Vote Now! * and * Poetry Train Monday - 100! - Don't Give Him What He's Fishing For

Photo by Robert Single

Joshua Young - the handsome fellow in the center there - needs your help. His short film Re-Creation is in a competition and needs as many votes as it can get. This is the crew that made the film, including my cousin's husband, Stephen MacLean at far left.

My hands even have a cameo at the beginning of this film.

To vote, please click HERE.
















Akelamalu says OK I'll vote for him, anything to help!

Heather says I have cast my Vote!

Thomma Lyn says I will go vote for Joshua Young's film. :)

Poetry Train Monday - 100! - Don't Give Him What He's Fishing For














This post feels very special to me. It's my 100th offering on the Poetry Train.

The original Poetry Train was started by a blogger named Rhian/Crow woman. She's a photographer and fine artist who also gathered a lively group of poets around her for a wonderful season of creativity. When her artistic pursuits took her in a new direction, the Poetry Train derailed for awhile.

I chugged along, naming my posts Poetry Monday. I couldn't hop off this thing.

Miracle of miracles, Gautami Tripathy began the Monday Poetry Train Revisited. Bless you, Gautami! Even my poetic words cannot express what the Poetry Train has meant to me.

I'd like to thank all the readers who stop by this blog on Mondays. Your comments are sweet as raindrops to me.

I'd like to embrace all the poets I've encountered on this journey. Your work has never failed to inspire and intoxicate me.

I look forward to the next 100 posts with hunger, passion and awe.

You can check out my previous posts in my archives. Click HERE.

Today's found poem is a writing exercise I did at one of the writer retreats at White Point Beach in Nova Scotia. I've reworked it into a poem.



















Don't Give Him What He's Fishing For


"Beep. Beep. Beep.
Mrrm. Mrrm. Mrrm."

Little plastic wheels rolled
Back and forth, back
And forth
Across the cement floor
"Taran, honey," she mumbled
Turning onto her side

The rolling continued
Without sound effects
For some reason
That made it seem worse

Anya flipped the worn blanket
Aside

Sat up

Head swirled for a
Long moment
She waited

The spots in her vision
Fizzled away

Taran knelt
Rolling the moon mobile
Around himself
Scooting to keep up with the toy
He wasn't so
Pale this morning

It made her growling stomach
Easier to bear

"What are you doing?"
She asked
As if they were in the playroom
And not
This cell

"My guy is
On his way to
Lunar Space Station 12."
Taran didn't look up

"What's he going to do?"
She asked
Rubbing her arms
Trying to get some
Circulation going

"He's going for help."
Little plastic wheels rolled
Back and forth, back
And forth
Anya's heart hollowed
In her chest

"Is there help
At the space station?" she asked
Glad her voice didn't shake

"Yeah," Taran said
Hair falling over his eyes
She was glad he didn't look up
Just then

Anya's pulse quickened
The low rumble of the outer lock
Made its way into the
Cell

She reached down
Marvelled that Taran
Slipped onto her lap without
A word
He'd never come to her
Without cajoling
Before the soldiers appeared
In her dining room

Footsteps
Echoed down the
Hall. She
Swallowed

Chest rising
Falling rapidly
No air reached her lungs
Anya's grip
On Taran tightened
The inner door unlocked
Swung

Open

Martinus stood

Looking at them
An uncomfortable moment

He carried no food
A slave brings bowls
If Martinus appeared
It would be a long morning

He entered, turned
Shut the door. Then
He dug in his pocket
Pulling out a small toy
Anya pressed

Her palms across Taran's
Chest
Hoping he would
Somehow
Absorb the
Warning of danger
Through her
Touch

Martinus crouched

His face level with Taran's
He allowed her son a good look

At the toy
Please, Taran, don't
Give him what he's fishing for
She begged silently

"Have you ever
Seen this before?"
Martinus asked

Taran shrugged

"What is it?" Martinus' gaze
Bored into her son's face
Anya held him
As if she could
Make this
All go
Away

"It's a Hoozelie Draw-Engine,"
Taran said

"Is it yours?"

"No. Hoozelie
Is for babies."

"Do you know any
Babies
That might like to play with this?"

"I'm five. I don't play
With babies."

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original piece written 2007

Illustration - Azureus Rising - Prison Cell by Hideyoshi

Dorothy says Your poems always tell an intriguing story.

Michelle Johnson says I love that ending. Children can be so honest and forthright can't they?

Anthony North says I share your words on this poet's community. It's great here.