Also look out for blog posts by our guest writers this month, on topics such as creativity, writing and mindfulness. Click here to view the guest posts.
Do leave your 19th small stone of the challenge in the comments below.
"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are.
Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing,
which is one reason why they write so little."
~ Anne Lamott
86 comments:
watching her write, head bent in concentration, long smooth arms and legs, a halo of late afternoon light
The bitter wind
Makes the missin you harder.
Lonely sinks deeper into cold bone.
The sky is so gray, so overcast
That even my shadow has left me alone.
My only companions are a few snowflakes.
They are refusing to allow sunshine,
But they aren't passionate enough to cause a storm.
I'm flaky and ungrounded enough join their tribe,
But the blanket of your memory is too thin to keep me warm
So I'm forced to go back inside.
(I don't trust the snowflake gang, actually.
They are meandering, indecisive, lacking focus,
And most assuredly on a downward spiral.)
yellow
green
red
brown
white
smooth
rough
tall
low
hanging
straight
it's the mixture
that hold your gaze
Cedar oil
massaged into your back
on a warm summer evening.
The minutes lengthen.
A Mcdo breakfast with a dear friend. Conversations on dreams, life, dreams, and more dreams. The lightness of our chats, the strengths and realizations that we didn't know yet when we were still young. Nothing beats starting the day with positivity.
on the path,
37 below, sunlight
streaming through
lodgepole trunks,
snow-textured branches,
breathing through
my rainbow scarf,
I forget to wave
to my fellow artist
All the pigeons are in the sun. All the assembled pigeons on the wall. The shattered glass of the bubble enclosing the escalator down to the subway looks like sun glinting on water, and the buildings are shining tall. All the feathers of the pigeons are puffed and the birds are huddled. The birds know where to be for now.
As my mind rests on the grief being felt by loved ones...disbelief and compassion flood over me.
Daily dose
as big as a horse pill
as bitter as cod liver oil
this loneliness
is hard to swallow
after days of sun
the sky changes to rain
just in time
for my short trip,
and i can’t help it, and take
the clouds personal.
photostones
January 19 Small stone poem SNO
Blank slate of snow
beckons me to write.
With paprika spice ink,
I shake out the word sno--
Sadly, "w" had no place to go!
I shared this on my blog with photo at https://pm27.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/january-19-2012-small-stone-poem/
The star fell from the sky in a blaze of glory.
(photo on blog post)
Bottle bank bottles,
Green, brown, clear,
Pose in a plastic trug
This time of year.
Dimpled bottoms up,
Emptied out of cheer,
Waiting to be taken
(Gently, dear),
To join recycled friends
At the bank
On having been to a cinema on a hot day:
We exit from our dark and plush cocoon
Into a seething whirlpool of humanity.
I feel out of place in this mad cartoon
And leave at once, to protect my sanity.
Moving around the sun
an unoiled universe
clanks and cranks
and scrapes through space.
Tomorrow comes
with the winding
and the key
is within reach.
my heart is a grey, blustery winter storm
drenched in rain and the thunder of lost gods who do not understand
the tormented folly of humanity
winter storm
[2012.19.1...a]
No Stone To Speak Of
Yesterday has passed. I have no stone to speak of. I didn't take the time. I was too busy living. I thought about the stone while lying in my bed. It was cold outside the blanket. I didn’t care to rise and shuffle in the cold. The ideas kept on swirling. My muse kept on pricking. I turned and tossed in bed.
“I'll write tomorrow. Now please, please, let me get some sleep.”
So you see, I silenced the muse inside my head and that is why, there is no stone to speak of.
2nd Small Stone: The Moon
“Write about the moon,” she said. “Write about the cold. Show me, please do not tell me," she said and sent me on my way.
Where is the moon tonight? Outside, hovering in the cold. I am inside, trying my best to write. I will not go outside. I will not put my gloves on, zip my jacket or lace my boots. The cold is just too cold. So I close my eyes and picture what the moon looks like tonight: A shiny, blue light mass, a crescent, a mere sliver of itself. Hanging in the night to babysit the stars. Giving off its brilliance. Denying any warmth. Goodnight shiny crescent, it is time to go to bed, and dream of sunny beaches that are far away from here!
The hero in the novel I am reading
receives a beating.
Lies there, blood-stained, mucus, vomit, piss,
and I wonder how he ever regains his self-esteem
sufficiently to fully function later.
A boy, about seven or eight, in a white singlet and bold sky-blue shorts, learns to skate on the pavement. He struts along, stops, tries to do an 'S' skate, doesn't succeed, stomps on the end of his board to pick it up, jogs and sails the board slightly in front and hops on it. Again and again.
