I've discovered that I can't write with any tabs or indentations on this thing, which makes By The Horns a little harder to get. The horns are supposed to be making the sounds of Strauss's da da da di do - wop wop, wop wop. da da da di do - wop wop, wop wop.
I don't know if that makes it any better, but they way I had it all positioned on the page helped a little bit.
Here's to onomatopoeia.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
By The Horns
This is one of my favorite short stories...one of those things I was thinking about in traffic, and out this came. Wouldn't it be nice if short stories or poems came out of everyone's mouths instead of the swear words that really do?
This one is being held on to by the The Lighthouse Writers, here in Denver. I have no idea what that actually means, but at the very least, they liked it.
By the Horns
By Kelly Hayes
“So. That’s it then.”
“Yes, that’s it. Please get your things together and vacate the office by 5 this afternoon.”
Tom Reynolds left the principal’s office with his head lifted. In his own office he collected into a box his dog’s picture, a Moody Blues poster, piles of sheet music and his violin. Tom left his lesson plan open on the desk for the next unsuspecting teacher and shut the door behind him.
Sitting on the interstate crawling along at a sloth’s pace, Tom thought about the last year, the promises made and failed, the lives left unscathed by anything he could do, say or play. He’d bought into the age old myth put out in large part by Hollywood that music moves young inner city kids to do amazing things. The only one moved was him, out of a job.
Traffic was at a standstill. Someone behind him honked.
What was with these kids today, didn’t they watch TV? Hadn’t they seen enough movies that told them exactly where they were headed? Of course, society could only blame TV and movies when something extraordinarily bad happened, not the normal, consistent, day-to-day bad. Why weren’t they blamed when something good happened, when a kid was inspired by a hero on TV to do something with his life? Did that ever really happen?
Someone in front of him beeped.
Why was he blamed for trying to be an inspiration? For trying to push them? For trying? Maybe he’d call up Fred and see about going in with him on that condo in the Rockies. Buy up a years worth of canned beans and peaches and merrily toot his way through a quiet mountain man life. The bears would surely appreciate his Bach.
Someone to the right of him blaaaaated.
Ah, what the heck. Tom honked, and honked again.
The man two behind him – toot toot.
Tom sat up straight in his seat. Honk honk. He listened.
Teen three to the back left - beep.
Man five up – boop boop.
“We’ve got Strauss!!” He hooooooooooooooooooooonked loud and clear as he hopped out of the door.
“Ok folks! Watch me for your cue!” he honk honked and pointed to the man next to him telling him to honk once.
“Cue this!” The man yelled back with the finger.
Tom tried again, he honk honked, then pointed to the lady on the other side to honk once. Beep.
Tom grinned and bowed to her then pointed to the man two behind him, holding up two fingers. The man toooooooooooooooooooted instead. “Get back in your car you nut job!”
But Tom would not be pushed out this time, until he had done what he wanted to do. He wanted to move people, and he would. He honk honked, pointed to the kind lady beside him to honk once more – beep – and then to the man in front of him, signaling for two.
Watching in the rear view mirror, the man shrugged, blat blat. Tom again, honk honk, to the lady beside him again holding up two, beep beep. To the man three to the right, toot toot, past the jerk swearing at him to four to the back left, bop. Two over to the right, honk honk, and over one more - beep beep, two behind her, blat blat. Cheers rang out from all sorts of cars, horn symphonic participants and others.
“Let’s try it again folks!!” Tom yelled.
Honk Honk
Beep
Blat Blat
Honk Honk
Beep Beep
Toot Toot
Bop
Honk Honk
Beep Beep
Blat Blat
The crowd went wild. Even the unenthused were silenced in the honking cacophony and screams that ensued. Tom bowed, and bowed and bowed again. And when the traffic started moving again, he drove home to tell his dog about his fantastic day.
This one is being held on to by the The Lighthouse Writers, here in Denver. I have no idea what that actually means, but at the very least, they liked it.
By the Horns
By Kelly Hayes
“So. That’s it then.”
“Yes, that’s it. Please get your things together and vacate the office by 5 this afternoon.”
Tom Reynolds left the principal’s office with his head lifted. In his own office he collected into a box his dog’s picture, a Moody Blues poster, piles of sheet music and his violin. Tom left his lesson plan open on the desk for the next unsuspecting teacher and shut the door behind him.
