The Bard and the Bong

I recall as a young high school student being introduced to the wonders of the great William Shakespeare. Stone me if you wish, but I really wasn't much taken with the guy. His stuff was hard to understand in both the sense of it being written in old English and in the sense of having to sift through it for supposed metaphors and the like. I distinctly remember wondering at one point, Was this guy high to think I could hammer out a 5-page research paper on his play by Friday?!?  As a matter of fact, recent research by a group of South African scientists seems to indicate that I may have been on to something.

These scientists appear to have been exceptionally bored sitting about the lab all day and undertook to test a collection of 17-th century pipes to see what was smoked in them. It turns out that a number of pipes that were dug up from the gardens around Shakespeare's home DID contain traces of cannabis. (Get on with ya bad self Billy!)  The researchers stated that while there is no indication that Shakespeare actually smoked any of the pipes, by today's standards it would,probably, have gotten him popped for possession of drug paraphenalia.

Reactions throughout the scientific and literary communities were mixed and ranged from, "So what?" to "Well that explains A Midsummer Night's Dream."  It does conjur up interesting mental images of Billy and the troupe brainstorming their next production amidst a fog of reefer smoke.  It also begs the question of both what exactly was the Shakespearean equivelant of munchies and who got stuck having to go out and procur them after a long day of creating and doobage. Alas, we may never know.

Other, also apparently bored, science geeks are suggesting that the remains of the Immortal Bard be exhumed for forensic testing to confirm the presence of illicit substances.  Such suggestions have also met with mixed opinions.  These opinions range from, "Don't you guys have some REAL work to do?!?" to "You DO realize the guy put a curse on his grave, right?!?"



As I mentioned earlier, old English was never exactly my forte but I think the curse on the grave best translates as, "I'm dead. Go away!"  I would say this is reasonably sound advice. So, while rumors swirl and speculations remain, the best course of action I can see is to honor the last request of the Stoner-on-Avon and just move on to something else you Science Geeks.

The Process

I survived a very harrowing experience this week, to whit, my first beta reading of someone else's manuscript. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and only had a few minor content changes to suggest to the author. At that point, it was MOST embarrassing to learn that I had gotten a key plot concept wrong and it had led me to think things that were never the author's intent. On the plus side, my faux pas did prove useful to the author in that it allowed them the opportunity to re-look the manuscript and see if some things could be explained differently.

This got me reflecting on the whole process of writing. It reminded me just how difficult it can be to translate the fuzzy, indistinct concepts in our respective heads
into the next "greatest novel the world has ever known". It's tough isn't it? It is beyond challenging to take ideas that aren't even clear in our own minds and make someone else see them as the brilliant, entertaining master work that we all know that we have created. All of that reflecting led me to write a poem that I imagine that all of us writers can see just a bit of ourselves in.

The Process



I sit down at my keyboard in the wee hours of the night.

It seems the only time I get a chance to truly write.

When kids and job and daily chores are truly set aside

And all my thoughts are tumbling out instead of stored inside.

I've scarcely even started, though, before the conflicts start

And any plans I had of making progress fall apart.

I bang my head upon my desk because it's not my fault

But that is rather useless in forestalling their assault.

My MC doesn't like the scene I'm writing him in to

And claims that he will walk unless I write him somewhere new.

My ancillary characters all want a bigger role

And chant about their latest quest - to have rewrite control.

I bring to their attention that it's my choice they exist

And I could make them vanish in a nasty new plot twist.

But they know I've invested in them time and work and thought.

Their places in the plot line are secured and fairly bought.

Thus begins the latest round of my negotiations

Getting them to go back and resume their proper stations.
Wait to see what I have planned before they all revolt

Promising that they may like the finishing result.

I try to write them as they wish without a word of thanks

Keeping them from sneaking off 'round unprotected flanks.

Herding them this way and that through skillful turn of phrase

Hoping they remain where put and be content to graze.

Knowing it's because of them I've made it up to here

Daring not to let them loose lest they should disappear

Fencing every plot hole in to make them feel secure

Can't lose another chapter in the badlands of What Were.

At last I have them bedded down and resting in their stalls

And so I close the stable doors behind cerebral walls.

Tomorrow is another chance to guide them 'cross the range

A journey somewhat shorter now...but not a bit less strange. 

