for Dinner?

by Gail Balentine

           

            There you are, at your local grocery store, in the middle of the vegetable aisle, frowning. You are trying to decide what to have for dinner. You have no clue. Eat healthy? Eat out? Have a bowl of cereal?

            Sometimes there is just no inspiration. Nothing appeals. You leave that aisle and head toward the chicken, fish, and meat section. Surely something there will spark your imagination. What about all those new recipes you carefully cut out of those cooking magazines or newspapers and tuck into your recipe book? Yes, you tell yourself, one of those might work except they’re at home and you’re here, getting more frustrated by the minute.

            This is a ridiculous, you tell yourself. You are, surrounded by an overabundance of food, and you can’t come up with a plan! You look over and see a woman with a full shopping cart – lots of produce, chicken, beef. Maybe you could ask her for a suggestion? You summon up your courage to approach – just as her cell phone rings.

            She answers the call and immediately says, “No, it’s a fine time. I’m at the grocery store, trying to decide what to have for dinner but nothing is appealing. I’ve bought a ton of food, hoping I’ll figure it out by the time I get home.” She pauses, laughs, and then says, “Sure, let’s get pizza. Be home soon.”

            You sigh and keep walking. On to the dairy department. No help there. You look down at your cart – still empty. At this point, feeling stupid, you put the cart back and head for the exit. Maybe pizza tonight would be good, you think. When you get to the car, you try to remember if you’ve ever gone to the grocery store before and not bought anything. Nope, can’t remember ever doing that. Great, you tell yourself, what a milestone.

            As you start driving, your phone rings. It’s your daughter. “Hey, Mom, how’s it going? I was wondering if you and Dad would like to come over for dinner? I made a huge spaghetti sauce with meatballs. It smells great and …”

            “Spaghetti and meatballs! How did you know that was exactly what I wanted for dinner tonight? Of course we’ll come! What can I bring?”

            Most likely there is some deep psychological reason why, when faced with many choices, your mind freezes and can’t decide. You don’t know, but what you do know is that you made a U-turn and went back to the grocery store. And now, there you are, in the middle of the vegetable aisle, smiling, buying salad fixings as your contribution toward dinner, knowing just what you will have tonight.

*****

Love is Stronger than Death

Come home to me.
I am you and we are we--
Come home to me.
We are we and we are thee--
Come home to me.
Without you, whom will I be?



--Liz Ciampa, 2013.

 

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

She heard the drumbeat of the rain, heavier than the light touch of a soft downpour against the window as she lay in bed; comforting covers warming her body, while her leg muscles twitched in spasm. The train to Boston passed by, muffling the intensity of the rain as it clanked over the rails.

She thought she should be out with her friends right now, having a good time since the hour was not late, but she was too content to stay indoors, dry and safe.  Tomorrow should be clear, sunny and warmer, she remembered hearing on the TV earlier in the evening.

"Oh, save me from becoming the person who can only assess the reality of the day by comparing it with the outcome of the weather forecasters", she mused.

So as not to deal with the overwhelming angst of the world- politics, war, other fears dwelling on the insignificant was appealing. Thoughts about the mundane-leg cramps, raindrops, weather reports-clouded her mind as slipped into sleep.

She would awaken to a new day, just as she had heard in the song from "Annie", "The sun will come out tomorrow..."

    

Winter Street Writers

Creative Writing Workshop

Saturday, May 6th 

10a.m. to 2 p.m.

Beverly Public Library/Sohier Room

This workshop is free, 

limited to 12 participants and registration is required. 

To register, please email Liz Ciampa at erc7@comcast.net.

Are you looking for a place and time for creative writing practice? In this free workshop, participants will explore the art and craft of writing. We will use unique creative writing prompts to keep that pen moving. Writers are encouraged to bring an original short piece (1-2 pages) for workshopping and feedback.

Bring own bag lunch. Water and light snacks provided.