The first snowdrop
One thin white petal emerges from shy green.
I check every day,
want proof of a new season coming closer,
but it still looks the same.
~ Missing A Beat ~
Life never misses a beat
and keeps us too beat
to take the time
to make a beat
on the congas collecting dust in the corner
I dreamed of glistening caves, their walls streaming with rivulets of ice-cold water.
I woke to rain running along the guttering below my open window.
summer's heat
tucked us in for the night
with hospital corners
Pain
My shoulders ache, muscles cramped and creaking as I step out into the morning. No amount of neck stretching or pummelling of skin will release this pain. Acceptance weighs heavy on me, like a thick, dark cloak that drags along the ground. Release only comes when I untie the cords that hold this shroud around me, letting it slip behind. What is done is done. What is said can't be unsaid. I move forward, away from the heavy, stagnant fabric. My neck clicks, releases, relaxes and my shoulders begin to tingle. I breathe.
Bookmark fell from within the pages.
A postcard of a holiday 10 years ago.
Now nestled in a novel of today.
I think of a deliciously simple lunch.
Salted tomatoes on soft white bread.
A cup of tea.
But the vegetable box isn't here yet.
The fridge is bare
And we have no milk.
Tree surgeons in hob-nailed boots, taking such care to delicately tip-toe and pirouette through the emerging daffs and crocuses under the apple tree. In the field next door, their saws and chipper cut logs and mulch for me...The kindness of strangers.
A shady place sheltered me.
The river whispered as it rushed past.
The rocky path invited me for a stroll.
Grey-black clouds roll across the sky. Fragments of white, specks of blue peep through - tantalise, like a glimpse of the first snowdrop. My mind searches for its own fragments of white, its own specks of blue - its own snowdrop.
~AS IT HAPPENS~
Air is cool on waking,
Crackle of wood burning.
Whir of ceiling fan,
Dog licking her forearm.
Sudden squeal, boys...
Wooden blocks hit wood floor.
Rich whiff of nutty coffee.
Clean smells linger too,
Hands still damp from dishes,
Luandry folded waiting.
Low rumble, truck enroute,
Glow still low on horizon.
Windows are steamed.
Emotions fill,
Dawning on news
A friend's illness
Fresh on my heart.
Whispered prayer.
© Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2012.
gossamer frost
shrouds every capillary branch
of every tree
and even the mailbox
in the bitter chill of morning.
magical.
Walking across campus, coming back from a meeting, I hear what sounds like owl noises in the trees at a spot known as Sherwood Forest. The rest of the stone.
A phone call, unexpected;
a voice from the past,
welcome and full of good memories.
Ties across the years that cannot be broken.
I cannot go back, but I can remember.
A short trip out
and the return
turns into a test
stopped by a train
at every artery
sit still and wait
knowing it's the fastest route
or foolishly try to go around it
no way over
no way under
then
the skulking iron beast stops
STOPS on the tracks
for the love of god
I itch to move
so drive in pointless circles
and half-arcs
being brought to a stop each time anyway
in feats of geometric futility
my effort to condense fixed time
only protracts it
a minute is a minute
no matter how you spend it
on this path
there's only one way home
Be it a longing look,
a tender touch,
a serene smile,
or well-spoken word,
we communicate
what our hearts feel.
A mile between smiles
is closed in connection.
Everything is grey - the sky, the bare branches of trees, the rail-tracks, even my mood. Sitting on the train, watching people walk past.
Why are they all wearing black? Men in suits, anoraks, overcoats; women in jackets, leggings, short skirts. All black. A state of mind?
A red train in a grey station. Coloured scarves on a rack. A girl with purple hair. Highlights of a drab day.
Scores of young nerds in blue Tee shirts
assault my eyes upon entering The Apple store,
each sporting an iPad or iPhone.
I wonder if they would hire a geezer nerd?
A cute nerdette ushers me to a table
and demonstrates my battery is dead.
We replace it with a new one,
thanks, in part, to my having a handy coin
to effect removal of the old battery.
We determine that my old charger
does indeed still work.
My finger signs my name on her iPhone,
an email address receives the receipt,
and am soon on my way.
a small treasure found
tucked away
among the debris of what once was
shinning brightly...beckoning
longing to be remembered
and loved once again
Zero (-18 C) with shocks of north wind is bearable under four layers, but my fingers, toes and face are cold. Then a hot flash arrives. My back sweats, my chest and arms prickle, and warmth spreads out to every toe and finger. The blessing of menopause!
