When I Was Eight

When I Was Eight

Bundles of lightning

bring on

bolts of thunder.

I remember.

The sounds shook

over an ash horizon,

trapped me

trembling

in damp corners,

as a storm climbed

the husk of sky.

I remember.

A lifetime;

still the scars

and bright memory of gold

remain.

The poem is written in response to The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt.  In Wordle # 75, we are asked to write a poem using these words:  bolts, ash, corners, damp, climbed, shook, trapped, remain, bundles, storm, bring, husk.   If you’d like to read what others have written, click here for a link.  Text in colour red will take you to another website with additional information, if you click on it.  Photo was taken by my sister and brother-in-law.  Words are copyright ©Carol Steel.

Collide, a Poem

Collide, a Poem

Me.

And you with eyes blue as August skies,

our imaginations ripe.

You began to decree,

to demand,

became lost in your plans.

Adrift in your head,

you floated far from your heart.

Our love went dark,

lost in the grasp

of your rolling-mill squeeze.

Like a stamping child,

you went home,

with your mill and your rules.

And lost in your grief,

your own mind

you destroyed.

And, me?

Worn thin,

I wept

when I heard.

Yet the fold

you formed

remains.

A raised memory

on the flesh

of my life.

A forever tattoo

on my heart.

NOTES:

This is another (and perhaps better) version of a poem I wrote called Collide.  It’s a work in progress, like my poetry, like my life. 

My  relationships, brief or lasting, painful or loving, sometimes both, leave their marks on my life.  I grow and learn about myself through the people I touch and the people who touch me.

A piece of metal folded and unfolded becomes work-hardened and the fold remains as a raised line on the surface.  The fold lines, left on me from my relationships, bear witness to my journey.

A rolling mill is a machine designed to produce thinner gauges of metal and wire.

This photo is not mine.  It is from http://www.mostphotos.com  It is an iron statue on a beach, appropriate because of the colour of the August sky and the rigid struggle in the poem.

If you have a comment about my poetry, I welcome feedback.

Words in red will take you to another website with more information, if you click on them.

Memories of My Visit

Memories of My Visit

It’s Sunday, sunny with a chill wind.  The only way I can be comfortable sitting outside is to find a sheltered spot in direct sunlight.  Nearby a hefty grey squirrel seems to be thinking the same thing.  He munches on his pine cone aware that I am here but apparently unafraid, as we share this pool of sunshine.  He knows he can run faster than I, escape, if need be.

Sitting on a wooden storage box on the front porch, I'm looking across the street at a modern, creamy yellow house.  It appears to have been built to mimic the stateliness of this home.  The new house doesn’t work and looks oddly out-of-place in this older neighbourhood of Port Washington.  There is something solid, comforting, time worn about this 1896 house that nothing newer can duplicate. 

The cement porch hugs two sides of this massive home, providing shelter and welcome; for me, a secluded place in which to write. The grey squirrel runs off after finishing his cone, to find another or to chase the chipmunk that chatters and scolds in the side yard.  A scent of pine balsam carries on the mounting breeze.

The Port Washington area of Long Island, New York is farther south than where I live in New Brunswick, Canada.  Consequently here, the vegetation is still lush and green belying the cooler breezes and chillier nights that approach and have already touched our trees at home with sizzling colours.

My hooded sweatshirt isn’t cutting the cold from the stiffening wind so I will have to move soon.  The wind blows through me, picking and tossing stray leaves, shed from the tender shrubbery.  I need to shift to a warmer seat, seek somewhere more protected than this wooden box on the porch.

This early Sunday morning is peaceful, quiet, except for the rising wind rustling through the five-story maples that surround this house, breathing through the pines with sighs like waves on sand.  At first totally embraced by sun, now only my legs are warm.  I can feel heat on my jeans, warmth on my shoes.  But the wind carries thoughts of ice and my sunlit pool is shrinking.

A thin woman, in a tiny black tank top and matching spandex shorts, jogs by the front of the house; her dog is the same crinkly blond colour as her hair.  The pat, pat of her sneakers keeps time with the clack, clack of her dog’s toenails on the pavement.  I shiver as I watch her.