Parental Performance Review

Today is Fathers' Day, of course, and for me it started off a bit oddly. Normally my 22-month old son Caleb makes the alarm clock a bit superfluous, but today I was actually awake before him...a rare occurrence.  As I made my way downstairs, treading oh so quietly, I found the laptop sitting open on the table in the living room. I had gone to bed before my wife, Lisa, so I just assumed she'd had late night inspiration and hadn't bothered to close the laptop when done. I could not have been more mistaken. What I found staring at me from from the screen was, in essence, a performance review or critique from my young son. I leave it to you to determine if his observations are accurate.

He's not as soft as Mama and he doesn't smell as good.

Despite his efforts I don't think he ever really could.

He doesn't have a lot of hair and most of it is gray

I only hope that I'm not destined to wind up that way.

He's fine for filling bottles up and swapping diapers out.

And feeding me is something he is rather good about.

I sometimes let him snuggle me and make his cooing sounds.

When Mom and sis are busy he's the last stop on my rounds.

I know he seems to work a lot and not be round the house.

It gets me toys and such and so, on that point, I won't grouse.

And Mama always drones on how he loves us kids and her.

With minimal experience, I guess I will concur.

I know he likes to hold me tight and sing for me a song.

It's easiest to deal with him if I just play along.

And even when I close my eyes as if I want to rest.

He still insists on clutching me against his hairy chest.

I know he likes to write and read and so I have no doubt

That some day he will show me what the fuss is all about.

I have to say his taste in television matches mine.

And so, for all of that, I'd have to say he's doing fine.

So much he has to teach me but I dare not think or ask

If he has the skills required to complete this awesome task.

There's girls and sports and how to handle bullies on the list

And jobs and school and lots of topics I don't know exist.

He really seems a decent sort, if limited a bit.

The job of raising me I hope is one he doesn't quit.

For if he does I sense that I might be most truly screwed.

He just can't leave me here to be the one and only dude.

I'm sure I need not worry that he'll wander off some day.

We have quite a busy schedule and so many games to play.

So many Sponge Bob episodes we still have yet to view.

I'm pretty sure he'll be around with all of that to do.

For all the love he shows me and the working and the food.

I'd have to place his ranking between excellent and good.

There's room for some improvement but he's really not half bad.

And so, I think, I'll have to give a B Plus to my Dad.

 

Tarnished Golden Years

I have made reference before in my blog to what an awesome job being a writer is. The task of seizing the mind of a reader and transporting them to lands of wonder, mystery and magic is just plain fun. I do think, though, that as writers we can both entertain and educate. I have found some small success with doing that in the short time that I have been blogging.

Social commentary has always been within the purview of writers. It is our privilege as well as our responsibility to look at the world around us and expound upon it. Whether through commentary, essay, satire or fiction we need to spread our writer's wings and sometimes peer under the rocks in the yard of Life and see just what is under them. I am going to try to do just that today.

I read in a popular entertainment magazine yesterday about the death of a minor starlet of the black and white era.  She was found dead in her home and had apparently been that way, undiscovered, long enough to have mummified more or less. Although I can be something of a cold-hearted bastard it struck me as quite sad that someone's life could end this way. I began to speculate as to what circumstances would have needed to align for someone to pass this way. So, I did a little digging on the Web and discovered some disturbing information indeed.

I found an article in USATODAY from back in 2007 that explored the growing incidents of suicide amongst the elderly. The article stated that, "Some advocates and mental health workers say they also have to battle a prevailing notion that depression is a normal part of aging."  I was saddened that such a thing might be generally believed. The article talked about one man's situation thus. "He was struggling to care for his 85-year-old wife, who suffered from Parkinson's disease. He did not work and he could no longer play golf, his favorite pastime."  While I confess to having worries of such happening in my older years I hope it will not be so.

My fertile imagination finally settled on an idea for a poem. The poem would illustrate the struggles of a fictional man in his latter years who simply doesn't know what to think of the world he is in . As I sometimes must do, I would like to make it CLEAR that I neither condemn nor condone the actions/choices made by the protagonist in my poem, I do think I can understand them. That being said, please accept my poetic offering for today in the spirit intended and hopefully you can be both entertained and educated.

