Call for Submissions

http://www.170review.fieldinfoserv.com/

Poetry 

Family Values

http://www.helium.com/items/2191861-values-family-social-pressure-media

Empty Ears

http://www.helium.com/items/2191400-poetry-ears-silence

I can't repost this anywhere for a year.. but here's the link:

a generic Pain poem

Pain is a petulant child
that holds it's breath
and smashes plates
on the dirty ground
with an angry thrust.
It cavorts with wild
intent, daring sleek black
daggers of rancid hate
to fly around.
Rest a red crinkled cheek
back down to rusty
sleep.  "It" will wait
for snores to solidly sound.
Then silent storms strike down
in a tangled rush.
Dry, scratchy eyelids
reminisce sated
closure.

a generic Sleep poem

I almost had sleep rustled
by it's thin horns.
But, it broke off into pieces
that couldn't be glued
back together.

7 things customers want on a website

http://www.helium.com/items/2185043-customers-things-want-website
Please click on the above link to read this Helium article.  I am listed as yackity yack if it doesn't take one to my specific article.

TRUST IN OFFICE RELATIONSHIPS

Here's the link to the article on Helium.  The new rules on Helium is that any article they publish... they have exclusive use of for one year.  I can't re-post it anywhere else for 1 year.

LINK TO ARTICLE

MISSED BUS

A mother alone stands on a city curb,
bus scheule half unfolded,
child clinging to her spring coat.
Consternation pours out of repaired
horn-rimmed spectacles with missing rhinestones.
She glances up the street
before turning to the beckon of adult
company carried
on smoke and beer spiced air
from a hole in the brick
wall behind her.
A cacophony of laughter, clinking glassware,
and Jimmy Dean tunes,
(like a distant gaggle of geese)
wafts out on the sidewalk like vomit.
The mother instructs her coatless
daughter to wait on the flagstone step
protruding from a dark den
and a bar room warped
tongue and groove.
In a cold April shade, the girl
watches the sun skip across the street
in a time lapsed cascade.
Buses careen and sometimes stop
to let off or receive.
The late sun turns its back on the day
and people stop asking the girl
why she's there
and scoff at her beggar face
as they pass on the stair.

MORNING GLORIES

Morning dampness
beads a Santorini blue dress...


http://www.helium.com/items/2103581-flowers-morning-glories-santorini-blue-sun-foliage-storm

MAKING MONEY ON YOUR WRITING

There are numerous sites on which to make money with your writing.  The one I use is Helium.com.  I believe it's a by referral only site... send me an email address you would want me to send an invitation to if you're interested.  Receiving an invitation doesn't have any obligation attached to it.

They have more than one way to make money with them.  I've chosen the easy route with the least effort.  This means that I don't earn much.  But, I could if I would put some elbow grease into it.

I've been with them since 2007.  They pay via paypal and they've been rock solid reliable about it too.

I write what I want to write.  So long as what I say isn't grossly offensive, it remains on their site indefinitely.  There's no submissions for approval.  Lots of ideas for writing are often generated from articles that they ask you to read and rate.  I think they probably post the worst written articles to rate just to spur other writers to write better ones.

I use the pen name Yackity Yack.  I started out using my real name until my husband's ex found my article on being a step-parent.  I didn't mention her name at all, but she raised a stink anyway.  She vowed to scour each of my articles to make sure she wasn't mentioned in any of them...  Little did she know that she was generating income for me by doing that!  She can still find me on Helium by Googling me... but, my name isn't listed directly on those articles... which takes the wind out of her sails a bit.

E. 10th STREET, 1969

Acidic basement mold wafts up
around rotted storm door crevices.
Corner house with a treed lot for kids to pick clover
and chase tabby cats.
Periwinkle blue Batchelor buttons and milkweed pods
beckon the curious.
This was when we played outside
and the rain barrel song echoed on our lips.