Sitting on the interstate crawling along at a sloth’s pace, Tom thought about the last year, the promises made and failed, the lives left unscathed by anything he could do, say or play. He’d bought into the age old myth put out in large part by Hollywood that music moves young inner city kids to do amazing things. The only one moved was him, out of a job.
Traffic was at a standstill. Someone behind him honked.
What was with these kids today, didn’t they watch TV? Hadn’t they seen enough movies that told them exactly where they were headed? Of course, society could only blame TV and movies when something extraordinarily bad happened, not the normal, consistent, day-to-day bad. Why weren’t they blamed when something good happened, when a kid was inspired by a hero on TV to do something with his life? Did that ever really happen?
Someone in front of him beeped.
Why was he blamed for trying to be an inspiration? For trying to push them? For trying? Maybe he’d call up Fred and see about going in with him on that condo in the Rockies. Buy up a years worth of canned beans and peaches and merrily toot his way through a quiet mountain man life. The bears would surely appreciate his Bach.
Someone to the right of him blaaaaated.
Ah, what the heck. Tom honked, and honked again.
The man two behind him – toot toot.
Tom sat up straight in his seat. Honk honk. He listened.
Teen three to the back left - beep.
Man five up – boop boop.
“We’ve got Strauss!!” He hooooooooooooooooooooonked loud and clear as he hopped out of the door.
“Ok folks! Watch me for your cue!” he honk honked and pointed to the man next to him telling him to honk once.
“Cue this!” The man yelled back with the finger.
Tom tried again, he honk honked, then pointed to the lady on the other side to honk once. Beep.
Tom grinned and bowed to her then pointed to the man two behind him, holding up two fingers. The man toooooooooooooooooooted instead. “Get back in your car you nut job!”
But Tom would not be pushed out this time, until he had done what he wanted to do. He wanted to move people, and he would. He honk honked, pointed to the kind lady beside him to honk once more – beep – and then to the man in front of him, signaling for two.
Watching in the rear view mirror, the man shrugged, blat blat. Tom again, honk honk, to the lady beside him again holding up two, beep beep. To the man three to the right, toot toot, past the jerk swearing at him to four to the back left, bop. Two over to the right, honk honk, and over one more - beep beep, two behind her, blat blat. Cheers rang out from all sorts of cars, horn symphonic participants and others.
“Let’s try it again folks!!” Tom yelled.
Honk Honk
Beep
Blat Blat
Honk Honk
Beep Beep
Toot Toot
Bop
Honk Honk
Beep Beep
Blat Blat
The crowd went wild. Even the unenthused were silenced in the honking cacophony and screams that ensued. Tom bowed, and bowed and bowed again. And when the traffic started moving again, he drove home to tell his dog about his fantastic day.
New Beginnings
In working on the Asparagus Revival the other day, not only did I realize I needed to change the whole plot of the outer story, but also realized, that a whole new angle on the beginning chapter would be a big improvement. I got to thinking wouldn't it be so nice if we could rewrite our own beginning chapters...or any chapters for that matter. Hmmmm, I would have kissed him instead of the one I did, or I would have said that instead of this. Oh the possiblilities. So now Sam Grady in The Asparagus Revival has a whole new living situation and even more girl issues, but he has built some beautiful new pews for the church, so that's nice.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Winning Short Stories
The Pawn Shop won 5th place in the National Writer's Association Short Story Contest, 2006
The Pawn Shop
By Kelly Hayes
In a small, red-brick, ordinary-looking building squished between two ominous, official limestone towers, Mr. Garrity owned a pawn shop. As ordinary as the little shop looked, Mr. Garrity did not sell ordinary pawn shop items. He bought and sold one item in various shapes, sizes, and makes. No matter what the condition, Mr. Garrity found there was a buyer for everything, and sellers of all kinds as well; a buyer for the broken, a seller for the brand new. Mr. Garrity sold the things of life.
At 8:00 sharp every morning, except Sundays, Mr. Garrity opened the red wooden door of his little shop, and jangled the bells over the door with his hand. Unlike other shops, this one had an audible life of its own-it pulsed with it. Some said you could set your watch by it. He checked that everything was in place, just as he’d left it the night before. There was a garage-style clutter to his displays, stuff that seemed to amass like algae on a warm pond. Mr. Garrity straightened a cluttered shelf here, blew dust off of the trophy case there, and headed to his counter.
