*NEW POEM* Looking Forward & Asking Questions

Seventy-Two Inches

by Judith Cullen

© 2021

 

Smiling is useless,

a flex beneath

filtering layers

expressing nothing.

Trying the eyes

results in odd

bulging twitches

like transitory gas.

One hundred and

eighty two centimetres,

seventy two inches

of cavernous void.

Our beings long for

rituals of comfort in

a frightening world,

stretching out.

 

AT LAST! A New Poem

It's been a long dry writing spell ... it's been 2020!  A year reviled, but only distinct in that is seems to have been like poetry - everything distilled into one highly charged season of the unbelievable. 

In the middle of this, my Mom passed. She was 89, and my life with her for the past 7 years had involved a daily consciousness of twilight, and acknowledging the third lurking member of our household - death. I realized my writing had, in so many ways, become about death, and the yearning to let go and move on. 

When the time came, I didn't want to write at all. I wrote a story about the incredible moment of  Mom's passing, and one other story, and that was it.  I did not want to write about death anymore, or about moving on. I just wanted to do it. Ten months later, it's still not that easy. But my pen is ready, and words have been flowing through me. It's time.

The first poem out of the chute has many imperfections, but it is notable for being the first one out after so long a period. I can't help but treasure it just for that. ~ jdc

***

"What is it?"

by Judith Cullen © 2021

 

I

 

Whatever it is,

wakes you at 3am,

the shape-note-word

that taps, taps, taps

on a conscious mind

struggling, blurred.

 

It is still there

merging into traffic,

the hue-key-phrase

a looming presence

on the shoulder of

the morning blaze.

 

It perches on the rim of

your second cup of coffee

a texture-rhythm-meter,

unwilling to leave

till it's a fully realized,

blossoming feature.

 

WHEN IT IS TIME: A Short Story

NOTE: You can now hear me reading this story on MixCloud

When It Is Time

by Caledonia Skytower

© 2020 

In memory of Elizabeth Cullen

Time. Time. I wanted more time.

She cradled in my hands: fragile, imperfect, diminishing.  

Her bubble of being had once encompassed a broad sphere. At some point she became the object of my life, rather than its influence. In the fullness of time she began to shrink, her focus narrowed, her view spare.  

As with such certainties, it's easy to ascribe them to an undefined future: the inevitable that will happen in some comfortably vague tomorrow. I held her as delicately as I could, aware of the looming presence of that inevitability. It was time, and I wanted more of it.

SOMETHING FUN: A Rhyme!

So in the midst of everything out pops this poem, inspired by a childhood rhyming game.A bit of fun and relief thanks to two fairy sprites on the region of Lunafae at Fantasy Faire SL in support of Relay for Life and the American Cancer Society.

Fairy Vari-Ation

by Judith Cullen

© 2020 

I see you Fae-mate

*clap, clap*

Come flit and fly with me

The moon is bright and free

It shines for all of we

Splash down the rain wash

around the pebbled shore

and we'll be fairy friends

for ever more

*clap*

more

*clap, clap*

more, more.

SEEKING COMPANY - A Short Story

NOTE: You can now hear me reading this story on MixCloud

Seeking Company

by Judith Cullen

© 2020 

                   

"Is this seat taken?"

I dropped to the rough wooden planks without waiting for an answer.  I knew better than to believe the voices that mutter in the gloom of 3 am; the wolves that lurk in the dark beyond the edge of your bed, or under it, their panting breath summoning every doubt and fear from the hidden depths inside you. Their province is the pitch where "false" and "true" are hard to distinguish. 

I escaped outside to a land that was gloom itself, which perfectly matched my mood.  At least I'd left the wolves to gnaw and shred the blankets, while I sought what air and light I could. There was precious little of that - a weak moon and a greenish glowing of perpetual pre-dawn. A trio of skeletons sat at the end of a forbidden pier, fishing lines ending empty above the brown muck of the water. One was drinking. I could sympathize.  They seemed like company, albeit undemanding company, frozen in the timeless moments of their demise.

I wasn't expecting a reply. Imagine the surprise when one of them spoke.

*NEW POEM* - The Nature of Change

Image Public Domain from hubblesite.org - Galaxy Pair NGC 3314

Change Whisperer

© 2020 by Judith Cullen

Smelling it,

the wafting air of change.

The weave apparent,

watching it form and shift.

Noticing when, even

well established patterns adjust.

Sometimes anticipating,

pushing the new arrangement.

Seeming alone in seeing,

movement of time, circumstance.

These efforts making

little sense to anyone else.

Limited remains

perpetual, steadfast, abiding.