IRON GATE

Pungent Juniper berries
rolled between finger and thumb
recalls rough red bricks

behind fragrant bushes and
a wrought iron gate.
Mamma's friend snuck her into the laundry
at a fancy apartment building
stowed away from
a seamy world outside.
"No children allowed"
I was told.
I sat obediently on cold concrete
steps outside for eons
waiting...
waiting -
Sleep.
I would wake up with a wrinkled cheek
and wonder how I got home.

MAMA'S BUSY KNEADING CHRISTMAS DOUGH

Squint across footsteps in the snow,
attesting that you've been there.
Advertise to mama your imprinted nose
from the kitchen window.
Mama's busy kneading Christmas dough.
The smile skips free of your broken
mouthpiece
to hide among lonely trees.
at the watercolor sky
that always threatens to go pastel.
Friendly lost playmates
scramble into your memory.
"Come find me!" you challenge.
None at all appear.
No playmates
to scrape away rusty dreams and draw
new ones.

Short story, facing death

http://www.helium.com/items/256894-short-stories-facing-death

Blogger Advice:

When bloggers remove the NavBar from their page... Not only do they make it impossible for the viewer to press the 'next blog' link, but they are also removing the 'Share' button.  Don't you want fans of your page to share your blog? 

Confrontational onion peeling advice:

     I've noticed over the last 4 decades that most people don't handle their frustrations or set backs very well.  Most of those people fall into one of two categories (those who aren't psychotic, that is...). 
     One group just wants to complain about it like they are a victim not of their own making.   They never listen to advice and just seem to love the sound of their whine pouring out.
     The other group vents more aggressively through hateful remarks or by remarks not so obviously hostile.  But, are just as mean spirited.  Very often,  the latter group will use (attach themselves to) cliches and fad-like sayings to express their aggression.  It's like they are trying to make escape goats (old testament variety) out of other people.  
     They look for any excuse to target recipients for their hate and self loathing.  This is one of the reasons why we don't have 'peace' or harmony among people in our world.  This, greed, and fear is the stuff of wars and famine.
     It seems that both groups are failing to take responsibility for consequences of their own choices.  I know it's not fair in most cases those things that happen to us.  MAYBE we really aren't responsible for some of those things.  But, we can't bury our heads in the sand and say that someone else is responsible for how we take what we get.
     A mature person accepts things as they are, doesn't take another person's weaknesses to heart and moves on.  Our self worth is not dependent on external things or on what others think of us.  That is a group survival mechanism and has no bearing on our real self-worth.

How to write a biography

http://www.helium.com/items/645916-how-to-write-a-biography

RUBBER BISCUITS

1969, mamma sent me out to that tiny white diner
on Independence Ave
that looked like a baby shoe box
to buy a dozen mini cheeseburgers.
She snapped insults when I came back
without change or receipt.
In a fit,
she threw the bag of cold meat biscuits into the trash bin.
Then, ordered me, with finger pointing, to return.
The waitress gave me two pennies
and said never to come back.
I became invisible upon my arrival home.
I searched the trash and found only wrappers.
No rubber biscuits for my dinner.
I collapsed onto my cot and forgot the day.

DETOUR

As I crossed into the wilderness
beyond the factory lawn,
imagination danced as I laced
my way through a clay sea,
jumping from rock to rock...
Pretend sharks nipping at my feet.
Tall dry weeds reached out
of murky gray water like a forest
of nets trying to catch me.
I could've taken the worn path
in my shortcut to school.

A COWBOY DREAMS

Errant grit burrows into bandana folds.
A lone cowboy wrangles down
distant thoughts too vacant
to be told
as he gazes over
a gently undulating horizon
speckled with bovine movement.
A simple pleasure awaits
over stamped steel plates
warm with overcooked stew
and a chunk of rough bread
to sop up juicy stories
and tomorrow's droving.
Dragged out and weary
he sidles up to a worn bedroll
to burn the breeze
in slumber's head.

