With sadness but no regret, my writing at Beyond the Bozone is complete. The blog will remain archived here. I may remove pieces if I choose to revise them for publication. All of the work here is mine. Read it and enjoy it. Your presence here is what makes blogging worthwhile.
My ego will have me yearning for Blogger’s followers feature, but it bothers me that Blogger makes it difficult for many WordPress writers to leave their imprint in the comment sections beneath posts. In the comments at WordPress bloggers are able to reply directly below individual comments. That is also a feature sending me their way.
I’ll miss the Bozone, but it is time to move forward. Please visit my new Wordpress blogs gathered stones and undercaws, where I hope you will find the commenting more friendly.
Peace.
~Brenda
10 June 2011
08 June 2011
serpentdragonmanbird
Serpentdragonmanbird
with your tail so sharp
and your aim so true
I fear the air surrounding you.
You’re a slithering sneak
with a raven’s beak
and the face
of a striking young man.
Your feathered reptilian wings
spread flight in circling rings.
Your neck stretches scales
and your serpentine tail
threatens to impale
little me.
Oh my!
It threatens to impale
little me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is the prompt from We Write Poems. “Think of a child’s painting (like something on the refrigerator). What creatures might there be? Something fanciful, something mysterious, something you’ve never ever seen before! Maybe like something from a dream, or maybe just what your fingers might doodle on their own, surprising you. What might they mean to you observing now? Close your eyes for a moment, let the images dance, be willing to listen to their voices and see what poem they want to write!”
I imagined a creature rising up out of the mist and wrote this in the car yesterday on a Montana road trip (of course I travel with a copy of poetry prompts!).
with your tail so sharp
and your aim so true
I fear the air surrounding you.
You’re a slithering sneak
with a raven’s beak
and the face
of a striking young man.
Your feathered reptilian wings
spread flight in circling rings.
Your neck stretches scales
and your serpentine tail
threatens to impale
little me.
Oh my!
It threatens to impale
little me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is the prompt from We Write Poems. “Think of a child’s painting (like something on the refrigerator). What creatures might there be? Something fanciful, something mysterious, something you’ve never ever seen before! Maybe like something from a dream, or maybe just what your fingers might doodle on their own, surprising you. What might they mean to you observing now? Close your eyes for a moment, let the images dance, be willing to listen to their voices and see what poem they want to write!”
I imagined a creature rising up out of the mist and wrote this in the car yesterday on a Montana road trip (of course I travel with a copy of poetry prompts!).
04 June 2011
it ended before it began
In the gaudy glow of afterbirth
a field mouse burrows its hantavirus hole,
unknowingly pulling Hank the Hired Man
into death’s murmuring abyss.
His chest undulates convulsions
while Misty Winston, the Rancher’s Daughter
touches his common cheek
unafraid of Daddy’s inky wrath.
Her hero lies dying
spinning his way into
purple nothingness.
He stills and her beating heart breaks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hantavirus is an often-fatal respiratory disease carried by field mice. It occurs with low incidence in Montana. Its onset is not as sudden as the piece makes it seem. It starts with flulike symptoms and progresses from there. This piece was from the wordle words at a whirling whirl of Sundays.
a field mouse burrows its hantavirus hole,
unknowingly pulling Hank the Hired Man
into death’s murmuring abyss.
His chest undulates convulsions
while Misty Winston, the Rancher’s Daughter
touches his common cheek
unafraid of Daddy’s inky wrath.
Her hero lies dying
spinning his way into
purple nothingness.
He stills and her beating heart breaks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hantavirus is an often-fatal respiratory disease carried by field mice. It occurs with low incidence in Montana. Its onset is not as sudden as the piece makes it seem. It starts with flulike symptoms and progresses from there. This piece was from the wordle words at a whirling whirl of Sundays.
01 June 2011
a string of piku
swallow dives
hard
backwards in wind
=
airplane flies
through
turbulent wind
=
tornado
flies
lives become wind
=
whoosh! cries the
wind
whistling its sin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Tilly Bud, who got me writing piku this week. Tilly authored the prompt at We Write Poems this week. Here it is:
Write a piku. (a cross between a haiku and the first three numbers of pi.)
three lines
3 syllables Line 1
1 syllable Line 2
4 syllables Line 3
Next
choose one or two key words
find rhymes for them
slightly re-write the first piku
hard
backwards in wind
=
airplane flies
through
turbulent wind
=
tornado
flies
lives become wind
=
whoosh! cries the
wind
whistling its sin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Tilly Bud, who got me writing piku this week. Tilly authored the prompt at We Write Poems this week. Here it is:
Write a piku. (a cross between a haiku and the first three numbers of pi.)
three lines
3 syllables Line 1
1 syllable Line 2
4 syllables Line 3
Next
choose one or two key words
find rhymes for them
slightly re-write the first piku
30 May 2011
Thoughts of the Lady in Blue ~ A Magpie Tale
 |
| Banquet Scene with a Lute Player by Nicolas Tournier, 1625 |
Ghostly servant painted white,
fading into darkness,
what stories your thin lips must spill
what distasteful tales convey
for surely you have heard it all
in your insignificant way.