Spring

by Beth Alexander Walsh

    The long ache of winter has subsided, and my yard stretches back to life. The last patches of snow beneath the pines are being swallowed up by the greedy roots below, and I plunge my spade into the cold dark soil, keenly aware of my surroundings. The crocuses; unsure of the last two storms have finally erupted, their cheerful blooms urging the tulips and daffodils to do the same.  

     A long feather flies up as I begin to turn the soil. The wild turkeys have been claiming the yard for several weeks now; their morning cackle replacing the alarm clock on my bedside table.  The hens wander the yard unconcerned as they peck at the ground, while the toms strut in circles, fanning their plumes with great bravado. Occasionally the group will stop traffic in front of my house, when their antics spill into the road. I toss the feather and continue my work.

     The kale left through the winter is still green, but thick and tough, and it takes several pulls before it is removed from the soil. I continue digging while mentally noting what will be planted in each section of the bed. The tomatoes and zucchini will work better against the wall separating the strawberry patch from the rest of the garden. A row of lettuce will go across the edge of the bed for easy access.

    My thoughts concerning peppers are interrupted by splashes in the pond behind me, as several ducks crash into the water. Their presence is usually another sign that spring has returned, although the last two years they have skipped their southern vacation. I assume global warming is the culprit.   A drake begins to quack his annoyance at my presence, as I stand between him and the birdseed that chickadees have sprayed from the feeders to the ground below. Last night I heard a chorus of chirps from the first spring peepers, and I look for other signs of life in the pond.

      Years ago my children and I would arm ourselves with mason jars to fill with tadpoles and pond water. Later, they would sit at the kitchen table, watching them swim around, looking for signs of sprouting legs. The jars were always a hit in school during show and tell.  I miss the days of small children putting on rubber boots, and running through mud to see what new form of life appeared in the water. On land we would check for traces of deer and wait for bunnies to appear from under bushes. Pussy willows were another favorite. I would cut small sprigs to place in their tiny hands, and they would brush the furry pods across pink cheeks.  

     As I contemplate my next chore, a turtle’s head breaks through the surface of the water, and I know we will soon find them navigating through our lawn in search of a place to lay their eggs.    

     Pulling my attention back to the strawberries, I remove the blanket of straw that has protected them all winter. I can almost taste the sweet warm berries as I pull the netting back over the plants, leaving a few uncovered so the birds may share in the bounty.

     Spring is a hopeful season, with the possibilities seeming to grow along with the extra hours of daylight.  The awakening of new life beckons me outside to become part of it, digging and planting to make my own contribution.

Ireland, a Land Across the Sea

by Gail Balentine

When I was young and still in school,

I heard about Ireland, an Emerald Jewel.

My aunts who’d come from o’er the sea,

told tales that spoke directly to me.

They described a land filled with green hills

and rivers that ran quiet, almost still.

They told of friendly, caring people,

of ancient churches and great tall steeples.

They spoke so clearly and straight from the heart

that inside of me a love did start.

Was it all myth or was it real?

When I went there what would my heart feel?

Dublin was where our visit did start,

a place where ancient and modern do not part.

Progress and change go on, as they must,

yet relics and traditions are held in sacred trust.

So many people rushed to and fro

but they found time to talk if we said “Hello”.

When the city sights had all been seen

we visited the countryside, a patchwork of green.

Sheep, cows, and flowers were abundant there,

old stone walls and sparkling cottages made beautiful pairs.

Protected Viking ruins recall the old,

while roadside sculptures display new tales to be told.

  

The Cliffs of Moher have a majesty rare.

We went to the top so we could stare

at the timeless and magnificent sea

beyond which lays our own country.

If ever there was a place where God can be seen

it is at those cliffs among the hills of green.

Every place where we stopped to rest

had music and dance, the very best.

Guinness Stout, Murphy’s and other beers

filled our glasses and brought out cheers.

Too soon our remarkable trip was done,

and it was time for us to go back home.

My questions are all answered now,

Ireland managed to blend myth and reality somehow.

Though our time there is now a memory dear

the sights I still see and the sounds I still hear,

for in my heart there will always be

a place for Ireland, a land across the sea.