CRACKED

Poets are like dusty red wine.
They get more seasoned with age.
But, spoil
when cracked.

THE PURPOSE POETRY PRESENTS

Painting with words is the purpose poetry presents.

Filtered images arranged like picture pixels

Elicit emotion or image.  Rhythm consents

To conformity of meter… or not.

Sing-songy ballads of love or loss is boring.

Show… not tell, is my mentor's challenge.

Shakespeare got away with old form with adoring

Fans trying in vain to imitate.

Poetry is like Scrabble fused with Mozart’s notes.

Cezanne painted vaguely but with definition.

Emily D. sang a ragged song with dashes and quotes.

Botticelli romanced sadness with detail, contrast

And…

Sometimes perspective.

Please abuse grammer - so long as it bears reason.

Alliterate and emote like a young sea otter.

Condense epic impulses to one concise season.

Shape a poem like a wet clay pot on a potter’s wheel.

Make me feel and see your message.

“I want to swim in your ocean”.

Whining and swooning is a fly in a cage.

It buzzes too frequently.

A SUMMER DAY IN THE COUNTRY

Sand and pebble crunch absently under foot while a rooster cackles on the other side of the barn and rabbits thump in their cages.   This is a balmy June day coming to a quiet close while the sun’s last ray’s slant across the walkway in long shadows.  A northerly wind gently sweeps across the courtyard and tousles the canvas fabric hanging from fluffy cushions on the swing.  This is a perfect summer day in the country.

            Somehow, I fear that this is a dream that will snap in half sharply as reality sets in.  Fortunately, today is my day off.  This is my Sabbath and I intend to shut out concerns about paying bills on time or when the next oil change is due.  So, I lean into the cool and dry cushions with my iced tea and magazine.

            Wrens splash in the birdbath that looks like a crooked bronze sunflower with a green patina.  Mamma-dog interrupts for a ritual scratch behind the ears as her newborn pups mew and whimper on the porch.  A bird in the big white oak imitates my whistle for the dogs to come home to dinner.  Bleats echo in the distance as a kid calls for its mamma.  My tea sweats as I take it all in and banish all wayward worries.

            It’s too bad more days aren’t like this!  But, if there were too many, they would get ignored and the regular hustle and bustle would obscure opportunities to banish a banal existence.  The reality is that bills have to get paid, hay and manure needs mucking out, while laundry stands stiffly in the corner as family members hold out their plates for supper.  Goats don’t milk themselves, hens hoard their eggs and rabbits pretend to be Houdini as they devise new ways to escape their cages.

            Right now, I am in another world.  Dinner is done.  My hubby is replacing the O2 valve on his pickup.  The in-laws are firmly engrossed in a Clint Eastwood movie with the volume turned all the way up, in their own home far up the hill.  Blackberry pie cools on the kitchen counter.  The neighbor’s John Deere is silent and nowhere in sight.  And the cool evening breeze wafts over my slumbering face with the magazine long forgotten.  This is a summer day in the country!

            Let tomorrow worry about itself, I’m busy!

KANSAS WHEAT

An undulating golden sea
waves an endless hello or goodbye
like a memory of a lullabye.
Slender reedy stalks sprout
rough whiskers
from each grain turning honey amber
under a Kansas sun
that leans into a wide blue tapestry
of daydreams
wanting nothing more than the rhythm
of willows waltzing
with sleepy breezes.

BULLIES

            Sprawled uncomfortably, cheek to pavement, Cedric stiffly began pulling himself back together.

            When Cedric went down, he pretended to blackout.  He hoped that the Fergusson boy would lose interest and leave off.

            It worked.  The bearish and freckle-faced bully boy lost interest and went on his way.

            “Tomorrow, I’ll turn left a the second corner, go two blocks and work back around as soon as I’ve lost him.”  Cedric mused.

            Cedric is a 3^rd grade student at Apperdasher Elementary on Kale Street.  He lives about 14 blocks from school, depending on which route he takes.  If he makes it to the park by his home, then he’s usually out of danger from getting beat up.

