Objects as prompts

Acorn as prompt

You see acorn caps strewn all over, especially in late summer and early fall in New Hampshire. They bounce off rooftops and squirrels make a lot of racket devouring them at the end of the season. My daughter’s shown me how to use one as a whistle. A single acorn cap has many stories hidden inside — take a look. What do you see? Hear? Taste? Feel? Smell? Sense? Ask it. Listen. Write.

write on the fly…

Writing on the fly…
Writing on the fly is catching ideas buzzing around in your head.

Writing Workshop in Tamworth, NH in January

I will be part of a month-long four-part series of Saturday writing workshops. It is geared to be a safe, fun, and inspiration-packed collaboration. I hope you will join us. Blurb below!

My workshop to be held on IMG_0546.PNGstories about who we are, like that silly acorn cap I pulled from my coat pocket when the weather turned wintry… I am so excited about the chance to share my ideas on getting started and or on stoking that old flame you’ve been meaning to sit near. Let’s muse!! More to come, stay posted. 🙂

Light a Candle on the Darkest Night

IMG_0496

Merriment as the days shorten and to all lots of light
For the heart and the soul and the body and mind….
I hope good tidings bless all beings this Season
You and your kin with peace, joy, and good reason.
Light a candle, be heartfelt
Sing a carol, praise Orion’s belt.
For to dance under the stars’ firmament above
Is the way to give presence to our spirit of love.

lay woman’s thank you to a smart mechanic: a.k.a. Toure, Toure, Not Contrary By Mother Bon With A Nod to Mother Goose

Toure, Toure,
Not ContraryBy Mother Bon

Toure, Toure not contrary 

how does your garage go?

With greasy guns

and wrenching sons

and revving cars

all in a row.

It’s been awhile, but the tree’s saturated wood has cured and is ready for joinery, built to last forever.

Old grey friend

Old Grey Friend

My old friend       makes another visit to my place.
She weaves a new guide wire to her web.
It catches the morning light
in tensile, tightrope fashion,
attached under a  cedar clapboard –
A suspension bridge from her dwelling to mine.
Certainly she sees me,  even through
the long window as together we work:
Now she patiently waits.
I create lines with a pen,
the click of a keyboard, pause to consider –
       compose a thought…
pick up my cell to make a call –
       sip cold coffee –
stretch and stand and sit again,
fill      space in Time’s calendar.
This common grey house spider
seems to uncommonly know me –
Better in some ways than I might know myself.
In that moment of synanthropic industry
we are connected by threads spun from life.
Some day’s wind, or rain, or errant passerby
makes the work a challenge, yet
when broken       we rise up
to new lines each new morning.
The silken tie reminds me how easily
Time can break    lines and leave    them
Remnants to drift away.
She keeps her connection spare
but always there. I can depend on her vision
and her will to keep on building,
my old eight-legged friend’s tenacity –
reminds me, renews me.
My old grey girl has children to think of…
her lines flung forth sing forth tomes played by
the fingers of this morning’s airy hands:
Our time is love!
Our time is love!

Bottle Dump Find

for Heidi

We unearth old bottles, the unbroken one

our treasure – suddenly bees bubble up

bursting behind us as we fly out of the woods.

Elbows and knees pump,

ramparts of open air can’t hold back the picadors.

We said it must’ve been your flaxen hair,

flashing like a matador’s cape.

Dad scoops mud, smooth and cool

in his mason-rough hands.

He hums low, soothes your stinging welts,

raises an eyebrow at me.

The cool tap water

baptizes our bottle,

washes away the bottle dump dirt –

fills it with weight.

Red food coloring drops,

unfurl into the world of water,

their tiny, wispy banners

blend into a tide of bottled sea.

On the sill’s ledge, in the sunlight

it stands, blood-red brilliance.

from my bed I’m transfixed

by our ruby-baptized bottle dump find

and I wonder how those piercing rays

can cut right through glass

without causing any pain at all.

Pin Curls

My mother spent silent after-dinner hours

standing behind all three of us,

one at a time, by the kitchen sink.

She dipped her comb into a glass,

the edge upon which the comb’s teeth played,

droplets trailing in tonal drips,

over and over the same wet path.

The comb was her instrument.

It twanged and pinged the vessel of water,

while we each took our turns at the counter,

while we each sat on a stool in front of her,

while we each waited, our long hair hanging down in whispers.

My friends that summer had shown off their new shag haircuts,

the latest rage, boy haircuts –

Women everywhere were burning their bras.

It was on the six o’clock news,

and Dad would not allow it, none of it, and

Mom’s transistor radio told of it.

Our mother toiled over the three of us,

One at a time, in silence those nights –

standing over us, our backs to her work,

separating the strands into girly bundles,

wetting, combing, coiling, and winding,

pressing each twist of hair into a tight-set pin curl fist

to our tender, scrubbed scalps.

She, crisscrossing Bobby pins, giving us a headful of x’s

placing and pulling the hairpins swiftly from her teeth

with fingers which smelled of bleach,

digging in to assure the secure fit –

to ensure the perfect result.

-Bonnie J. Toomey