Sometimes it is less disturbing to take off my glasses and see the world through the distortion of my own lenses despite their imperfections.
Fleece-encased feet
shuffle & crunch as they stomp a path
to the winter garden's snow queen:
Camellia japonica.
After loving the cat,
the lint brush.
Busy, busy snowflakes - Armies of snowflakes, all in a hurry, all with the same mission - "everything in sight
must be covered in white!"
They are doing a good job. Yesterday's dull world of browns and grays now rests beneath a blanket of unblemished whiteness.
Zig-Zag
Zig-zag lilac twig
Zg-zag piled up snow.
Arctic freeze -
The air outside my door
that causes my lungs to seize.
It's warm, soft and a perfect fit. Its smooth, golden surface reflects and radiates a golden light. The inside is engraved, etched with significance. My wedding ring's embracing circumference holds thirty-four years and the possibility of many more.
A ferry crew member in an orange raincoat leans against a railing while operating the docking mechanism. I wait for him to finish, and then I drive off into the night.
Go here to view the full post:
http://writtenbyim.blogspot.com/2012/01/day-19-orange-raincoat.html
Day off. House no cleaner, but I saw the klatsch of paper birches at the edge of the meadow, their graceful ghostly limbs.
Jan 18 Stone & Jan 19 Stone
(18th)
again a day when the stone failed to crystallise! but looking back on it I did notice:-
As a friend put on a fleece cardigan, the warm heather blue and light claret patterning lifted his whole appearance. The colours banished the cold grey pallor the weather had injected to his skin. We perceive warmth with more than one of senses.
(today 19th)
tackling the new and unfamiliar is scary, frustrating and fun
snow covered bushes
faerie homes with
twinkling lights
I don’t have much to say today. Just back
from driving several hours to see my mom
and coax and bully her to pay some bills
and take her pills and other odds and ends
then several hours driving back again.
The same again next week. I’m tired. I’m sad.
On my blog at newpillowbook.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/stone-10-nineteenth-day/
Give me a big blue sky and I will be free.
I will breathe it in and the wrinkles in my mind will smooth, my soul will stretch to fill that place,
and if the sky is partly hidden, I will funnel my mind towards that smaller space.
and if only a little patch of blue is there, I will seek it out and fix my sight on the light I find.
and if there is no blue at all, no light to free my mind, I will close my eyes and dream of blue and scudding clouds and streaks of light until my mind is washed and free again.
Driving back from the coast
the sky melting in three levels of cloud
On the horizon, a striped pink curtain hangs then
Layers of washes, bleeding and running upwards where
high cumulo nimbus, Payne's Grey, almost
solid, dark overhead. Yet the land is illuminated.
a clutch of starlings glide and shimmer,
transfixed by the sun, so low in the sky that
it sits in the trees' canopies like a great eagle,
a mystical force, seeing beneath your skin
and clutching your bones tight.
Frozen Images
Images iced and frozen
held captive in a
storms frozen embrace
where time and the
cycle of nature only
will release them
© January 2012
Sky looms like unplowed snowy streets
the graywhite of winters elsewhere
in anticipation of precipitation
not yet known: sweat, or tears.
eyelash on my cheek
mascara-free adventure
on a tiny tear
After I washed my face today, I noticed that I had an eyelash on my cheek. I decided that that one single lash was making a personal statement about breaking away from the pack, being an individual – and NOT keeping it under the lid, so to speak. I thought, ‘What do I do to make myself stand out in the world? How am I an individual?’
Blink.
TODAY I am grateful for ATMs.
Most of my shopping and banking is done online.
So I am using less cash and very few checks.
But when I need cash I am grateful there are ATMs.
They are available 24 hours contrasted to bank tellers.
On a related note I am grateful that the grocery store gives cash back.
This is a standard part of my life that I choose not to take for granted.
postman's steps in the snow
crossed by rabbit's
lunar cavities
I'm afraid to disturb
The tall camellia bush beside the door is covered with fat, green buds, and one showing red along the top side as a promise for the future.
~Laura Hoopes
"Wind Chill -33"
(Stone #19 by Rhonda L. Johnson)
Walking the three blocks to my car
the raw air bites my exposed wrists
and neck with blue steel jaws,
invading the gaps in my flimsy
coat like an indignant wraith
seeking shelter from mortality--
it crawls along my goose-bumped skin
searching for an opening--
it clings to my bones 'til I am
vibrating through and through,
and I am sure I will not feel warmth 'til June!
Debby sings out a goodbye. She is inside, behind the storm windows with the cat and the amaryllis and the orchid in its last days. Warmth.
