Monthly Archives: April 2013

To Pops…

Second Home

A soft wind blows

Over my father’s

Fragmented grave.

He is out there,

Amongst the frogs,

The cattails,

The herons;

A second home.

I pay tribute

To the man

Who loved me

In his own

Particular way;

A quiet man,

Silent and solitary,

Dispensing rarely

His life story.

I rarely heard

Words from him

Of his childhood.

‘Twould be nice

To engage in

Conversation once again

With him alone,

Wine in hand,

Where herons roost.

blue-heron-in-flight

©paul grignon, 2013, all rights reserved.*

*Image courtesy of Mark Hilliard.

Eric Alagan’s Provoking Poem…

Eric, at his blog Written Words Never Die, has written a poem concerning the wonder and meaning of Death, and all it entails. You can read it here.

It made me pause, and I thought of my own Dad’s death. (Eric’s poem prompted me to compose my previous post, about my Dad and where he liked to go.)

Below is my response to Mr. Alagan’s thoughtful composition:

Fading Light

Agility, gone, replaced by

Frailty.

Abilities, vanished, taken

Stealthily.

Faculties, absent, vanquished by

Senility.

Momentarily, a flicker; extinguished, such

Fragility.

Nobility, once clutched, absconded by

Futility.

Inevitably, yes; now cloaked in

Tranquility.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.

 

Where Herons Roost, and Father Rests…

Yesterday, I planted pansies at a site where parts of my Dad are scattered.

Flowers for Pops

He died two years, eight months, and fifteen days ago. He died three days after his 78th birthday. Some of his ashes are scattered here. Other parts of him are strewn closer to home. Sanctuary

I visited this site because it was a sanctuary to him. He would go for long, solitary walks and sit idly here for a while, watching the herons in their nests, gazing into the sky for a heron in flight.

I went there with my Beloved Julie and, after I planted the yellow and purple flowers we, too, took in the splendor of the scene; a soft murmur of wind, the delicate trickle of water over a dam, the firmament reflected in a shimmering pond. Reflections

It was a perfect spring day.

The task done we perched on an old lichen-covered stone wall and sat in silence, and allowed our senses to be embraced by Nature’s wonder.

A heron suddenly flew overhead, it’s slow, rhythmic wings fanning the air. I knew it to be Dad. We both said hello to its magnificence as it passed on by. Heron

Other bird calls pierced the air as lazy Monet-like cumulus flitted across our path. A single heron popped up from its nest, its roost for the summer. We lingered, and soaked up the quietude, pleasantly  immersed in the languid flow of Nature.

Forty minutes later, we packed up and headed home. With one last glance behind, we bid my Dad peace and comfort.

“See you, Pops. We’ll be back soon. Love you.”

We left, to enjoy the remainder of a sunny April Sunday.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.

 

Milk & Ink contemplation…

Once again, Mr. Eric Alagan posits an intriguing post, via his outstanding site, HERE. And please do visit his stellar collection of other blogs, notably his latest, HERE.

Here was my take in response to his own powerful prompt of a drop of milk:

Droplet on the brink
Slips slowly and sinks
In darkled paths it goes
Entwined in swirling throes
Forever, in sync.

So stop on by his excellent site and post your own comment. He will always reply in a thoughtful and magnanimous fashion.

The Writer’s Sigh…

For those who toil and tweak and trouble yourself with words, I am quite certain that you can relate to the fact that non-writers simply do not understand the writer’s life.

It matters not one whit if you haven’t been published yet. What matters is that you diligently produce something–anything–on a daily basis, be it a few pages to your WIP, or a blog, or simply jotting down a myriad of notes for future stories. The fact of the matter is that you are writing.

But to others, who are not immersed in the craft, it remains an elusive and mysterious profession. Wherever you are, people will invariably ask what you do. And deep down, no matter what kind of job you presently occupy, you know that you are a writer. So you say that. “I’m a writer.”

And then, and then it happens; the look, the wariness, the doubt, all gleaned from the questioner. “You write, huh? So, uh, what’re writin’?” Or “What kind of writer are you?” Or “You publish anything?”

A lot of the time it almost sounds like derision, as though you are some kind of a fringe lunatic, engaging in something so esoteric and removed from the norm that you remain  a sort of pariah.

You can respond that you are currently writing a novel. Or that you are in revision. Or that you are researching for an article.

And yet the wary, glib reply is wearily heard: “Oh? A book, you say? Well, I have a friend who…”

Or yet another acquaintance who says that “…you should be looking for a literary agent. That’s what my friend says.”

Or another: “Well, it’s obvious that you should self-publish. That’s what I did. It’s definitely the way to go, you know.”

“Oh? And how many books have you sold?”

“Well, only one, but take it from me, self-publish.”

Now perhaps all these fine folk mean well. For the most part. But since they do not write themselves, they have no understanding of what we go through. At all.

Yes, some days are fantastic. You find yourself churning out things all day long. Other days, not so good. The sheet remains white. It’s a tough slog. You wrestle with words, with sentences, with structure, and at times toss them all aside and begin anew.

Sometimes it can be frustrating trying to explain to others that you are a writer. But no matter what, if you can plop yourself down in a chair everyday and write–anything–than you are that writer.

No matter what anyone else thinks, you know, deep down, that you are a writer, that you are committed to toiling, and tweaking, and troubling yourself to the craft.

No matter what others may think, stick to your pen and paper, or keyboard and monitor.

After all, you are in good company. Stay the course. Keep putting black to white. No matter what.

Here’s to your own writing!

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.

Eric Alagan’s 33-word Flash Fiction…

Please do go to Eric’s wonderful site, Written Words Never Die (here) and participate in his latest challenge, a chance to compose something short pertaining to writing.

Here is my 33-word submission:

The sheet before us, white, we seek,

A word to write, a phrase, a pause…we think;

A blank canvas greets our mind, quite bleak,

Yet the Muse arises, and provides the ink.

Let Eric read your words and he will always respond with kind words and graciousness. Oh, and do peruse his other posts as well. The site is well worth the visit.

Enjoy!

Haiku Challenge…

Eric Alagan runs a superb site called Written Words Never Die. You can access his wonderful site here.

It is filled with choice postings, as well as thoughtful commentary. I highly recommend this site for all the writers out there.

And the title to this particular blog? Well,  it was an idea of Eric’s, a haiku based on ‘Who is the Boss.’ And this is what I came up with:

Feline somewhat bold
Stride purposely past Canine
Mere subject; my realm.

Please do stop by his excellent site and post your own haiku. Eric is always kind enough to add his own personal touch to your words.

And as always, thank you for stopping by here.