Tick-Tock: It’s Time

I love what I do.

A few months ago, I started freelance editing and proofreading for independent authors. This is incredibly rewarding. For some strange reason, I find joy in helping indie authors. I think it comes from the part of me that is naturally nurturing; I like for people to succeed.

I have been very busy with jobs lately, and my only regret is that I haven’t had time to work on my own writing. I don’t see this as a bad thing, though. I see it as an opportunity to grow as a writer. Every manuscript I work on challenges me to think.

How would I write that? 

How can this sentence or paragraph be improved?

I like what the author did here… 

I love what I do; however, at heart I am a writer. A writer is compelled to write. Some day, I’m going to have to return to my own writing.

I think that time is now.

Q is for Quatorzain

Q is for Quatorzain
A quatorzain is poetry of 14 lines.

DSC_0385

Beyond Oak Creek

Beside Juniper-lined trails
Away from the suffocating crowd
At each bend nature prevails
Under the cover of towers proud

Between arms of Emory Oak
Through the shade of Ponderosa Pine
Along the way red rock spoke
Of sentries posted in their design

Toward mesas rising high
Beneath guarded towering faces
With permission, I pass by
And into sunlit sandstone places

Thankful to be given the chance,
I sit and watch the shadows dance.

 

 

O is for Obsidian

O
Refined in fire before your birth
In a molten tempest below the earth
A powerful force of glowing red
From an explosive rage you made your bed
Your living colors changed into black
Exposed your weakness in conchoidal crack
But in that weakness, came edges honed
With opaque fractures that cut to the bone
Mystery in darkness deep inside
Brings light to truth, with nowhere to hide

Yep, I just wrote a poem about a rock. I am officially a nerd.

L is for Lake

L

When I was ten, my family took a road trip to Canada. On our way home, we stopped in Spokane, Washington, to see my grandmother and my dad’s siblings. My Uncle Norm and my grandma took us to Brown’s Lake in the Colville National Forest. I fell in love with the trees, the mountains, and the wildness of it. Most amazing to me was that we could actually swim in this lake!

That may not seem so special to a lot of people, but in Southern California, where I was born and raised, people don’t normally swim in lakes. Lakes are for fishing. Pools and beaches are for swimming. I used to love swimming and still do, so I was very excited about swimming in an actual lake!

When we got there, though, I got a little creeped out by the idea. There were slimy-looking rocks where sand should have been, there were strange little plants growing from the floor of the lake instead of floating gobs of seaweed, and there were no crashing, rolling waves. Mostly, I didn’t like the idea of putting my feet on the slimy rocks. They didn’t make water shoes back then.

Fortunately for me, the pull of the water was too strong and before long, I got over my fear of the dark, unknown lake water. I liked swimming in the lake. No salt to burn my eyes and no chlorine to turn my blonde hair green.

The year following my introduction to lake swimming, my brother and I spent the summer in Spokane. We went camping at Brown’s Lake quite a few times. Almost every time we went we were the only campers there. It was awesome!

Anyway, inspired by the letter “L” and my great memories of my favorite lake, I wrote this poem.

Brown’s Lake

Standing, staring from the shore
in a place I’ve never been before,
wondering how it would be
to let myself go, to be so free
to step in off solid ground
and break the shackles that keep me bound.

Seemingly clear at first glance
like diamonds sparkling as they dance.
Tips of waves play with the breeze
rising, falling, and chasing they tease.
Dragonflies join in the fun–
iridescent needles in the sun.

Here am I, unsure and small,
Longing to be a part of it all.
She’s the brave one,” so they say.
Being alone will make you that way.
Fearful of what lies below
I break the surface and in I go.

Don’t fear I hear deep inside
There’s no current here, there is no tide.
Looking down, I see my feet
Where shallow water and rocks do meet.
Some stones shift and some hold fast
So much like people– present and past.

Step by step, I see them fade
I turn back, see the progress I’ve made.
Giving in to its embrace
and gentle caresses on my face.
In this way the lake holds me
Here in its grip is where I am free.

 

E is for Exploration

E

 

Day Five of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge

E is for Exploration

take my hand, come with me
we will go where the land
surrenders to the sea.
there we’ll find treasures lost–
iridescent trinkets
worn with time, turned and tossed

hold my hand, and we’ll go
where the sky reaches down
to the pines as they grow.
we’ll find a quiet place,
watch meadow flowers dance
in all their breeze-blown grace

take me to rocks of red–
layers of earth whisper
stories of those long dead.
we will seek, we will find
ancient paths made of stone
and journey where they wind

take my hand, hold on tight
we can be together
as the day turns to night.
the stars will understand
what i see in your eyes
if you just take my hand.

© Sara Jones 2014

B is for Beauty

B

Day Two of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge


 

B is for Beauty
Beauty is the way the breeze blows through the brush on the hillside
Beauty is the blurred beating of a hummingbird’s wings
There is beauty hiding the sharp thorns of the burgeoning bougainvillea

Beauty is the way the golden Brittle Bush carpets the desert floor
Beauty is the beckoning branches of an old live oak tree
There is beauty waiting to escape the billowing clouds of the brewing storm

Beauty is the way the breaking waves batter the lonely shore
Beauty is the beginning of a new day blanketing the sky in blue
There is beauty reaching out from the broken rim of the red rock bluff

In such beauty, I find where I belong

 

 

Under the Oak Tree

IMG_8763

I find comfort in the shade of your arms
Like a child in a mother’s embrace.
And it was from childhood, you knew me.
Laughed with me,
Observed me.
Guided me as I wandered, discovered
The gifts you left me on the forest floor.
Gifts as precious as gems in my young mind.

I cried for you when my sister’s knife cut.
She carved her name and left you deeply scarred.
I fumed with anger when I saw you bleed,
And I knew
It caused pain.
Years later, the evidence of her crime
Remained, though faded and stretched with your growth.
In your own way, you remember my tears.

Now I have acquired scars of my own.
I, too, have bled from wounds that cut deeply.
You notice those scars and you cry for me,
As I did
Cry for you.
Just like you, the scars have faded with time.
I grow, and they become harder to see,
We share this- a bond that can’t be broken.

I am no longer the child you knew.
Yet, I return and know I am welcome.
Your arms reach wide, offering your shelter.
I take it,
Needing it.
Feeling as though I have stepped back in time,
I touch you- our souls again connecting.
Quietly, we rejoice in our union.

Your exterior beautiful with age,
Speaks of wisdom and long ago stories.
If only I could reach deep to your soul!
I would know
History.
I might see the little girl that was me
Before I became the woman I am.
A life that changed before your watchful eyes.

© Sara Jones