As writers, we often work on a story, essay, poem or other piece of genius that we are certain meets, if not far exceeds, the criteria for publication somewhere, anywhere. In fact, we may be so convinced of our work's merit that we withhold it from public view on the Internet (ergo remain "unpublished") on the off chance that it might get picked up for publication by someone, anyone. Well, sometimes I suppose it's best to just get over it.
So, in the spirit of sharing, here is a bit of an action poem written in rhyme, celebrating picture day at school. I still think it would make a great little picture book. I mean, who can't relate to picture day?
But I'm willing to concede the likelihood of publcation as a picture book is slim. Granted, it was published in a children's magazine back in 2007. But still I'd like to imagine it in between two scuffed up hard covers with dog-eared pages because kids have read it and chuckled, chortled, guffawed and roared over and over.
One can dream, can't one?
PICTURE DAY
By Bill Kirk
(Published in Fun For Kidz Magazine, September 2007)
This morning when my Grandma knocked,
I didn’t make a peep.
She’d never find me underneath
These covers in a heap.
Then, in she came to chase me out
And get me on my way.
“Let’s rise and shine, grandson of mine!
Today is picture day.”
She gently stressed as I got dressed,
“No horseplay is allowed.
There’ll be no kicking rocks and cans,
Or dust into a cloud.”
“But, Grandma…,” “Don’t ‘But Grandma’ me,”
She said with my four names.
That meant that she was serious.
There’d be no silly games.
So, I got dressed and brushed my hair
And even washed my face.
The boys would hardly know it’s me—
With every hair in place.
Then, off I went with good intent,
To stay both neat and pressed.
So, when I finally got to school,
I’d look my very best.
At recess all the kids went out
To run and chase and hide.
But Grandma’s words came back to me.
And so I stayed inside.
When it was time to go to lunch,
I ate each bite with care.
I even tucked a napkin in,
To catch each crumb, mid-air.
Then suddenly, as if on cue,
I heard someone yell, “Duck!”
I should have known, my time would come,
And I’d be out of luck.
At first I saw some gelatin,
Go sailing past my head.
And then two hotdogs—flying by—
Just missed my best friend, Fred.
Soon apples turned to applesauce
And plums to purple goo.
When mashed potatoes hit the floor,
They stuck like paste and glue.
I crashed into the Principal
And almost caused two falls.
By then my hopes of staying clean
Were dashed on doors and walls!
When all the food had finally flown,
The lunchroom was a mess!
Our teachers called our Moms and Dads
So we could all confess.
And did I mention evidence?
Oh yes! There’d be a bunch!
The photographs would say it all—
Our turn was after lunch!
But, wait! Was that my Grandma’s voice,
So faint, and far away?
“Get up, my boy, or you’ll be late!
Today is picture day.”
So, did I hear my Grandma right?
Were things not as they seemed?
Hurray! That whole big mess at school,
Was something I had dreamed!
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Don't Believe All You Hear On The Radio
April 10: “…write a horror poem. Make it scary. Make it cheesy. Make it funny. Whatever you do, link it somehow to horror. Who knows? Maybe someone will write the next great raven poem.”
This prompt may be tough, as I’m not a great fan of horror.
Don’t Touch That Dial—It’s Halloween!
By Bill Kirk
‘Tis a dark and stormy night."
Indeed, the moon is shrouded by low-hanging clouds,
Rolling past, pushed by a howling wind.
Branches dance erratically, all but disconnected
From massive, creaking trunks. Snap! Something breaks.
Momentary flashes of moon and stars
Yield brief hints of what awaits those
Who choose to travel on such a turbulent night.
Will we make it to our destination?
Or only wish we had?
This is not a night for the engine to fail.
Is that why we stopped?
A lone car approaches in the distance.
In a flash, virtually on top of us,
High beams shock shut our wide-open eyes.
Then nothing as tail lights disappear in the distance.
The first drops of an impending storm
Dot the dusty windshield, leaving spider-like reflections
Of the dimming interior lights.
Better turn the engine off to save the battery.
How long can a battery last anyway?