To begin his day, Mr. Garrity polished his magnifying glasses and then put them away in his paisley vest pocket. He unlocked the register, retrieved the money from the safe, and opened his book of transactions. He sharpened his pencil, then sat on the stool, unfolded his daily paper, and waited.
The bells on the door soon jangled in the grey hair of a man just removing his hat. The brim knew well the course of his fingers as it turned again and again in the man’s hands. The grey-haired man began to walk among the shelves, peering into cases, grazing over tables, all the while inching to Mr. Garrity’s counter with his eyes and spinning hat.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The grey-haired man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag.
“I, um…I…I want to know…know if, what I can get for this?” He gently put the bag on the counter. Mr. Garrity peered inside the brown paper.
“It looks a bit dirty to me.”
“Oh, well, um,y-yes, but a little bit of polish could fix that right up, don’t you think?” The hat was spun in his fingers. Mr. Garrity looked him over, put on his magnifying glasses, and looked closely at the contents of the bag.
“Well, let’s see now…I guess I could give you twenty-five for this, or twenty-five off an exchange…if you find anything that interests you.” Now the protruding magnifying lenses were studying the man with grey hair. Mr. Garrity stuck his hands into his paisley vest pockets stretching over his paunch and watched the man work his way to a table, all the while stuttering out to Mr. Garrity.
“My, my wife had a gold chain for that one, you see,” he pointed to the brown bag. “You know the saying, distance makes the heart grow fonder.” He snorted. “They never really clarify, though, just who the heart is supposed to become fonder of.” The man with the grey hair let out a little titter, punctuated by another snort. “So…um…well I don’t need that chain anymore, you see…um, w- what about this one?” The man pointed to a table and Mr. Garrity leaned up on his toes, hands on the counter to see at what the grey-haired man was pointing. “Ah, yes. That used to be an athlete’s. Young man was a runner, good one too.” Mr. Garrity massaged the scalp behind his ear. “But he met a girl and got a new one, couldn’t use that one anymore. It’s still in good shape though, still ticks.”
The man looked it over, then picked it up, turning it in the one hand that was not still soothing the worried hat brim.
“How much?”
Mr. Garrity thought a minute. “Oh, I’d say sixty-five. That’d make forty for you…if you want it.”
The man with the grey hair looked at it one more time and stepped up to Mr. Garrity’s counter. He put his hat on the glass top and dug for his wallet. The cash exchanged, the register rang, and Mr. Garrity held up the empty brown paper bag. “You want a bag?”
The man shook his head and reached underneath his coat, slipping his new purchase into his left shirt pocket.
“Thank you, sir. I guess you’ll put my old one up there on the shelf.”
Mr. Garrity nodded. The grey-haired man looked morosely at the shelves, then picked up his hat and walked out through the jangling bells, fingers quiet as he fixed the brim around his head.
Mr. Garrity took off the magnifying glasses and replaced the empty spot of the man’s purchase with the one he had exchanged. Someone would want that one too.
The bells jangled again just grazing the dyed hairdo of an older woman. Like the other man, her hair could have been grey, but her fingers were resting easy on the edges of her heavily beaded, bulging pocketbook. She rustled in fur up to Mr. Garrity’s counter, not daring or stopping to look around at the rest of the merchandise.
At the counter, in front of Mr.Garrity with his magnifying eyes back in place, her demeanor melted just a bit. She extended the glittering pocketbook slowly, paused,
then carried on. Mr.Garrity clicked open the gold clasps and the magnifying lenses peered in.
“This looks like it’s still got quite a few good years left in it.”
She swallowed and patted her false brown hair.
“My son doesn’t want it anymore.” She looked straight into the lenses leaping two inches from his face.
“Well, I’d say it’s worth forty. Would you like to look around,” he gestured to the rest of the store, “maybe exchange it?”
“No thank you.” She didn’t turn her head. “I don’t want to be heartless, but, I don’t need another one.”
The register rang and the woman looked at the two twenties in her hand. She blinked up at Mr. Garrity, then folded them into her much flatter, beaded pocketbook, and rustled out through the bells.
Mr. Garrity smoothed down his paisley vest and likewise, his white mustache, still with the magnifying eyeballs slung over his ears.
