Tag Archives: Daily Prompt

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Lucky Star.” Today is your lucky day. You get three wishes, granted to you by The Daily Post. What are your three wishes and why?

Well damn. I just spent 45 minutes writing a poem and before I could save it, WordPress crashed and opened a new document!! I know, I know I should save as I go along, but I get into the creative process and forget. So, a new vow. After this I create in Word and copy into WordPress. But, that doesn’t bring the old poem back. Hard lessons. Okay, starting over again–totally new poem as I can never remember what I’ve written:

 Epiphany

A glitch in WordPress lost my wishes–
wiped them clean as fresh-washed dishes.
As though the wishes were taken away
before they saw the light of day.
So I must take a different tack
to try to get those wishes back.

When you wish upon a star
how does that star know where you are?
You are a dot in outer space.
It does not know your name or face.
So you must make those dreams come true–
what no one else can do for you.

No stars can make you lose that weight.
What works is just an emptier plate.
Discipline and time will do
what no wish can do for you.
And yet much easier to wish
than to avoid that favorite dish.

My other wish was for long life
away from illness, grief and strife–
a harder wish to make come true
without some magic helping you.
Diet and exercise once more
might keep me longer from death’s door–

Both things I have to do myself
to keep my place on this world’s shelf.
My third wish was a sort of pact–
a pledge I vowed that I’d enact
if my books began to sell,
I’d bring the plan you know so well

from earlier posts to light of day
and give the money all away
to make a place for language, art,
dance and music all to start.
A cultural center where kids could go
to learn to paint or sculpt or sew.

A place where they’re encouraged to write
so hidden selves could come to light.
A place where they could have a chance
to express themselves in song or dance.
A place with books and art supplies
to fill their hands and hearts and eyes.

My earlier poem was all a dream.
A bit of fluff—a hopeless scheme.
Wishes, wants and hopes and lies.
Visions seen behind closed eyes.
Yet when that poem was lost to me,
I suddenly began to see

How these wishes could all come true–
simply, what I have to do
piece by piece and bit by bit
to start to make the pieces fit.
It is now clear and I can see
the one to grant these wishes is me!

We will see if I stay true to the sudden insight gained by the sacrifice of a better poem than that above, but one that told less of a truth. As I wrote a second poem, I suddenly realized that we really do already have a cultural center in our town. It is the building next to Agustin’s restaurant where we held Camp Estrella—where kids are already learning English, taught by Agustin, as well as music–an orchestra and chorus of 150 kids. All I need to do is to help to expand the program into dance and writing and to do more art activities than the one or two a year I’ve done in the past. Eureka!!! And I don’t have to have a best-seller to accomplish that. I’m going to start today to see what it would take to establish a dance program and I’m sure it would be within my means to sponsor it. I have no kids to support. Why not adopt a lot of them??? Stay tuned for what happens.

A further insight: Is it just coincidence that Camp Estrella was the experience that helped to spark this sudden insight and that the other factor contributing to it is this prompt entitled “Lucky Star?” (You all know estrella means star, right?) I once wrote about the effect synchronicity has had in my life and it seems it has emerged again.  Lets hope I continue to follow its pull.

IMG_2453

In the Blood!!!
(Dedicated to Walter Palmer)

Don’t you just love football—the running and the tackling?
The sounds of hamstrings pulling and the crunch of femurs crackling?
We sit up in the bleachers eating hot dogs, drinking beer,
comfortably viewing blood sport—the kind we hold so dear.

Aren’t dogfights lovely–the growling and the whining?
Too bad they aren’t more elite, so we could watch while dining.
So amusing watching canines being dished their due.
Dying is so entertaining when it isn’t you!

Better still are bullfights, though they’re few and far between.
The bull so lithe and dangerous, the matador so lean.
The best part of the sport is that the dying is so slow.
I feel its thrill suffuse me from my head down to my toe.