Yes, running is one way to keep warm.  But I want to write, so I am up now, searching for another sheltered spot of autumn sunlight, in which to further enjoy the last of summer, in this magical old house.

All photos are mine unless otherwise noted.

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We Are Maritimers

A view over the water to the Nova Scotia shores in the distance

Saturday, I attended a "Nature of Words" workshop for writers, facilitated by Deborah Carr.  We worked all day on skill-centered focusing exercises.  One required us to sketch a nature scene, including as much detail as possible from memory; we couldn't go outside at that moment...it was bucketing down rain.  Using the sketch as inspiration and as a memory aid, we wrote about the scene, encapsulating as much detail as we could about the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and emotions evoked.



The storm surges last winter tore out the roads and beachheads along Route 960



At the completion of the exercise, group members shared. It helps to gain feedback from other writers.  After several people had read, Deborah asked how many of us had sketched and written about water scenes.  All but one of the ten raised hands.  A burst of knowing laughter!



Beaches with road rebuilding at Bayside through to Upper Cape



We are Maritimers after all.  Water is part of our natural world, part of our daily scenery, part of our sense of ourselves, part of what we hold dear.



 Bayfield looking out at the Confederation Bridge



Whenever my husband and I want to relax and enjoy a delightful autumn day, we drive the coastlines of New Brunswick.  On Sunday, we took the motorcycle and journeyed Routes 960 and 955 along the southeastern coast from Bayside, Upper Cape, Cape Spear, Cape Tormentine through Murray Corner to Shemogue and back along to Shediac, through Scoudouc to Moncton.



Bayfield with Confederation Bridge in background



The air was redolent with scents of sea salt, sun-warmed beach sand, fields of clover and hay.  The breeze still held the summer warmth, but there were hints of the crisper fall temperatures.  The wind-stroked fields rippled as we passed, mimicking the waves on the waters.  Whenever we stopped to rest or to take photos, we heard the water slipping over the beaches and retreating, gulls screaming, crows squawking and the dying grasses rustling farewell to summer.   Sunday made our hearts glad; summer lingering and leaves just beginning their bright colours.



Shemogue Marshes



As we rode, and as we stopped to enjoy the seascapes, the browning marshes, the fragrances, the sounds, the taste of salt on our skin, I thought again of our laughter at the workshop.  Yes, we are Maritimers and we are most at home near the sea, the bays, lakes, marshes, rivers and straits.

We are a water people.

For more information about Deborah Carr's workshops go to:  http://www.natureofwords.com/

For more information about Deborah Carr go to:

http://www.deborahcarr.ca/

For more information about these locations in New Brunswick, click here.

Treasures from the Past

After many busy days, a quiet stay-at-home day; what luxury!

My mother is in the process of moving and has gifted me with numerous old books and bits of paper from my grandmother’s kitchen…memorabilia from my childhood and beyond.

Today I went through one small packet of Grammy’s papers. Intriguing information, all of it!  There was everything from food splotched, yellow pages of well-loved recipes to aged newspaper clippings.

I found:

Grammy’s Doughnut Recipe

A list of my younger sister’s allergies

Instructions for knitting a tea cosy

Gaskin’s Chocolate Cake Recipe

The ABC’S of how atomic and hydrogen bombs work

How to get rid of Plantar’s Warts

A recipe for Cinnamon Rolls

Directions to my cousin’s home in Nova Scotia

Homemade Mincemeat Recipe

How to control a “husband’s irritating eyebrow dandruff”

A French Omelette Guide

An article on the chemical composition of the human body

A Human Being

Is Made up of the Following

Water enough to fill a small keg,

Fat enough for seven bars of soap,

Iron enough for a medium sized nail,

Sugar enough to fill a shaker,

Lime enough to whitewash a chicken coop,

Phosphorus enough to make 2,000 match tips,

Magnesium enough for a dose of magnesia,

Potassium enough to explode a toy cannon,

Sulphur enough to rid a dog of fleas.

Even at today’s prices the whole combination

would sell for about 98 cents.

I wonder where this gem came from as there is no indication on the disintegrating bit of paper about the source, author or date.

How old do you think it might be?