Without it and the lights, the night is impenetrable.
Yet squandering it by leaving the lights on,
Gives the visual advantage to anyone outside looking in.
That's right. They can see us—each one of us.
Turn the car off then. But can we at least listen to the radio?
Anything for a little distraction—even for a few minutes.
Hey, does anyone have a cell phone? No matter. No reception.
Better save their batteries, too. Wait.
Go back to that last radio station. What did that guy just say?
“Mass escape from Ravenscroft…. Two guards killed…
Throats slit; hoisted feet first on the flagpole.
Three others left surgically blind, deaf or dumb.
No sign of where the monsters went
And no way to track them.
“To all who hear this broadcast, stay in your homes
And let no one in, not even if you think you know their voice.
If you are out, keep driving, as far and as fast as you can.
And hope you can find shelter quickly in the company
Of those you can trust for help and safekeeping.
“For there is evil prowling the night,
Looking for a hiding place away from the storm,
No matter what they must do to find it.
And just for entertainment, they will spare no suffering.
Relishing the screams and pleadings of their victims.
“If you are in your car, do not get out. Lock every door.
Turn out every light. Stay out of sight.
If you hear any scratching on your car, stay quiet and do not move.
Dial 911 if you can and give your location to the authorities.
Only turn the radio on for hourly updates from this station.”
Click.
”THIS MORNING AUTHORITIES FOUND
SIX COLLEGE STUDENTS
ASPHYXIATED AND HUDDLED
IN THE FLOOR OF THEIR CAR.
A PLASTIC BAG, TRAPPED
BY A BROKEN BRANCH BLOWN DOWN
IN THE WIND, HAD COVERED THE EXHAUST PIPE.
ALL DOORS WERE LOCKED.
THE GAS TANK WAS FULL.
ALL CELL PHONES WERE TURNED OFF BUT WORKING.
A BRANCH HAD LEFT HEAVY SCRATCH MARKS ON THE TRUNK.
CAR RADIO WAS SET TO A LOCAL STATION
PLAYING A HALLOWEEN PRISON ESCAPE PRANK.
This prompt may be tough, as I’m not a great fan of horror.
Don’t Touch That Dial—It’s Halloween!
By Bill Kirk
‘Tis a dark and stormy night."
Indeed, the moon is shrouded by low-hanging clouds,
Rolling past, pushed by a howling wind.
Branches dance erratically, all but disconnected
From massive, creaking trunks. Snap! Something breaks.
Momentary flashes of moon and stars
Yield brief hints of what awaits those
Who choose to travel on such a turbulent night.
Will we make it to our destination?
Or only wish we had?
This is not a night for the engine to fail.
Is that why we stopped?
A lone car approaches in the distance.
In a flash, virtually on top of us,
High beams shock shut our wide-open eyes.
Then nothing as tail lights disappear in the distance.
The first drops of an impending storm
Dot the dusty windshield, leaving spider-like reflections
Of the dimming interior lights.
Better turn the engine off to save the battery.
How long can a battery last anyway?
Without it and the lights, the night is impenetrable.
Yet squandering it by leaving the lights on,
Gives the visual advantage to anyone outside looking in.
That's right. They can see us—each one of us.
Turn the car off then. But can we at least listen to the radio?
Anything for a little distraction—even for a few minutes.
Hey, does anyone have a cell phone? No matter. No reception.
Better save their batteries, too. Wait.
Go back to that last radio station. What did that guy just say?
“Mass escape from Ravenscroft…. Two guards killed…
Throats slit; hoisted feet first on the flagpole.
Three others left surgically blind, deaf or dumb.
No sign of where the monsters went
And no way to track them.
“To all who hear this broadcast, stay in your homes
And let no one in, not even if you think you know their voice.
If you are out, keep driving, as far and as fast as you can.
And hope you can find shelter quickly in the company
Of those you can trust for help and safekeeping.
“For there is evil prowling the night,
Looking for a hiding place away from the storm,
No matter what they must do to find it.
And just for entertainment, they will spare no suffering.