We adore big game hunting in such exotic lands–
our chance to prove our manliness with our own two hands–
handing over money to those trackers in the know
who guarantee an easy kill with rifle or with bow.

Easy on the hunter, but not the animal,
for just because he’s hit the prey’s not guaranteed to fall.
We get more for our money if he’s hard to track,
and war games are more pleasant when one’s foe doesn’t shoot back!

All these minor titillations just a prelude to
the main event and the most major way of counting coup.
Once all the good old boys are finding life is just a bore,
they round up all the younger men and send them off to war.

See how the valiant struggle, see their stripes and purple hearts–
apt pay for missing arms and legs and other blown off parts.
Lucky to be home at last and lucky to be living–
the products of that blood sport that just somehow keeps on giving.


R.I.P. Cecil and the numerous humans who have shed blood in unnecessary wars.
This post is in response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Game of Groans.” Think about an object, an activity, or a cultural phenomenon you really don’t like. Now write a post (tongue in cheek or not — your call!) about why it’s the best thing ever.

Recycled Dream

7 Replies

Recycled Dream

I can see only one person presently reading my blog (Hi, Angloswiss) who read this when I posted it two years ago, so I am going to give a link to it here. It is one of 4 or 5 posts I’ve made on the subject of dreams and not the one I was looking for, but interesting to me because I don’t remember either the dream or having written this piece, so I imagine even if you read it way back then perhaps you have forgotten it, too.  HERE is the link.

The one I was looking for was a precognitive dream I had where two incidents in a row were foretold.  I know I’ve written about it but can’t find it on my blog or on any storage drives or my present computer, so the next time this prompt cycles around, I will write about it.  For now, here is another dream you might have some interest in.  Look above for the link.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).”

CAMP ESTRELLA FINAL SHOW!!!!

9 Replies

CAMP ESTRELLA FINAL SHOW!!!!!
(Please click on pictures for a larger view.)

IMG_2475 (1)IMG_2370IMG_2394IMG_2403

IMG_2376IMG_2366IMG_2393IMG_2387IMG_2385IMG_2396 (1)IMG_2473

IMG_2372IMG_2395IMG_2359IMG_2369IMG_2353IMG_2436 (1)IMG_2358IMG_2351IMG_2379IMG_2401IMG_2402IMG_2415IMG_2469IMG_2453IMG_2417IMG_2458IMG_2465IMG_2436 (1)IMG_2454IMG_2459IMG_2468IMG_2457IMG_2470IMG_2455IMG_2461IMG_2452IMG_2445IMG_2450
IMG_2449

IMG_2478The final show included the kids from Camp Estrella as well as part of the 153 member kid’s orchestra and chorus from San Juan.  They are the spirited children in white blouses and dark pants. They presented music from Grease, La Bamba and a wonderful spoof where they drew participants from the audience and wound them around the stage area in a long line.  It turns out it was a song about the whole village lining up to buy tortillas in the morning–to buy enough tortillas for 7,000 people from one shop with 7 tortilla machines…The joke is that the people drawn from the audience who took a place were forced to go to the end of the of the line–like newcomers trying to break into the tortilla line.  Much funnier when listening to the lyrics!

The woman doing the scarf dance was Cynthy, one of the counselors.  The woman doing the flamenco was Cindy, the organizer of the camp and the man on the drum and guitar is her husband, David. Other counselors left to right are Audrey to the far left, Juan behind Cynthy, Gloria in polka dots and me! Alicia regrettably left before someone requested we pose for a picture.  She is the exotic Mexican lady standing to the left side of the stage in the picture to the right of the audience shot.

After the show, where all those little girls in bright yellow Camp Estrella T-shirts turned into sophisticated flamenco dancers in exotic dresses and tightly-chignoned hair and all the jostling young boys turned into swelled-breasted young men, every one of them hugged every one of us. Audrey and I vied with each other over who could do the best job of hiding wet eyes and lumps in our throat, and we decided  the 5,000 pesos that the audience gave us to support the camp (the show was free) should be split between the performers. So, we gave each child 100 pesos and gave the rest to the orchestra/chorus.