Tarnished Golden Years

The neighborhood’s been swallowed up by what’s called urban blight.

He seldom ventures out of doors and never when it’s night.

He has to have his pension checks go to a bank on Vine

Where no one wants to help him…just refer him to “online”.

A baseball bat’s behind his door in case somebody knocks

A little more insurance since the door has triple locks.

He had to tape his mail slot closed and bar the windows too

And hope all his precautions are enough to get him through.

He spends most days recalling times that are forever gone.

When everything made sense as far as what was right or wrong.

He doesn’t watch the TV news because it makes him sick

To hear the latest doings of some drug-crazed lunatic.

His groceries and his sundries are delivered twice a week

By some kid with more tattoos than a circus sideshow freak.

He gets his medications off a truck from UPS

That’s if the guy who’s driving it can read the damn’d address.

This really wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his sunset years

A hermit sealed inside his cave and plagued by doubts and fears.

A prisoner of time and age and of his failing health

Who’d watched his dreams all vanish much the same way as his wealth.

His Maddie was the only love he’d known for all his life.

For forty seven years she was his confidante and wife

She cooked his meals and raised his sons and kept the house so clean

The center of his universe…his source of hope…his queen.

At first the pain she felt she blamed on simply getting old

The coughing wasn’t worth concern, was nothing but a cold.

By when the coughing yielded blood, then it was far too late.

Although he spent his every dime, he couldn’t outwit Fate.

Forget the Boca condo and mimosas on the beach

That ship had sailed without them…now forever out of reach.

She had her place at Forest Glenn amidst the rolling hills

No longer at the mercy of the endless shots and pills.

And so he sits and listens to his ancient phonograph

Remembering her raven hair…her ruby lips…her laugh.

Remembering the days when he was tall and fit and strong

And all the time ahead of them seemed oh so very long.

This Friday night is special for he’s shaved and wears a tie

And settles in his favorite chair and breathes a little sigh

Upon the sideboard table is a fifth of Johnny Black

It used to be his favorite long before his heart attack.

The bottle that contains the pills they gave him for the pain

Was filled for him on Tuesday and won’t need refilled again.

There ought to be far more of them than he will every need

To satisfy the purpose of his life’s last conscious deed.

The first pill placed upon his tongue and then a whiskey sip

He drinks a toast to when he broke his motherfucking hip.

A toast to his angina…to his liver spots…his gout.

This ain’t that bad a way, he thinks, to finally just check out.

It’s hard to say who’ll find him and he wonders who will care

When he has left it all behind and is no longer there.

Then as the numbness spreads it takes away his pain and fears

And he drinks a final toast to all his tarnished golden years.

A Very Grinchy Anniversary

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons.
It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
What if Anniversary, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
What if Anniversary, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

(Apologies to the family of Dr. Seuss for the paraphrasing)

Yesterday was my second wedding anniversary with my dear wife Lisa . As is usually the case, I am a day later and a dollar (or several) short so my anniversary blog post comes today. Why men usually lag a bit behind in expressing their feelings I am at a loss to explain. Feel free to peruse the blog of my Twitterati friend RachelintheOC as I am reasonably sure that somewhere in her arsenal she has a blog post to explain it ad nauseum.

Circumstances being what they are for me and mine at this juncture, the anniversary passed with little, or no, pomp and circumstance. There was no exchanging of gifts. There was no romantic night out complete with dinner and dancing. What there was was our married life together. There were kids thundering about. There were meals to be cooked and chores to be done. There was me working my one night of third shift a week and so napping a fair piece of the day away. There was no ceremonial splendor but there was Life.

Life for me comes complete with my wife, two stepdaughters and my toddler terror of a son. It comes with financial shortfalls, a distinct lack of creature comforts and with much noise and mayhem. But my life it is and I would NEVER trade it away for any amount of "things". What I have is sufficient to the day because what I have is something I never expected to have again.

My personal Dark Ages denied me the prospect of happiness and home and hearth and friends and family. My wife is the cornerstone of all that is good and right in my universe now. She is, quite simply, the other half of my soul. She is all of the things that I am not. I am cynical and mistrusting and quite jaded  My wife is an optimist prone to looking for and expecting the best in people. I believe that the Good Lord helps them that help themselves. She believes firmly in the power and the efficacy of prayer. I am pretty much the, "Aww, it's just a flesh wound. Walk it off!!" type. She is a hugger and a comforter and a nurturer. When I am at my surliest and angriest and most Eeyore-like, she has the power to step in and part the clouds with the simple style and skill of Pooh. In a nutshell, she is pretty freakin' awesome and I am lucky to have her.