Relishing the screams and pleadings of their victims.
“If you are in your car, do not get out. Lock every door.
Turn out every light. Stay out of sight.
If you hear any scratching on your car, stay quiet and do not move.
Dial 911 if you can and give your location to the authorities.
Only turn the radio on for hourly updates from this station.”
Click.
”THIS MORNING AUTHORITIES FOUND
SIX COLLEGE STUDENTS
ASPHYXIATED AND HUDDLED
IN THE FLOOR OF THEIR CAR.
A PLASTIC BAG, TRAPPED
BY A BROKEN BRANCH BLOWN DOWN
IN THE WIND, HAD COVERED THE EXHAUST PIPE.
ALL DOORS WERE LOCKED.
THE GAS TANK WAS FULL.
ALL CELL PHONES WERE TURNED OFF BUT WORKING.
A BRANCH HAD LEFT HEAVY SCRATCH MARKS ON THE TRUNK.
CAR RADIO WAS SET TO A LOCAL STATION
PLAYING A HALLOWEEN PRISON ESCAPE PRANK.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Why Do You Write?
"If you would not be forgotten as soon as
you are dead, either write things worth
reading or do things worth writing."
Thus wrote Benjamin Franklin in what seems to have been a reflective moment. How could those who lived in Franklin's time know just how their actions (and the way those actions were recorded) would change the future? How do any of us know how what we do now will make a difference?
Could Franklin's dictum have been advice given to young up and comers in his day to either do something that might change history or the live of others--or to write about it?
Maybe not. But his thought does raise an essential question for those of us engaged in the art of writing. If the fact that something notable was done is not recorded in some way, will it exist beyond the immediate memory of those who saw it done? Perhaps writing about such things is the literary equivalent of taking note of the proverbial tree falling in the forest.
The significance of the written word is that it becomes the de facto record of what has happened or might happen, whether in fact or only in the creative minds of human kind. So, pick up your pens, cuddle your keyboards and capture what is going on around you or in the lives of the tantilizing characters you create. Will you write poetry, a journal, an essay, an article or a book? Will it be fiction or the real McCoy? Will you entertain or incite? Will you satirize reality, giving life a funny face?
And, by the way, who is your audience? After all is said (whether done or not), will anyone read what you have so meticulously recorded? Will what you have written become its own version of the tree falling in the forest?
Perish the thought! Because thinking that thought may be enough to put an end to the writing. And that we can ill afford. So, take heart, my friend, and keep writing. Make every word count as a grand, bold, essential step forward. toward preserving who we are and what we have done.
Now, Maestro, please! The Crescendo!
you are dead, either write things worth
reading or do things worth writing."
Thus wrote Benjamin Franklin in what seems to have been a reflective moment. How could those who lived in Franklin's time know just how their actions (and the way those actions were recorded) would change the future? How do any of us know how what we do now will make a difference?
Could Franklin's dictum have been advice given to young up and comers in his day to either do something that might change history or the live of others--or to write about it?
Maybe not. But his thought does raise an essential question for those of us engaged in the art of writing. If the fact that something notable was done is not recorded in some way, will it exist beyond the immediate memory of those who saw it done? Perhaps writing about such things is the literary equivalent of taking note of the proverbial tree falling in the forest.
The significance of the written word is that it becomes the de facto record of what has happened or might happen, whether in fact or only in the creative minds of human kind. So, pick up your pens, cuddle your keyboards and capture what is going on around you or in the lives of the tantilizing characters you create. Will you write poetry, a journal, an essay, an article or a book? Will it be fiction or the real McCoy? Will you entertain or incite? Will you satirize reality, giving life a funny face?
And, by the way, who is your audience? After all is said (whether done or not), will anyone read what you have so meticulously recorded? Will what you have written become its own version of the tree falling in the forest?
Perish the thought! Because thinking that thought may be enough to put an end to the writing. And that we can ill afford. So, take heart, my friend, and keep writing. Make every word count as a grand, bold, essential step forward. toward preserving who we are and what we have done.
Now, Maestro, please! The Crescendo!
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