Only that unseen

has the chance of constancy.

Without, the weave

is in constant motion. 

*NEW POEM - Waiting for Magic

It's been a while!  I have been diving deep in that other major creative realm of mine, the visual.  A few poems cropped up in my head. It's hard to think when they do that. 

Here's one for fun. Enjoy! ~ jdc

Beans in the Yard

by Judith Cullen

© 2020

They got dropped there on Christmas Day,

The casserole gratefully rescued;

The food still good, still edible.

I should have raked them back then,

whisked them away - disposed.

I was curious. What would happen?

"Do not step on the beans!"

Eight weeks later, they are still there.

No giants are roaming the streets,

Harp music does not waft downstairs,

and the front porch is entirely bereft - 

no burnished fowl or its progeny

squatting in fabled expectation.

I was diligent. I looked.

Maybe the barbecue sauce blocked

all the enchanted potentialities.

Perhaps onions carefully diced are

an antidote to storybook creations.

Some have turned black, while others

grow mushier from rain, snow, and frosts.

Surely one of them might have been magic!

I should have raked them away,

whisked them into the trash.

But I was curious. I wanted to know.

##

SHOW OF HANDS - A New Poem

Okay, seriously . . . a show of hands: how many of you can relate to this?

Tough-Talk Monday Morning

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

The alarm is the first to speak up,

klaxon of Monday's dawn arrival.

Could another 30 minutes be stolen?

The voice of commuting cars nearby

confirm time will not, cannot wait.

I want to stomp my foot, to rage.

I want all the little things to inflate

to insulate against things that matter

the things that hurt, wound, frustrate:

despair, anger, and disappointment.

My aged inner voice says, "grow up!"

wild, childish passions of the weekend

are banished, rinsed away in the froth

of cooling lavender scented soapsuds.

Then standing, fully rational and adult

I face the chill air of a brand new week.

##

*NEW POEM* On the Inevitability of Autumn

Gone Back to School

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

As if there were books involved,

pencils and pens, sharp and new,

backpacks crisp from purchase.

Though decades have passed since

our feet trod the waxy floors,

the reality of autumn is here, and

we have all gone back to school.

The carefree mists of summer

have all evaporated in entire.

No more pretext of long days,

no more buoyant assumptions

as the world seems endlessly

in bloom and perpetual growing.

We have all gone back to school.

IN DEDICATION to "Calendar Girls"

Like the Trees

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

It is happening now, the first bright accents

tipping the leaves, portents of change.

Undeniable inevitability calling forth,

trumpeting the arrival of Autumn.

Soon the trees will be ablaze with Fall:

red, orange, golden and ranges in between.

They've lived the innocence of Spring blossoms,

endured the long labors of Summer.

Now they vibrantly erupt, a brilliant flare

inconsiderate of the looming Winter.

One glorious, joy-affirming exultation

before the great sleep that comes to all.

In my Autumn, I will be like the trees.

I shall courageously dress myself in flame,

Tossing the years of happiness and sorrow

around me proudly - a shawl of experiences.

Not for me the dull dimming of the day,

consignment to a faded ghost of endurance.

I shall burn bright at the waning, in celebration,

then crumble to dust with the satisfied sigh of life.

***

This poem is dedicated to the cast, crew and staff of Tacoma Little Theatre's 2019 production of Tim Firth's Calendar Girls, directed by Vicki Webb.

POEM: A Brand New View

Finally from the Inside

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Quite ordinary, this couple:

she was not a breathtaking beauty,

he was not ruggedly handsome.

Not dressed all in the mode,

shoes showing some common wear.

They were not blushing youths,

but had not reached the middle.

There they were, resplendent

in their normality.

Little things gave them away;

how they dropped off the prescription

together, speaking casually.

Their rapport steady, not constant.

A gesture by way of direction,

the closeness of their walking,

a momentary grasped hand.

It was an effortless, comfortable,

apparent easiness.

ANOTHER READING - Tuesday, April 9th

Hear ye! Hear ye!  Fans of my Irish Tales ...

I'll be reading "Two Houses" from A Trio of Irish Tales II this week, live online, Tuesday April 9th from 7-8:30pm pacific time.  It is one of the most complicated short stories I have ever written - in many ways a climax of an emotional four year journey that preceded it.

In "Two Houses" a young American couple on their honeymoon find their ties to Irish heritage are far more insistent than just a simple perusal of genealogies. As the past disturbs their future, Mark and Cate must unravel the mystery of two houses that suffered very different fates, but that are somehow connected.

Interested?  Send me a Personal message on facebook, of comment on my facebook page and I will send you the link to listen.