            As Cedric walked into the back door of the duplex, he hid his scratched cheek as mom tousled his deep chestnut-brown hair and asked him if he wanted a snack before dinner.

“No.  I’ll just get a juice box.”  He replied as he dipped his head into the fridge for his drink.  He grabbed, as a second thought, a single pouch of string cheese.

            Mom was busy reading a book at the kitchen table while he worked his way past to his room.

            Cedric peered into the bathroom mirror and noticed that the scratch was barely noticeable.  It just felt worse than it was.

            “Checking for pimples already?”  Cedric’s dad suddenly offered.

            “Oh.  Naw, dad.”  Cedric muttered as he squeezed by, letting his dad have the bathroom to himself.  His dad momentarily stared after his son, quizzically.

            The next day came too soon.  As Cedric buttoned up his faded cotton yellow shirt, he remembered the first day of school when he wore this shirt for the first time.  He remembered how proud he was to be wearing a brand new shirt.  It was a strong and vibrant yellow color back then.

            “Two more days till the weekend” thought Cedric sleepily.  No amount of wishing will bring it here faster he reasoned.

            While waiting for the time to leave, he consoled himself with the fact that summer vacation was just three weeks away.

            On the way to school, Cedric stopped by an old chain link fence to look for four-leaf clovers.  This was a way to eat up some time so that he’d get to class just as the bell rang.

            The day was mostly uneventful, until last recess anyway.  He managed to hide when they were picking teams because he knew he’d get picked last & there would be very rude jokes made about him.

            It was May and the temperature was hot and dry.  The school didn’t have any A/C.  So, after each recess, everyone lined up at the sink in back of the room with their water cups. 

            The water was never cold like the words on the handle said.  Tobby Fergusson slapped Cedric’s cup away as he tried to take a sip.  The teacher told Cedric to clean up the spilled water.  This was the last straw.  Cedric stood his ground.

            “I didn’t do it.  Tobby knocked it out of my hands!”

            “No I didn’t!”  Tobby confidently yelled.

            “I am not cleaning that up.” Cedric said resolutely.

            “Then you lose water privileges for the rest of the year” the teacher sarcastically spat.

            That afternoon, Cedric walked an extra block north before heading eastward.  This was a busy street with businesses and other commercial buildings.

            While many of his classmates were getting candy at the corner store, Cedric walked past feeling relieved that he’d get a head start on any group or person who’d want to beat him up that day.  Everyday Cedric tried a different combination of directions and paths home.  He figured that keeping them confused was the best way to avoid the bullies.

            This way home was scary because he’d never gone this far north before.  About two blocks down, he stopped to look into a store window.  It looked sort of empty except that it was very clean and had some gym mats off to one side.  As he began walking past the open door, a man in black robes suddenly stood in front of him.

            The man said “You learn Karate?  Come.”

            Cedric hesitated.  This was a stranger!  He thought of running for his life, briefly.  Instead, he stood firm even though his knees were shaking.

            The man must’ve noticed because he said “Wait.”  Then he came back to the door with a folded piece of blue paper.

            “Give this to parents, please.  I give summer discount.”

            Cedric jammed it into his book bag and ran home.

            “What’s this?”  Cedric’s mom asked.

            Cedric watched his mom read the flyer the man gave him without answering her query.

            A week after school let out for the summer,   “things are going to change next fall” thought as he left his first lesson in Karate. 

            Fall arrived with a cool drizzle on rust colored leaves that lined the sidewalks.  Walking to school seemed solitary and serene as the scent of soggy red maple and white oak leaves squished underfoot.

            Cedric’s classmates looked at him as if he was someone new.  They just couldn’t figure him out, it seemed.   They sensed something new but didn’t know what.

            Cedric didn’t know it, but his new sense of confidence glowed like a neon sign.  It showed subtly in his posture and walk.