I plod the driveway in a pair of heels I've worn for nearly 11 hours; the ache at the base of my toes reminds me each time my feet touch asphalt. Everywhere, darkness, except for a sky tinged a sickly orange from the highway lights.
I lean my head forward, sniff, inhale: snow.
Through the door, a savory blast of onions leeks garlic, celery rosemary bay. Soup day.
A small stone from the Similkameen
January 19th, 2012
frosted silver globes
to entice small birds to partake
of exotic dessert
Posted by Hildred and Charles at 7:06 PM
smallstone: toast
texas toast enflamed
encrusted with garlic love
warm comfort, cold day
Ode to Goldenrod During Our Cold Winter Months!
I ask thee kindly with warmth and love
in keeping me 'Whole' all-year round.
May Your medicines I gathered from You last year
and my Goldenrod friends Bless me
with Healing until You bloom again.
As I do will it,
SO MOTE IT BE!
Blessed Be.
~Indigenous Shamanic Winds
Three dogs on the couch....a nest made from a blanket and a pillow and warm furry bodies. I'd sink into it too, but I don't want to disturb them. I'll find my own spot, albeit colder and less dogged and not as good.
BLUE MOON
Fuzzy blue thread right
Smooth white threads left and middle
Needle moves up, down
Blade cuts excess fabric strip
Cow jumps over moon emerges
Telling me what she did at Grandma and Papa's:
"We played-ed!"
The stars flash signals
in this morning hour
punctuated by a sliver of moon.
Brilliant messages
in a language I have forgotten.
Fourteen below and the black and white dog rolls in the ice-crusted snow. What does he know that I don’t know?
Shortly after me blurting questions for answers out at Jeopardy! time, Greg took off from his chair so fast, like he hadn't done before, and darted off into the garage and clicked open the garage door. A rocket had launched from Canaveral. It was a cloudless night, and Orion and the other stars dotted the sky. I didn't have my glasses on. I saw a yellowish orange spark, diffused into rays, tracing a short trail behind it west to east to the sea. The two of us stood there on the driveway looking up at something like a wonder. When the light became too small, we walked back into the house like Clark Kent's foster parents after he flew away to find Krypton. Then, Greg leaned his ear, motioning to me with a thumb back towards the outdoors. He meant the rocket "rumble" and I darted off and strained to hear it while cars zoomed by. My ears did not so much hear but they felt the rumble coming in waves or a force that was flapping my eardrums, the way I feel when I have a cold. It is so much more fun seeing a rocket and listening for its shockwaves than reading an article about its launch and finding out what the rocket was for.
Walking quickly, late for work. Every surface rain-soaked, glistening, dripping. A translucent-gray caterpillar moves in slow motion across my path.
The day passed in
fog.
Not the bright
sharp flavour
and scent of
clementines,
nor the warm arms
of my husband,
not the comfort of my
daughter's sweet
head in my lap
whilst I knitted
cleared it away.
Foot in front of
foot.
It will get better.
On the country train: we slip through bush and rocky tunnels in cottony quiet, heads straying and bobbing
The wicked wind ruthlessly perpetrates its crimes. It violates, penetrates, deranges, binds, gags, steals, rages, rampages, maims, and murders. A spree unceasing on helpless victims.
You lunatic Moon,
don't you know I spy
you there, over my shoulder,
lurking in the shadows
of the earth, following
me all the way to work?
Hubby's first day of classes
it's back to the rat race again
as I play single mom to three
my head begins to spin.
1.19.2012 ~ Wondering how far across our world has the fashion of 'slabbing' with baggy jeans reached? Your pants are nearly on the ground home boy.
#19 Half light, just pre-dawn / driving my son to his school / Small blizzard, huge flakes // #senryu #haiku #amwriting
The thin blue sky, so high, so high.
Ferry from Mull
A ferry journey in the dark
Has it left yet?
Warm air
bursts from my mouth
over clasped hands
tight against my lips
Relief to stiff hands.
My numb fingers
tingle to life.
Need mitts.
One week later
I want to dance.
That's something, at least.
January 19, 2012- Small Stones
conversation by Teri H Hoover
Hours of talking at a Mexican Restaurant.
I study the painting on and off throughout the conversation.
The afternoon sun
falling between
the rustic well kept buildings
attending the perfect cobbles
that wind through the center
of this quiet Mexican village.
The perfectly formed cobbles blue with shade
suddenly glow warmly at the the lone travelers feet
Shoulders drenched in sunshine
walking toward
green golden hills holding the steeple of a church.`
Conversations, winding the perfect cobbles, through sunshine and shadow,
enfolding each other, in green hills and golden afternoon warmth.
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