So while the day passed without ribbons, tags, packages, bows, boxes or bags...it was a good day because it was yet another day that I am blessed with the wondrous gift that is my wife. If there is a kind and benevolent and all-powerful God out there (and yeah, I'm pretty sure there is...just resistant to the concept of there being a Higher Power than...me) then this will be only the second of many, many more anniversaries and a bazillion or more days yet to come with her as my loving and totally wondrous wife.

Knight Errant

In a few of my previous blog posts I have made mention of my own personal Dark Ages. This was not a good time in my life. It was a period wherein I took the luxury of peace and quiet and parlayed it into near-isolation. I had firmly convinced myself that I had no use whatsoever for the Outside World and vice versa. I was not unlike those pathetic animals that you see in the zoo. They KNOW that they are in a cage and that they don't belong there but also know that they have very little choice in the matter. 

 Of course, that wasn't really the case at all. I was a different sort of tiger. That I was in a cage was not in dispute. That I had no control over it was the fallacy. I was that odd tiger who had the key to the cage on a chain around his neck but simply chose not to do anything about it. I suppose the actual tiger could use the excuse of not having opposable thumbs but the point is made.

At some point in my self-imposed exile I actually had myself convinced that I was undeserving of the company of others. I decided that the simple pleasures of companionship, camaraderie, friends and family were things that I was destined to never have. I imagined myself rather like one of the itinerant mercenary soldiers or knights errant of the 15th century or so. They were often second sons with little chance of inheriting and with few prospects in their native land. They took to the roads with what possessions they could easily carry and sold their sword and services to the warring factions common to the day. That was not an entirely unrealistic characterization of my life in the loosest terms.

This had the dual function of indulging my love of fantasy literature and of history. It also provided an excellent make-believe rationale for my antisocial tendencies. Of course, time moved on and my situation changed. I have my family and am reasonably sure that peace, quiet and solitude are many, many years away from becoming my reality now. LOL.

The poem I am offering up to you today comes from those Dark Ages and I would be the one reprising the role of the knight in slightly tarnished armor. Please accept the poem with my best wishes. Read and Enjoy!

Knight-Errant

He buckles on his armour, straps his broadsword to his side.
He saddles up his destrier then heads off on his ride.
His road wends ever westward. Is his quest to catch the sun?
He rides on never knowing when his journey will be done.

He battles with the ogres and the demons in his path.
Consigning them to netherhells beneath his righteous wrath.
Cleansing weapons, patching armour he begins his trek anew
Almost sad is he to realize his latest trial is through.

As moonlight dapples treetops and first stars begin to light
He spurs his horse from off the road and settles in for night.
His steed is fed and brushed, his bedroll laid upon the ground.
He slips into his slumber lulled to sleep by forest sound.

His dreams are full of blood and ash and fire against the skies.
Of gut-stabbed lads slow dying and their lasses' mourning cries.
Of battles won and causes lost, the dronings of some priest.
He's slept but hardly rested when the sun blooms to the east.

Cavalier and errant knight, Defender of the Faith
Few he served would recognize this haunted, travelling wraith.
The years of selling sword and skills have reaped a heavy toll.
His days are bleak and mirthless though they once were rich and full.

The kingdom and the life he left he scarcely can recall.
Or the face of she he promised he'd ride back for in the Fall.
So young was he and how he dreamed of gold and fame he'd take
Of what a home he'd build her once he'd earned a fitting stake.

But paths diverge and lead a man from off his chosen track.
Some roads once they are taken lead but one way...never back.
And days grow into months and then,at length, give birth to years.
Young women sometimes may not wait till absent beau appears.

And so he peddles sweat and pain forsaking hope and love.
Crushing down his sorrows with a steel and leather glove.
Hacking down the sadness, fear, regret that plague his soul
By using any weapon he can bring to his control.

Off in some far and distant land, bereft of hearth and home
He'll face the final battle on the path he chose to roam.
Yet on that fateful day the knight will, finally, not prevail.
And thus will end the chapters of this paladin's sad tale.