Counselors were even more richly rewarded by the  memories of working with and getting to know these warm and lovely kids…not to mention the remarkable counselors.  We now count among our friends two new generations of young Mexicans–and feel younger for it and more determined to stay in the flow of life.  Tomorrow we start all over again with another camp in Ajijc, the neighboring town.

Thanks for giving me a platform to share this wonderful Experience.

Now do you know why, if I had a billion dollars, I would spend it to make this sort of experience happen every day for the children of San Juan Cosala?

If you haven’t been following my stories on Camp Estrella, go HERE, HERE or HERE or for more of the story.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/youre-a-winner/

The Billionaire

6 Replies

                                          The Billionaire

If I were to win a billion dollars, I’d open a cultural center in San Juan Cosala, the town I live in in Mexico.  It would include free art studios where anyone could come to paint, sculpt or learn computer graphics.  There would be a ceramics class, paper making, metal smithing–any art form that children or adults wish to learn, and I’d hire both local artists and artists from abroad who could come teach workshops to make the art experience fresh and expanding.

If there were any leftover money (ha!) I’d build a free hospital for local residents and for any children from Jalisco with birth defects or other debilitating conditions.

I would establish one hundred free college scholarships a year and hire the young people who availed themselves of these scholarships to come back and implement the changes in their village that they feel are necessary. I would also provide the funds so that all children could go to school and hire wonderful teachers who would stimulate them and make education a delightful opportunity.  It is true that Mexico has free schools, but also true that many children do not go to these free schools because they can’t afford uniforms, books and school supplies.

Then I’d buy a simple house with five bedrooms on the beach, use it myself for two months of the year  and loan it out to people from my village who could use a vacation or take children or adults away for art or writing workshops.

I know this is a very simplified version of huge projects that would take years of planning, but since this is a fantasy anyway,  I’m clicking my fingers and there.  It’s done!!!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “You’re a Winner!.”You’ve just won $1 billion dollars in the local lottery. You do not have to pay tax on your winnings. How will you spend the money?

Danger in Disguise

4 Replies

                                                        Danger in Disguise

Today’s prompt: Brilliant Disguise—Tell us about a time when someone had you completely fooled, where the wool was pulled right over your eyes and you got hoodwinked, but good. Was it a humorous experience or one you’d rather forget? What was the outcome?

Today is my first day of assisting with Camp Estrella, a two-week camp for kids, so no time to post a new post.  I’ve written to this prompt before though, so if you haven’t read my post about being kidnapped in Ethiopia, go HERE.  If you’ve read it, take the day off and I’ll post tonight.

Not Much Choice!

9 Replies

IMG_0105

                                                            Not Much Choice!

The prompt today is  Finite Creatures: At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?

I wrote “I’ll Have to Go” to this exact prompt last November.  To see that poem, go HERE.

F

Re”tire”ment

When I was younger, my mind turned on a dime.
I did what I had to do in very little time.
But now that I am older, things don’t go so fast.
I’m not “spur-of-the-momentish” as I was in the past.

I don’t throw big parties as I did in former days,
for dealing with the details just puts me in a haze.
I can’t do many things at once without getting confused.
Now I simply write my blog while once I danced and boozed!

At first I felt ashamed of how my life is slowing down,
hating that I do not seek the company of town.
But then I noted patterns in nature around me
and saw that this is simply how our lives are meant to be.

Each thing in its season and each thing in its time
is how our lives are ordered—to accept this is sublime.
Why do I need to live my youth and middle age again?
Why not just accept that this is how my life has been

and go on to the next stage without sadness or regret—
going on to see just how much better life can get?
Yes, it is the pits to get arthritic, slow and hazy;
but we are compensated by excuses to be lazy!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Heat is On.” Do you thrive under pressure or crumble at the thought of it? Does your best stuff surface as the deadline approaches or do you need to iterate, day after day to achieve something you’re proud of? Tell us how you work best.