Hours ticked on. Just before closing, the bells jangled over the bright blue eyes of a young man. He carried a small white box in one hand, the other dug into his pants pocket. He blue-eyed the tables, counters, and shelves with the air of a man heading into a hopeless battle.
He picked something off a shelf and brought it up to the counter and Mr. Garrity’s tall magnifying eyes. “I want to exchange this, if I can sir.”
Mr. Garrity opened the white box. “Son, this one is perfectly fine, and the one you’ve picked is broken.”
“I know,” said the blue eyes, “but I need a broken one to be a good writer.” The blue eyes began to fill up with more blue, “and I want to be a good writer.”
“Hogwash,” Mr. Garrity said, but the young man looked sadly determined. “All right then,” sighed Mr. Garrity, and the register rang. “Here’s fifty dollars, the difference.”
The man with the blue eyes shoved the wad into his pocket, keeping his eyes on his new purchase. “Thanks.” He turned and shuffled to the door. The blue eyes did not see the bells that called out his going, and he didn’t hear Mr. Garrity’s “good luck.”
Mr. Garrity pulled out his pocket watch and seeing that it was five minutes of five, removed the magnifying glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The store was as straight as he’d found it that morning, so he clanged open the register one more time, and counted the money. He jotted in the inventory book next to the register what transactions had taken place, what was lost or gained. And finally, he slipped his chubby arms into the sleeves of his coat, squashed his thinning hair under his hat, and jangled the bells with his hand as he left.
He turned, locked the door, and glanced up at the sign of his store with the large wooden figures of magnifying glasses over a simple red heart and red words: A Change of Heart.
The Pawn Shop
By Kelly Hayes
In a small, red-brick, ordinary-looking building squished between two ominous, official limestone towers, Mr. Garrity owned a pawn shop. As ordinary as the little shop looked, Mr. Garrity did not sell ordinary pawn shop items. He bought and sold one item in various shapes, sizes, and makes. No matter what the condition, Mr. Garrity found there was a buyer for everything, and sellers of all kinds as well; a buyer for the broken, a seller for the brand new. Mr. Garrity sold the things of life.
At 8:00 sharp every morning, except Sundays, Mr. Garrity opened the red wooden door of his little shop, and jangled the bells over the door with his hand. Unlike other shops, this one had an audible life of its own-it pulsed with it. Some said you could set your watch by it. He checked that everything was in place, just as he’d left it the night before. There was a garage-style clutter to his displays, stuff that seemed to amass like algae on a warm pond. Mr. Garrity straightened a cluttered shelf here, blew dust off of the trophy case there, and headed to his counter.
To begin his day, Mr. Garrity polished his magnifying glasses and then put them away in his paisley vest pocket. He unlocked the register, retrieved the money from the safe, and opened his book of transactions. He sharpened his pencil, then sat on the stool, unfolded his daily paper, and waited.
The bells on the door soon jangled in the grey hair of a man just removing his hat. The brim knew well the course of his fingers as it turned again and again in the man’s hands. The grey-haired man began to walk among the shelves, peering into cases, grazing over tables, all the while inching to Mr. Garrity’s counter with his eyes and spinning hat.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The grey-haired man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag.
“I, um…I…I want to know…know if, what I can get for this?” He gently put the bag on the counter. Mr. Garrity peered inside the brown paper.
“It looks a bit dirty to me.”
“Oh, well, um,y-yes, but a little bit of polish could fix that right up, don’t you think?” The hat was spun in his fingers. Mr. Garrity looked him over, put on his magnifying glasses, and looked closely at the contents of the bag.
“Well, let’s see now…I guess I could give you twenty-five for this, or twenty-five off an exchange…if you find anything that interests you.” Now the protruding magnifying lenses were studying the man with grey hair. Mr. Garrity stuck his hands into his paisley vest pockets stretching over his paunch and watched the man work his way to a table, all the while stuttering out to Mr. Garrity.
“My, my wife had a gold chain for that one, you see,” he pointed to the brown bag. “You know the saying, distance makes the heart grow fonder.” He snorted. “They never really clarify, though, just who the heart is supposed to become fonder of.” The man with the grey hair let out a little titter, punctuated by another snort. “So…um…well I don’t need that chain anymore, you see…um, w- what about this one?” The man pointed to a table and Mr. Garrity leaned up on his toes, hands on the counter to see at what the grey-haired man was pointing. “Ah, yes. That used to be an athlete’s. Young man was a runner, good one too.” Mr. Garrity massaged the scalp behind his ear. “But he met a girl and got a new one, couldn’t use that one anymore. It’s still in good shape though, still ticks.”
