Writer’s Journey

RECIPE FOR FIRST CRUSH, SERVES ONE

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My first crush introduced me to racial issues that I hadn’t faced before in childhood. I lived in Connecticut at the time and white girls in the 60’s didn’t date black boys. I only knew he made me laugh and we enjoyed so many things in common. Not once did the ten year old realize his skin color was different than hers. I miss our friendship Jimmy, you were my very first young love.

Sakhi's avatarCANDLES

I was 10 yrs old, stupid, silly and with a head full of imagination. I was hanging on my gate on a summer vacation afternoon and saw a family move their stuff the house next to mine. I watched with feigned disinterest as the furniture was moved in. By evening the family that was going to reside in that house came in a Maruti 800. Out came the mum, dad and three sons. I watched their procession inside the house, holding their suitcases, bedding, baskets and bags. All three sons were dashing, smart and adolescent Punjabi boys. The parents moved in snobbish, and so did the sons, but my eyes were fixed on the youngest one.

He was dribbling a basketball with loads of attitude as he went inside. My heart fluttered, and I didn’t know what this feeling is called. Time went by, and their home became a fortress…

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Langston Hughes and me

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Dream Deferred By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
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Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
I’ve asked myself that very question numerous times. I know more than once I’ve seen my hopes fade like the sun on a horizon. But I rose just like the sun refusing to accept my dream was deferred or over. I knew I was ready to share my story.

black-gloveBlack Glove by Lyn Crain

One single black glove left on the porch is all that is left a union of two.
The vivid, intense orange torch in their marriage flickered, now a black hue.
Angry words tossed into the flame, smothered immense passion.
Apologies spoken only sound lame, made the fire cold and ashen.
Violently shrugging away a touch, fighting a compulsion to flee.
Even a glance in his eye is too much. I must, Yes, I will be free.

Discussion Time for Featured Friday

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huggingwordslyn

I’ve been mulling over the prospect of hosting other writers on Friday as Featured Friday since another blogger approached me about wanting to discuss a post I made more in depth.  Is there any interest among my followers to participate in this venture?

If so please email me at lyn.crain@gmail.com.

My intent is for you to email your subject, and the content with all links necessary to connect everyone with you. Whatever info you would like to provide about yourself for the readers. I will post all writers participating in separate entries. If you would like to begin a series of discussion that should appear weekly, I can certainly accommodate that as well.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Intimacy Denied

/ lyncrain / 1 Comment

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For a brief interlude 

two bodies
entwined,
each dissembling dissonance
with the need 
to create
deliberate obfuscation, 
in a sweet moment
of contentment. 
The twinkling stars 
bear witness.
 the wind imitates
the rub of limbs.
Their intimate moment betrayed.
The boundaries
established once more.
Legs, arms declare
personal space
while  lyrics of love
face doom
as the distance
grows
and the bedding
yawns.©

 

 

 

 

Books

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“What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.”
― Carl Sagan 

Inside a Poet’s Mind

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back-porch-2What is beautiful is easily lost

among my rambled thoughts

as I sit on the porch,

sipping my hot coffee

 waiting and watching.

  I study all the made up faces

from a bad dream glooming salon

 all futile reminders of the chasms

on the pages, I know exist but lie

on an altar dignifying the God of chance

as if it were some kind of wonder

in this poet’s mind.

I attempted a cento which is using lines from different poets work to create a poem of my own. Cento is a latin word that means patchwork. Homer and Virgil were famous for this style of poetry.

I studied all the made up faces ~ Toast by Leonard Nathan

What is beautiful is easily lost ~  The Altar  by Charles Simic

An altar dignifying the God of chance~  The Altar  by Charles Simic

from a bad dream glooming salon ~  The Altar  by Charles Simic

as if it were some kind of wonder ~  A Spiral Notebook by Ted Koser