Bleached bones and rusting armour will his legacy comprise.
Gone from off this mortal coil to ride the endless skies.
Achieving, in the end, the prize he sought upon his quest.
An end to all the fighting and a peaceful, dreamless rest.

More Pixies Never Hurts

Yesterday I posted a poem that was quite a departure from my usual fare. To my complete surprise it garnered more hits than anything I have posted on my blog to date. I am at a loss to explain why that might be but, to be fair, I'm often at a loss to explain things happening around me. When I concluded yesterday's post, I asked for feedback on whether it seemed to be a project worth continuing but got none. Undaunted, I am posting the next chapter of The Life of Riley and hope to receive some feedback on this post. It would be appreciated greatly. And so, without further ado, on to the poetry. 

The Life of Riley, Chapter II

Attend the tale of Riley, Pixie Princess, Chapter two,
I hope you've read the first or this will not make sense to you.
But let's assume you have and so continue on our way,
To the quite eventful morning of a most important day.

When last we left dear Riley she had settled on a task.
She knew her mum would disapprove (if Riley were to ask.)
So, bravely, she decided to proceed without approval
And so the biggest hurdle was decided by removal.

To Riley, it made only sense to keep Mum in the dark.
Far better if she thought of Riley playing in the park
Than tramping through the countryside beset by trolls and more.
She'd spare her mum the worry if she snuck right out the door.

Now, to be fair, the Queen was not as weak as Riley thought.
Her backside could attest to that from times she had been caught
For breaking laws and bending rules and sundry odd misdeeds.
Like when she blew the greenhouse up enchanting poppy seeds.

The princess knew her first stop was to get a magic sack
To hold the things she'd need to go (and hopefully) come back.
So with a task in mind she knew she didn't have to fear
But figured she had really better get herself in gear.

She padded down the castle halls as stealthy as a mouse
Through ev'ry secret passage that she knew within her house.
And, thankfully, her navigation skills were without fault
For in a very short time she had reached a storage vault.

The vault was very old and held a wide array of things,
Gathered through the ages by the Pixie queens and kings.
Some of them were presents, quite a few of them were plunder,
Every thing stored in there was a work of special wonder.

Riley found and quickly snatched the Bag Without a Bottom.
Someone once had placed it here and sadly had forgotten,
To do much more than log it with a very brief notation
Explaining how it worked before they took off on vacation.

The bag could hold most anything of any size or weight
And still maintain its usual and (quite small) bag-like state.
To take an item stored within required no special skill.
You only had to sing three notes and add a bit of trill.

She grabbed the bag and quickly snuck out to the corridors.
She took a right turn then a left, went up a couple floors.
Riley knew that her next task was destined to be harder.
She had to stage a daytime raid into the castle's Larder.

The kitchen had a score of cooks and other service folk
Who counted every pea and bean and egg down to the yolk.
If anything was missing they would know in no time flat.
She'd really have to snatch her fill and very promptly scat.

By luck, since it was early, all the servers were asleep
Dreaming up new recipes for how to cook a sheep.
Or roast an ox or bear or boar (she didn't know for sure)
The things that such folk dreamed of laying huddled on the floor.

She headed to the pantry and she barely took a pause
Before she tossed into her bag a dozen lobster claws.
Three beef roasts, two large turkeys, and a roasted Snargaluff
Some carrots, rice, potatoes and associated stuff.

She added in five loaves of bread, three mince pies and a cake
And almost any other kind of food that she could take.
For though the princess was quite small and really somewhat light
The tiny tot possessed a truly monstrous appetite.

Finally she decided she had pressed her luck quite far
And finished off her haul by taking Mama's cookie jar.
Then cinching up the sack she tiptoed softly on her way,
Her mind already set upon her next task of the day.

With thoughts of trolls and dragons and such beasties on her mind,
She quickly made a choice as to the next thing she must find.
Her mind awhirl in wonder, was it two floors down or three
In order to gain access to the Pixie Armory?

A little lost and really not quite sure where it might be,
She found, at last, the entrance (hidden by a tapestry).
She knew she didn't have a key to open up the lock,
So having nothing else to do she gave a timid knock.