The man looked it over, then picked it up, turning it in the one hand that was not still soothing the worried hat brim.
“How much?”
Mr. Garrity thought a minute. “Oh, I’d say sixty-five. That’d make forty for you…if you want it.”
The man with the grey hair looked at it one more time and stepped up to Mr. Garrity’s counter. He put his hat on the glass top and dug for his wallet. The cash exchanged, the register rang, and Mr. Garrity held up the empty brown paper bag. “You want a bag?”
The man shook his head and reached underneath his coat, slipping his new purchase into his left shirt pocket.
“Thank you, sir. I guess you’ll put my old one up there on the shelf.”
Mr. Garrity nodded. The grey-haired man looked morosely at the shelves, then picked up his hat and walked out through the jangling bells, fingers quiet as he fixed the brim around his head.
Mr. Garrity took off the magnifying glasses and replaced the empty spot of the man’s purchase with the one he had exchanged. Someone would want that one too.
The bells jangled again just grazing the dyed hairdo of an older woman. Like the other man, her hair could have been grey, but her fingers were resting easy on the edges of her heavily beaded, bulging pocketbook. She rustled in fur up to Mr. Garrity’s counter, not daring or stopping to look around at the rest of the merchandise.
At the counter, in front of Mr.Garrity with his magnifying eyes back in place, her demeanor melted just a bit. She extended the glittering pocketbook slowly, paused,
then carried on. Mr.Garrity clicked open the gold clasps and the magnifying lenses peered in.
“This looks like it’s still got quite a few good years left in it.”
She swallowed and patted her false brown hair.
“My son doesn’t want it anymore.” She looked straight into the lenses leaping two inches from his face.
“Well, I’d say it’s worth forty. Would you like to look around,” he gestured to the rest of the store, “maybe exchange it?”
“No thank you.” She didn’t turn her head. “I don’t want to be heartless, but, I don’t need another one.”
The register rang and the woman looked at the two twenties in her hand. She blinked up at Mr. Garrity, then folded them into her much flatter, beaded pocketbook, and rustled out through the bells.
Mr. Garrity smoothed down his paisley vest and likewise, his white mustache, still with the magnifying eyeballs slung over his ears.
Hours ticked on. Just before closing, the bells jangled over the bright blue eyes of a young man. He carried a small white box in one hand, the other dug into his pants pocket. He blue-eyed the tables, counters, and shelves with the air of a man heading into a hopeless battle.
He picked something off a shelf and brought it up to the counter and Mr. Garrity’s tall magnifying eyes. “I want to exchange this, if I can sir.”
Mr. Garrity opened the white box. “Son, this one is perfectly fine, and the one you’ve picked is broken.”
“I know,” said the blue eyes, “but I need a broken one to be a good writer.” The blue eyes began to fill up with more blue, “and I want to be a good writer.”
“Hogwash,” Mr. Garrity said, but the young man looked sadly determined. “All right then,” sighed Mr. Garrity, and the register rang. “Here’s fifty dollars, the difference.”
The man with the blue eyes shoved the wad into his pocket, keeping his eyes on his new purchase. “Thanks.” He turned and shuffled to the door. The blue eyes did not see the bells that called out his going, and he didn’t hear Mr. Garrity’s “good luck.”
Mr. Garrity pulled out his pocket watch and seeing that it was five minutes of five, removed the magnifying glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The store was as straight as he’d found it that morning, so he clanged open the register one more time, and counted the money. He jotted in the inventory book next to the register what transactions had taken place, what was lost or gained. And finally, he slipped his chubby arms into the sleeves of his coat, squashed his thinning hair under his hat, and jangled the bells with his hand as he left.
He turned, locked the door, and glanced up at the sign of his store with the large wooden figures of magnifying glasses over a simple red heart and red words: A Change of Heart.
Foiled again!
So I finally get around to starting this thing up, and then my internet goes kaput. Wouldn't you know it!?
And there was a mini-coup from the pages of The Asparagus Revival that I was working on last weekend. Turns out that a major plot change is in order and now I have to re-think all sorts of tid-bits. Didn't see that one coming!