            Even Tobby Fergusson left him alone, unchallenged, from then on.

           

FILL IN THE BLANKS

I fill in the blanks with myself

because I don't know the character

that I am supposed to be.

Plot synopses fly like pigs in the sky

as pixel summits rise and fall

like square snowflakes on a velvet sea.

We fill roles of sycophant or star.

We are incipient liars and facades

climbing rough stone walls

like clinging Hedera helixes.

Our tendrils dig and grasp

into the tiny crags no one else sees

and hold until there is nothing left

to siphon away.

We stash on a remote shelf

those who fail to conform

or who betray our fantasy

of who we are.

I fill in the blanks with myself.

FIGURE OF MOTHER

Sit by, listen to the clock twitch,
night moves gently slower,
as the vertical hold statically
flips on.
The small house seems to
sway as a chilled wind vacantly
calls about the new red shutters.
Cluttered debris occupies a far side
of the table, stacked
neatly in piles.
Soft around the edges,
playing cards fall out from
under a restive palm.
Another hand waits over a hard mouth,
white puff,
thumb resting on the corner.

WEEKEND IN TAOS, NM

The sagebrush rattled absently in the afternoon sun.  Its scent permeated the fall air as I drove by with the windows down.  My vacation was turning out just fine.

            My boss was angry with me for taking my vacation just now.  It was scheduled six months ago.  Just because his “favorite” decided to quit isn’t my fault.  It would’ve cost me a fortune in fees if I canceled my plans.  And, since Mr. Saunders wasn’t willing to cover those fees, then I guess he didn’t really need me that badly after all.  He’ll just have to cancel one or two golf games and do some real work for a change.

            I can just hear him, though.  When I get back to the office he’s going to say “Shasta!  Why didn’t This get done?”  If he wouldn’t keep interrupting me with his golf stories, more would get done in the first place.  Keeping his priorities consistent would help too.

            The benefit of being a paid slave is that one can always get work somewhere else.  That’s assuming, of course, that one doesn’t get blackballed.  The trick, I think, is to get another job before quitting the current one.  And, it helps, to get the new employer to think they’re stealing something valuable from the old employer.

            The writer’s workshop in Taos, New Mexico should give me some perspective and relief.  If not, then I’ll put in at Sobel’s.  I’ll have to start at the bottom again with less pay.  But then what’s more important, my sanity or a big paycheck?

            I fell into bed after the first day of the workshop.  The cool evening breeze carried a soothing scent of wild sage past the open window.  I dreamed of dancing orange wild fires, silhouettes of range riders, rolling in a field of purple flowers, and of horses running free and unhurried.  Snatches of soaring like a kite and swimming like a dolphin blessed my slumber.

            It seemed like I had just recently closed my eyes when the alarm startled me awake.

            As I slurped down my soggy Golden Crisps, my pen scratched across the yellow note pad.  “I should’ve had this finished last night” I muttered to myself.

            I got to the workshop class just in time to hear the announcement that the instructor had an emergency. I volunteered to take her place.  We had fun brainstorming first line story starters.  I paired them up and they had to write a story about the other person using one of six first liners.

            I returned to work that following week feeling refreshed.  I was also looking forward to teaching another weekend workshop in Taos!

A SELFISH BOY we were supposed to take turns. this boy across the street swore he would bring the toast and strawberry jam next time. each time. until mom said no more! his idea of sharing was a little lopsided. we played with his imaginary friends as we walked the plank (that was the top of a stone wall). we scampered around his front yard because he wasn't allowed to cross the street. He was older by far. One rainy day, he invited me to play inside his toy room (which was a whole basement full of toys).  My eyes popped at the sight. I reached for a flute-whistle but he was more interested in an oral inventory. When he wasn't looking, I hid that toy under my white sweater,  yearning to ply it to my lips, and made an excuse to scram. I felt so dirty, resentment burrowed in like octopus ink. I was discovered three houses away never having the pleasure of play.