A somber voice rang in her head and gave her quite a start,
"Now do you come here Pixie with a pure and noble heart?!?"
Having no reply in mind she smoothed her hair and dress,
And proudly raised her chin and in her brave voice said, "I guess."

The mighty door swung inward with a bit of creak and groan,
She peeked inside to just make sure that she was all alone.
Then with a shrug she took her sack and slipped in through the door,
And set it down close by her on the ancient cobbled floor.

She slowly walked about the place admiring this and that,
A coat of mail, a dagger, and a giant armored hat.
She snatched them all and stuffed them in and didn't even care,
That none of them were useful or that all of them were rare.

For Pixies are not fighters and don't make a lot of war,
Most of this her gentle folk had not a reason for.
But she was Princess Riley on a daring danger quest,
The uses she might have for this no Pixie could have guessed.

She grabbed a shield, two halberds, and a big and rusty mace,
That made her sneeze when dust from it went blowing in her face.
She took a couple shields, some swords, a poniard and dirk.
She never knew that questing could be such a lot of work.

And in the last place that she looked she found the greatest prize.
She'd only seen it once before through younger Pixie eyes.
It was her Daddy's magic sword he'd sometimes used to fight
When ogres stormed the castle in the middle of the night.

It had the power to make whomever wielded it supreme
The kind of fighter you could only picture in a dream.
The ogres came so fast and hard her Dad had not a chance
To use it as they clobbered him (still in his underpants).

Although it hadn't helped Dad much she tossed it on the pile,
With thoughts of deeds of daring making her begin to smile.
At last she thought she had enough or figured it would do,
To help her in the battles she might have to struggle through.

So having gotten sack and swords and munchies for the road
She thought she'd better stop or see the magic sack explode.
And as she sat and nibbled on an orange and a grape,
She thought it time, at last, to make her very bold escape.

And so for Princess Riley there are tests and trials to come,
To make the senses weary and imagination numb.
For now you'll have to wait and see the next thing to take place.
There's really no more story now...so stop that frowny face.

 

A Softer Side Of Me (featuring Pixies)

This was, quite simply, one really trying week. It featured a demonically-intense heatwave (we don't have even a hint of AC), both of our cars down and out for the count, and the beginning of the kids' summer vacation from school. Add in some pesky ongoing money problems and the usual assortment of more mundane expected hurdles, and you get an idea of what a week it was. I found myself in a mindset of not even caring if I wrote something throughout the week. Instead of obsessing over my blogger stats, I don't think I even logged in to the page for a couple of days running.

So here I sit of a Friday night, a bit cranky and out of sorts and determined to be creative. Devoted readers of my blog (allow me the delusion that I actually HAVE devoted readers) know that I have only within the last few months determined that I would like to return to writing and creating. I don't have the creative work ethic bit down very well and I am not certain I ever will. 

Circumstances in my life have often placed me into the less-than-enviable position of doing without things that were, at some point, important to me. It may be considered a triumph of my will that I persevered without those "important" things around me anymore. It may also be considered the ultimate expression of impotent acceptance that it didn't seem surprising to me that those "important" things were no longer accessible to me. The jury is still out on that one and I have promised to not tamper with its findings, so only time will tell if I, again, allow writing to fade from my world. I think it will not. 

Many of my recent blog posts have included some commentary or observations and culminated in you being offered one of my poetic endeavors to peruse. Today will not be different. The poem for today displays a softer, gentler, more whimsical side of me than my readers may have observed previously. It serves as solace to my soul to remind me that somewhere beneath the cynical, jaded exterior I adopt, there is STILL the heart, the wonder (and the mind) of a child. 

I'd like to provide you a bit of background for the poem before turning it loose to you. The date on the file shows that I wrote it in August of 2007, roughly a month after I met my wife Lisa.  The first time I saw her my thoughts scrambled, my tongue tied and I think it is what the sappier types deem "Love at first sight". She was wearing a tee shirt that advertised an amateur writing web site and was furiously scribbling something in a beat-up spiral notebook.
Having been off the market for awhile I saw writing as an "in" to get her interest.