And I just finished re-reading Atlas Shrugged for the 4th or 5th time. Every time I read that massive piece of work I find it amazing how much of real life jumps right out of the pages. The proposed GM bailout is right off of page 911 (ironic) in the hardback edition. I hope to be able to write like Rand, with such influence and pull on my readers, but a lot fewer 'as if' comparisons and over-descriptive eyes.
Here's a poem written after the first time I read Shrugged.
The Hero
By Kelly Hayes
When the last light falls
and falls to dark,
that’s when we will begin
we the few who love our lives
will fight and we will win.
A single man faced the wall,
more gathered close behind.
They were here to take his life,
or rather, take his mind.
“You know the truth” a short man said,
“you know we want what’s best,
we need your mind to make it work –
and then we’ll let you rest.”
The single man said nothing
but “this life and mind are mine.”
The men shouted “It’s your duty!
you can’t just leave us all behind!”
The man with the mind gave them a smile,
then turned and looked away.
The men began to scream and shout
“don’t you care what the people say?
“We told them we would save them,
we told them we had you,
and you would bring us all to safety,
there is no more we can do!”
“You have to!” they all chanted,
“think of your fellow man!
Just sacrifice your mind to us
and we can finish our plan.”
The man with the mind just smiled,
and induced a state of fear
among the men who shivered,
and cried when made to hear:
“When the last light falls
and falls to dark,
that’s when we will begin,
we the few who love our lives
will fight and we will win.”
And there was a mini-coup from the pages of The Asparagus Revival that I was working on last weekend. Turns out that a major plot change is in order and now I have to re-think all sorts of tid-bits. Didn't see that one coming!
And I just finished re-reading Atlas Shrugged for the 4th or 5th time. Every time I read that massive piece of work I find it amazing how much of real life jumps right out of the pages. The proposed GM bailout is right off of page 911 (ironic) in the hardback edition. I hope to be able to write like Rand, with such influence and pull on my readers, but a lot fewer 'as if' comparisons and over-descriptive eyes.
Here's a poem written after the first time I read Shrugged.
The Hero
By Kelly Hayes
When the last light falls
and falls to dark,
that’s when we will begin
we the few who love our lives
will fight and we will win.
A single man faced the wall,
more gathered close behind.
They were here to take his life,
or rather, take his mind.
“You know the truth” a short man said,
“you know we want what’s best,
we need your mind to make it work –
and then we’ll let you rest.”
The single man said nothing
but “this life and mind are mine.”
The men shouted “It’s your duty!
you can’t just leave us all behind!”
The man with the mind gave them a smile,
then turned and looked away.
The men began to scream and shout
“don’t you care what the people say?
“We told them we would save them,
we told them we had you,
and you would bring us all to safety,
there is no more we can do!”
“You have to!” they all chanted,
“think of your fellow man!
Just sacrifice your mind to us
and we can finish our plan.”
The man with the mind just smiled,
and induced a state of fear
among the men who shivered,
and cried when made to hear:
“When the last light falls
and falls to dark,
that’s when we will begin,
we the few who love our lives
will fight and we will win.”
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Just Men
Just Men
By Kelly Hayes
Men in sandles, robes and togas
contemplated: "who is God?"
Handed down our laws on tablets
spread the word, and we were awed.
Said that God felt this or that way
said that God loved us, not them
Said they knew the way to heaven
But who are they? Just men.
Centuries pass and still they're holy
before the altars and the choir
showing all the ways to know Him
or eternal damning fire.
Then a headline blasts their prayers
their saintly leaders shown to them,
Embezzlers! Molesters!
But who are they? Just men.
In our courtroom, on the benches
Judges holding up the law
hearing cases, passing judgment
on what one did or heard or saw.
Then there's one that gets away
or sometimes two or five or ten
how could that happen with our laws?
Who are these judges? Just men.
There're our leaders, in the white house
Stately, regal and refined
passing bills and handing vetos
helping countries undefined.
And then headline news is breaking
with juicy scandals once again.
All these leaders we look up to,
who are they? Just men.
Any time we grab a pedestal
and put upon it some old guy
be prepared for some disaster
and do we really need ask why?
No matter what the clothes or medals,
no matter what the big to do,
down underneath all the prestige,
they are just men, and women too.
By Kelly Hayes
Men in sandles, robes and togas
contemplated: "who is God?"
Handed down our laws on tablets
spread the word, and we were awed.