POEM: Priorities Are Important, in Love.

This one, for fun ...

How Do I Love Thee?

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Sitting together on the hardwood

the box slid carefully in my direction.

Cautious question, and "just open it!"

I lift the lid, part the tissue, and sigh.

They lay in a cushioned delicacy,

dark as midnight, and gleaming.

POEM: Everyone Has Their Own Little Phenomenons . ..

Public Domain
Peter Newell illustration from 1902

. . .  here's mine!

My White Knights

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

How could I fail to love them all,

clad in shining good intentions,

loyalty, truth, and studied courtliness.

They bow with dignity, holding

a hand when steadying is needed,

a door when access is required.

When a perceived threat draws near

they lock arms, eyeing each warily,

stepping into the breach before me.

It is touching, in its way, being

the recipient: beloved and dearest,

held high at gracious arms length.

I feel a certain felicitous luck

attracting such quality consideration,

a relief after the disappointments.

OH THAT INSISTENT CRESCENT MOON! ~ New Poem

Fantasy Art Winter Moon, Public Domain, publicdomainpictures.net

Lunacy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

The poem was waiting when I awoke

curtains reflecting the night's depth,

a beckoning glow through many folds

of lunar transit shifting soundlessly

from one to the other window.

What if I cast back the drapes, letting

the moonlight shine on my skin

as it drinks its way across the stars;

elixir of imagination, natural magic

conveyed in airborne beams.

What if I moved beyond the confines

of this definition, and that certitude;

allowing myself to drift without limits,

absorbing the languid enchantment of

a clear winter sky at three in the morning.

##

SOMETIMES Poetry Becomes Real . . .

I've been trying to get out of the habit of commenting on my work - somehow explaining it in advance.  The work should speak for itself, yes?  But I do want to say that this poem was inspired by a real devil of a week, and a real late afternoon nap where I dreamed like I had not in well over a week. In that magical dreamworld, two dear friends came to me . . . 

Dream Therapy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Dragging the week behind,

doubt, fear, sorrow, and pain

thudding at each labored stair,

an accumulation of fighting

weighting every step, till I drop.

Subsiding into dreams, expecting

more monotone wanderings -

tears unexplained, unshed and

more steps, more labors till

somehow the fog would clear.

POEM: The Inverse Laws of Nature

Inverse Laws of Nature

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Nature is composed, we are taught

of immutable laws, immovable realities.

Change, challenge, departure are things

we impose using the tools of mortality:

desire, hubris, and occasionally need.

Limited options of docile acceptance,

or wrestling the universe into submission.

In our haste to control destiny, we miss

the perverse nature of the natural, choosing

to interpret bluntly, without nuance.

FIRST POEM OF THE NEW YEAR: "Welcome to the Light"

Come to the Light

by Judith Cullen

©2019            

"Come to the light," they implored.

While I, blackened fog, lurked uncertain,

wrapped in blankets of complacencies,

familiarities, and chilling sufficiency leading

to the same inexorable cycling.

Reaching out from beneath the comforter

hands touch mine, "Come to the light,"

they repeat in chorus, "We miss you, join us."

They cannot pull me bodily from my gloom,

the impulse must be my own.

HALLOWEEN STORIES! Bring Them On!

It's always a good time for a story, but never so much as when the weather chills, and people become inclined to gather 'round the fire - singly or in groups - and enjoy ghostly tales of spookiness.
 
Another of my short stories has been translated into video form.  This one is, conveniently, a ghost story based on an actual legendary haunt from Luxembourger lore – the Stierches-geescht.
 
Ghost of the Bridge will release this afternoon, and will be available for viewing either at https://vimeo.com/297398536 or at SLArtist-Designing Worlds, Episode DW382. It’s my third year writing for their Halloween Special.  Last year was an adaptation of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow that turned out to be very popular, and the previous year one of the stories from my Irish canon, In the Mist.

Oh, AND if you haven't yet seen Arrivals & Departures, it's another of my stories that you can enjoy in video form. Not spook-a-licious, though.
 
Submitted here for your Halloween week enjoyment. They are not It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, but they are something that I am proud to share.

Okay, so nothing published this year.  Yet it has been a very fertile year for writing, so publications can't be that far away!

NEW POEM: Straight Up Without Explanation

Hubris

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

Don't try and explain,

to those trying on

life like a new suit.

Full of knowledge

bursting, seeing what  

is right so very clearly

from their new shoes.

Don't fuss or worry.

In six months all

will change to new

fashions, discoveries.

All will be the correct,

proper garb for the

very righteous.