Mum’s the Word

If you’ve read my posts on Africa, you already know more about me than my mom ever did.  Once, years later, when I asked my mom if she would like to know the full story about why I stayed in Africa instead of traveling with my sister when she came to visit me and then coming back to the U.S. with her, my mother said, “I never told my mother anything that would make her feel bad.”  Case closed.

There was a whole part of my life my mother never knew about by choice.  She never knew that I was nearly killed twice while I was there, or that I initially stayed because I was in love with an Ethiopian man.  My sister knew all because she was there when the shooting took place, and I had told her about the kidnapping, but she never told my mother.  In many other ways, I am very like my mother, but there are some other genes surging through me, because I always want to know everything and I will almost always ask for the “rest” of the story.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dear Mom.”: Write a letter to your mom.  Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to.

Foreign Tongues

7 Replies

I wrote this poem that answers this prompt so long ago that few who are now following me have ever read it.  If you have read it, perhaps you have forgotten it, as I had..

Foreign Tongues

When I was a child, I thought as a child.
In short, I didn’t think.
My faulty reasonings were piled
like dishes in a sink.

While other children responded to
“What do you want to be?”
with “Cowboy! Teacher!” (right on cue),
these answers weren’t me.

When it came to having career talks,
I fear I was a purist.
My answer was less orthodox.
My aim? To be a tourist!!

I thought tourists then to be
a sort of gypsy pack.
Jobless, they were wild and free,
their luggage on their back.

Or in their cars, packed front and back,
traveling evermore––
a footloose, wandering, feckless pack
unsettled to the core.

I saw them passing on the road
just one block south of where
my family hunched in their abode
year after passing year.

I had to wait for 19 years
to earn my traveling shoes––
to assuage my parents’ groundless fears,
abate their travel blues.

I took off on a sailing ship
to visit foreign lands.
When foreign words evaded lip,
I merely used my hands!

Back home, the English seemed to me
common––sorta dowdy.
Instead of “Moshi, moshi”
I had to murmur, “Howdy.”

As soon as school was over,
I hopped upon a plane.
I’d pass my life a rover.
Inertia was inane!

I packed up my regalia
with neither tear nor sob
to head out to Australia
for my first teaching job.

I thought that English I would teach.
It was our common tongue.
Enunciation would I preach.
Oh Lord, I was so young!

My first day there, I heard the word
“Did-ja-‘ave-a guh-die-mite?”*
I found it all to be absurd.
They were joking. Right?

“Don’t come the raw prahn on my, mite”**
was next to meet my ear.
What foreign language did they cite?
It puzzled me, I fear.

I rode, I walked, I sailed the seas
and ended up in Bali.
Said my “Terimakasih’s”
And then, “Selamat Pagi.”

My move to Africa was one
that some folks found quixotic,
but “amasaganalu”
was a word I found exotic.

After two years, I went home.
Wyoming was the next
place that I agreed to roam,
though I was sorely vexed.

For though the words were all the same
I’d learned at my mom’s knee––
(I’m sure that I was all to blame)
they all seemed Greek to me!

California was where I hung
my hat for many-a-year.
There Español was half the tongue
that fell upon my ear.

I liked its cadence, liked its ring.
The words ran fluid and
their foreignness was just my thing
in this bilingual land.

So Mexico is where I’m bound.
I’ve reasons numbering cien.
The main one is, I like the sound
of “Que le via bien.”

 * The American accent version is “Did you have a good day, mate?”

**  “Don’t come the raw prawn on me, Mate!”  This strange retort is similar in meaning to: “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.” Many Australians have told me they’ve never heard this phrase, but I swear I did–more than once.

The Prompt: Futures Past: As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? How close or far are you from that vision?