The inspiration for my very first ottava rima (and my last?) is occurring right now and I probably should be powering down rather than typing on, and I can hear people I know say: she just doesn’t show good sense.
While I consider myself a writer, I don’t totally consider myself a poet. I love words and I love the possibility of the musicality of words when rhythm and wordplay exist. However, when words like iambs and feet and meter come up, I, for some reason, hear white noise. I’m still hoping to grow out of it.
Look For My Review on June 19!
for the 5000th time this year.
100 words written, read (no kidding) about 15 times, tweaked (a lot), published.
Come back 25 minutes later, reread and see: you’re for your.
Gremlins or fatigue…take your pick, but still a bruised forehead.
On another note, thanks to those of you who expressed your opinion on my color scheme. As you will have noticed, I am almost back to where I was last year at this time. Is that progression or regression?
The teenagers called me “crazy artist lady.”
The men loitering nearby called me worse when I refused their “offers.”
My lover called me stubborn for staying. “It’s not safe.”
I scoffed. “They’re just talk.”
I worked all day and into the evening, but flagged. Grabbing Gordo the Great Dane’s lead, we loped to the coffee shop; I hummed something cheery.
The barista smiled. “Your showing’s tomorrow?”
“You must be excited.”
Red paint dripped down my door from the four-letter slur. Inside, three years of blown-glass artwork glittered in the light, innocently beautiful in its destruction.