Her genre of writing, at that time, was cutesy childrens' stories. While hardly my forte, I saw an opportunity and seized it. She had three daughters, one of whom has always fancied herself a "Princess Without Kingdom". And so an idea was born, a plot conceived and a poem written. I would "wow" this woman with a kids' poem, written in verse, and featuring her youngest daughter as the lead character. Ingenious!  It must have worked on some level, since Monday we will be celebrating our second wedding anniversary together. I will pause here for the "Awwws" and "How Sweeets" and such from the Lifetime/Hallmark-style readers.  It hasn't been two years without challenges, but it HAS been two years that I would never trade away and truly only the second of what should be many, many more happier years ahead.

I really intend to wind down the commentary here and get to the poetry portion so please bear with me a skosh longer. The Life of Riley is a long poem that tells a story. When I began it, I knew it would require several chapters to complete. To date, only two have been written since it met with lackluster approval on a writing site we belong to. While I know that the childrens' storybook market is considered glutted right now I would TRULY appreciate any feedback you may wish to provide me regarding whether this seems a project worth completing. With that being said and with my thanks for your attention...Enjoy!! 

The Life of Rylie

Attend the tale of Riley, Pixie Princess born and raised.
Her beauty, wit and shining eyes were often highly praised.
But Riley had a secret that she prayed that few would learn
That made her smile just vanish and her anger start to burn.

Now pixies make their magic with the music that they sing.
Through the wonder of their voices they can do most anything.
Call forth the rain or calm the wind or help a tree to grow.
Quite potent is the magic that the simple pixies know.

But each song is quite special, must be sung a certain way
Lest the unexpected happen and the magic go astray.
Young pixies they must practice and work very hard indeed
Before they try their first spell on a very tiny seed.

Each morning Riley climbed the stairs to get the special book
with all the secret pixie songs from out its sacred nook.
And then with the assistance of her sisters or her Mum
She'd pick a page to practice and begin to softly hum.

Young pixies only get to hum and dare not try much more
For the tiniest of errors could produce a dinosaur.
As good as Riley thought she did, she'd see her family slump
Poor Riley's horrid secret? She was tone deaf as a stump!

Her Mum tried to console her though her sisters were quite mean.
Princess Sara said, "We still need YOU...to sweep the castle clean."
Princes Bekka said, "Don't worry if you never get it right.
You can still brew up my cocoa just by hand for me at night."

As consoling as she was, her Mum warned Riley every day.
To not try to experiment when she went out to play.
For even if she couldn't get a single note on key
It didn't mean that what she sang could not quite dangerous be.

Now THAT made Riley really steam and use some naughty words
This "requirement" to be just right was really quite absurd!
Was it HER fault the first time that she tried a simple tune
The cat wound up on fire and the clouds snuffed out the moon?!?

And should she really bear the blame because her second song
Went just a bit astray and in the end went VERY wrong?
She KNEW she shouldn't try to give the tune a bit of tweak
It caused the dog to go quite bald and glow blue for a week.

Princess Riley came to see that much as she might wish
She'd never learn the song to make a bird into a fish.
Or make a daffodill into a tulip with her voice.
And so, one day, the princess made a very risky choice.

She'd journey to the Goblin Woods and through the Troll Divide
Across the Shimmer Desert to the plains where Elf Lords ride.
Then down and through the valley to the Sea of Endless Brine
And find within the woods near there the Hidden Pixie Shrine.

The legends said it was the source of all the Pixie lore.
The vault where all the oldest Pixie relics had been stored.
And that, in each generation, that of all the pixies born
That only one could ever wield the Ancient Pixie Horn.

The Pixie Horn, so she had read, was something quite unique
To even find a trace of it she'd searched for near a week.
But when she had and read the tales of what the Horn could do
Hope blossomed in her Pixie heart and in her eyes of blue.

Within the Horn was archived every single Pixie song
Ensuring none were lost as time and Pixies marched along.
Preserving every single tune known to the Pixie Queens
From very first...to very last...and all the in-betweens.

The Wielder of the Horn, was writ, could summon any one
Of all the songs the Pixies knew (that REALLY sounded fun)
And blowing breath in to the Horn produce quite well and good
A song so pure it far excelled what Pixie Masters could.

So Riley had decided that her one and only choice
Lay in the finding of the Horn that didn't need a voice.
But that, my friends, is where, for now, this epic takes a pause
And if you wonder why, I'll smile, and only say.."Because."