Utter them now , spin us the yarn
while this good lady looks at you
every one else at the table is bored
with my uncle’s incessant reflections.
Look at him there, that glass in his eye
as if seeing the maker creating
he oooooos and he ahhhhhhs
while he primps and he paws
one hand in the folds of my dressings.
He’s old and he’s cold and likely to mold
and the stench he sets off nauseates me.
Invisible one please come to me
tonight in the day’s lonely gloaming
the stories you hold must surely be told
with your peppermint breath
my throat in a catch,
we can wander until the moon rises.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shout out to Tess Kincaid for her blog Magpie Tales. Visit that link for more takes on the picture as prompt.
SuperShe's Ottava Rima for a Dream
A smile incriminates her sleeping curl,
as swallows dive around her just to play.
With arms outstretched she soars above her world.
She swirls beyond the life she leads by day.
Her dreams create this charming super girl
whose deeds expose her waking life’s decay.
She longs to sleep in perpetuity
evading waking’s incongruity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
as swallows dive around her just to play.
With arms outstretched she soars above her world.
She swirls beyond the life she leads by day.
Her dreams create this charming super girl
whose deeds expose her waking life’s decay.
She longs to sleep in perpetuity
evading waking’s incongruity.
From a prompt at One Stop Poetry, this piece is an ottava rima. I continued the theme from yesterday’s piece The Photographer’s Girlfriend, that I wrote from a One Stop prompt. This is the girlfriend’s dream.
Here’s a piece of the prompt:
The classic rhyme scheme in English of ottava rima is a stanza which consists of eight iambic lines, usually written in iambic pentameter. Each stanza consists of three alternate rhymes and one double rhyme, following the a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c pattern.
29 May 2011
The Forgetting
for Len
when the forgetting begins let me mumble my mumblings
when the wandering ensues lock me in our room and
love me
when my vitriolic dementia breeds quiet somber reflection
hold me
encompass me in your age spotted arms
lift me with the spirit of who we used to be
let me ride you like a stallion
when our fallow fields fade
before everything we ever were
gets covered in the grave
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my first post at Poetry Jam, where the prompt for today is forgetting.
when the forgetting begins let me mumble my mumblings
when the wandering ensues lock me in our room and
love me
when my vitriolic dementia breeds quiet somber reflection
hold me
encompass me in your age spotted arms
lift me with the spirit of who we used to be
let me ride you like a stallion
when our fallow fields fade
before everything we ever were
gets covered in the grave
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my first post at Poetry Jam, where the prompt for today is forgetting.
The Photographer's Girlfriend
She sighs, surrounding each
of his fingers with her own--
intertwining digits,
imagining his picture
with her—
a spandex clad savior
mission complete, flying for fun.
Strength becomes her.
She spreads shock and awe
amongst dwellers behind reflected clouds.
Rising toward that crack of sky,
she leaves him behind, camera in hand,
puzzled and alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Surfing around this morning, I found One Stop Poetry. An interview with photographer Scott Wyden is posted. The recommendation for writers is to use his pictures to inspire a poem or a piece of flash fiction in 55 words. Without the title, my poem is 55 words, and fiction. I took the perspective of the photographer's girlfriend, wishing he paid more attention to her, than to his craft.
 |
| Photograph by Scott Wyden |
She sighs, surrounding each
of his fingers with her own--
intertwining digits,
imagining his picture
with her—
a spandex clad savior
mission complete, flying for fun.
Strength becomes her.
She spreads shock and awe
amongst dwellers behind reflected clouds.
Rising toward that crack of sky,
she leaves him behind, camera in hand,
puzzled and alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Surfing around this morning, I found One Stop Poetry. An interview with photographer Scott Wyden is posted. The recommendation for writers is to use his pictures to inspire a poem or a piece of flash fiction in 55 words. Without the title, my poem is 55 words, and fiction. I took the perspective of the photographer's girlfriend, wishing he paid more attention to her, than to his craft.
28 May 2011
mother me a meteor
She orbits, a planet
turning against her
striding self,
afraid of fallen angels
frolicking in yellow fields,
afraid of crying winds
whisking hair into tails—
wild things,
winding life with leaves
whipping in the gravity
of twilight’s last glow.
She envies each of the planets
and dreams herself a meteor
falling a fiery hole into Earth
free from fear forever.
She orbits like a planet
parched and pierced with
no intent and purpose.
Round and round and
round
she goes—
if she stops
she never knows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece was inspired by words from a Wallace Stevens' poem pulled and posted at a wordling whirl of Sundays. Click on the wordle to visit other responses to the words. You'll be glad you did.
turning against her
striding self,
afraid of fallen angels
frolicking in yellow fields,
afraid of crying winds
whisking hair into tails—
wild things,
winding life with leaves
whipping in the gravity
of twilight’s last glow.
She envies each of the planets
and dreams herself a meteor
falling a fiery hole into Earth
free from fear forever.
She orbits like a planet
parched and pierced with
no intent and purpose.
Round and round and
round
she goes—
if she stops
she never knows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece was inspired by words from a Wallace Stevens' poem pulled and posted at a wordling whirl of Sundays. Click on the wordle to visit other responses to the words. You'll be glad you did.
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