Said that God felt this or that way
said that God loved us, not them
Said they knew the way to heaven
But who are they? Just men.
Centuries pass and still they're holy
before the altars and the choir
showing all the ways to know Him
or eternal damning fire.
Then a headline blasts their prayers
their saintly leaders shown to them,
Embezzlers! Molesters!
But who are they? Just men.
In our courtroom, on the benches
Judges holding up the law
hearing cases, passing judgment
on what one did or heard or saw.
Then there's one that gets away
or sometimes two or five or ten
how could that happen with our laws?
Who are these judges? Just men.
There're our leaders, in the white house
Stately, regal and refined
passing bills and handing vetos
helping countries undefined.
And then headline news is breaking
with juicy scandals once again.
All these leaders we look up to,
who are they? Just men.
Any time we grab a pedestal
and put upon it some old guy
be prepared for some disaster
and do we really need ask why?
No matter what the clothes or medals,
no matter what the big to do,
down underneath all the prestige,
they are just men, and women too.
Moving Forward Fearlessly
"No one will know you've been swimming, if you don't make waves."
-Anonymous
My friends are inspiring me to get a move on with my writing. I think it's part fall - I always feel extra inspired this time of year - and part their moving and shaking that has me feeling extra shaky. One of my closest friends just surprised us last night by opening a bar. Go get 'em tiger! Another friend is going back to school. Yet another is chasing down her own business. And another is making a fresh new start, with the world at her fingertips.
A bunch of us went for fun, frou-frou facials for a girls night, and while the chocolate/pumpkin masks were drying we got to draw Fairy cards. No, we weren't in Boulder. My fairy card said Moving Forward Fearlessly. Whether that's in reference to my upcoming roommateless independence in my own home, or sending off my animal sounds story - ("Soon!" "Ira, How soon?" "Very soon!" )- or lighting a fire under my butt for the second half of my Asparagus revival book, I am indeed moving forward...FEARLESSLY!
-Anonymous
My friends are inspiring me to get a move on with my writing. I think it's part fall - I always feel extra inspired this time of year - and part their moving and shaking that has me feeling extra shaky. One of my closest friends just surprised us last night by opening a bar. Go get 'em tiger! Another friend is going back to school. Yet another is chasing down her own business. And another is making a fresh new start, with the world at her fingertips.
A bunch of us went for fun, frou-frou facials for a girls night, and while the chocolate/pumpkin masks were drying we got to draw Fairy cards. No, we weren't in Boulder. My fairy card said Moving Forward Fearlessly. Whether that's in reference to my upcoming roommateless independence in my own home, or sending off my animal sounds story - ("Soon!" "Ira, How soon?" "Very soon!" )- or lighting a fire under my butt for the second half of my Asparagus revival book, I am indeed moving forward...FEARLESSLY!
Winning Poetry
3rd place winner of the National Writer's Association 2005 Poetry Contest
My Cowboy
By Kelly Hayes
Jonathan Tallman of 1870,
I will picture you handsome,
rugged and dusty
with soft brown eyes.
At 25 you knew the layout
of the world
and you probably had a girl or two.
I can see you riding over the hills,
stompin' your boots,
smiling.
I daydream about meeting your ghost
at sunset on cemetery hill,
watching the mountains fade.
I sit next to you,
we each clasp our knees and
we are not afraid.
I wonder where the sun was shining
when you were lost.
It's just past your anniversary.
I guess, from ghostly lore, I missed you.
I'd say I'm about 128 years
and an Indian late.
That's a shame when I imagine your eyes.
My Cowboy
By Kelly Hayes
Jonathan Tallman of 1870,
I will picture you handsome,
rugged and dusty
with soft brown eyes.
At 25 you knew the layout
of the world
and you probably had a girl or two.
I can see you riding over the hills,
stompin' your boots,
smiling.
I daydream about meeting your ghost
at sunset on cemetery hill,
watching the mountains fade.
I sit next to you,
we each clasp our knees and
we are not afraid.
I wonder where the sun was shining
when you were lost.
It's just past your anniversary.
I guess, from ghostly lore, I missed you.
I'd say I'm about 128 years
and an Indian late.
That's a shame when I imagine your eyes.
And here I am
Welcome to The Write Fit, the future site of a blossoming business idea, and the current portfolio and track log of my writing endeavors, successes and adventures. Happy to have you along for the ride!
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