For the Muse

My muse has been incredibly generous lately, providing me with gallons of inspiration to drink each day. I've got two short stories on the verge of completion, and I've been writing poetry like mad.

I have been so busy trying to get this manuscript completed so I can get it back to my author and things in my personal life have been rocky, but every night I manage to write a poem before bed, and sometimes I write one when I wake up. Since I don't have much time, I wanted to share a quick poem with you. I haven't forgotten about my faithful readers, and hope to find more time to blog soon.

Nectar

I drink you
like nectar
resting in the
cup of a flower
mouth to mouth
skin to skin
we dance around
obstacles, shedding
fabric like
a snake sheds
its skin
then wrap together
like crawling vines
reaching toward
the sun.

I'm off to cram in about 20 more pages of edits, then dreamland. I hope you're all having a fantastic week! I need to make my blog rounds, and I apologize if I haven't popped by to visit you lately. Life certainly has a way of interfering with play time.

Don't forget, tomorrow boasts the return of Thankful Thursday. See you there.

Warrior Wednesday

notebook noir
Originally uploaded by theilr

I had a great day, and I'm just settling in now to get a bit more writing done before bed. I wanted to pop in and post a couple of poems to tide you over until tomorrow's Thankful Thursday post. :)

Morning

Tin roof rain drops
and wings like sheets
flap toward freedom
perched atop the pine
single branch sways
nothing but the rain
can cleanse me now
face to sky, arms to wind
warrior waiting
behind a peaceful mask
ready to pounce...
always watching.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Numbered

Every night's pain
echoes into silent
voices across the void...
She picks up her pen
and tries to capture
it in words, but
there is only the
way it makes her feel:
speechless, but full
replenished, but alone,
as if she's numbered
every one of her own days
and given them new meaning.
She's sure that
he would never understand,
so she closes her book
and goes to sleep.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Untitled

Let it all writhe
and tangle together
like a bed of snakes
tale to mouth
euroburos

Let it all burn
and smolder together
like a pile of ash
blackened soot
funeral pyre

Let it all fade
and wash away together
like a bed of sand
loose shells
watery grave

Let it all go
and dwindle into nothing
like a galaxy into a black hole
spinning rim round
the end
© 2009 J. Hudock

Have a good evening everyone.

Changes Brewing on the Wind

Noche de luna llena - Full moon night
Originally uploaded by *L*u*z*a* return to nature

Well, after all of my whining about the difficult time I had working on my short story last week, I am proud to say that Sunday I finished draft two. I sent it off to a couple of friends I workshop with, and this afternoon I made third draft edits. I then folded it into a cyber envelope stamped TEAM AWESOME and sent it off to the secret project that requested the story to begin with.

Aside from feeling incredibly accomplished today, I was also quite flattered when my friend and colleague, Steve, told me that the story reminded him of Edgar Allan Poe. That is probably the most amazing compliment I have ever gotten as a writer. Thank you, Steve.

I am now working on a group of short stories for a concept I'd like to propose, but the project is very secret, so I can't share details at this time. I have one story finished, and a second one about 1/4 of the way done. I hope to have the first draft of that story finished before Friday. Wish me luck.

All of this has left me feeling incredibly good. Big changes are coming, and I'm excited about them. I leave you with this poem, and wishes for a wonderful wednesday!

Brewing On the Wind

Tangled clouds like webs of dust
blown from hiding under the bed
and the dragon's open mouth
smokey teeth glisten
preparing to chomp down
on the light of the moon.
Hallowed Mother, suffocate
beneath speeding
atmospheric veil.

There are changes brewing
on the wind--
I can smell them.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Before I'm Swallowed by Sleep

Massive Old Oak Tree - seen on Coon Creek docent hike, Montaña de Oro, 18sept2008 - Leader: Jerry Kirkhart
Originally uploaded by mikebaird

It's late. I just got home from a night out with a dear friend. I will leave you with this poem. When I was growing up, I was fortunate (mostly,) to have grown up in a rural neighborhood with a group of adventurous kids. I have many fond memoirs of those days, including those of my first "crush." While there was never any future for us, we did some fun and crazy things, and this poem is one of many in tribute to the boy that I knew then.

It Always Comes Back to This

left arm scarred
cinder-block burn
a scraped escape
one hiding place
to the next

two in a tree
bark-brushed thigh
a chance maneuver
and blood chills
under the wind

love's agonizing scrutiny
these left-overs
nothing but empty
shells litter the earth
spilled seed pods
scatter with the
same breath
that says goodbye.

Maybe your Saturday linger as long as you like, unless you have to work, in which case, I hope it flies.

A God Never Forgets...

Temple of Apollo @ Delphi
Originally uploaded by Giorgos~

Apollo Rejected

Slowly fan these flames
in attempt to blow them out
yet they burn on,
lapping thirstily at my skin
like tired dogs.

Apollo's fiery fury, and I blister,
consumed with passion
behind the wavering reality
evaporating with every breath-
to let go, would bring freedom,
but what immunity have I?

Scarred from the inside out
a molten reminder
of incomplete sacrifice-
A god never forgets!
© 2005 J. Hudock

Just a bit of poetry today... had a busy day, got some writing done, prepping to do a bit more before turning in. I hope you all had a fabulous Friday.

"My Ancestors Believed"

corbel 28: sheela na gig
Originally uploaded by Sacred Destinations

The ocean was a sly, hungry goddess
who seduced and swallowed husbands.
Rarely spit out again and never seen
they dove willingly into her warm folds,
swam in the depth and bliss of her love
only to be carried away from wives
and children to distant paradises.

Can paradise be unveiled before a
billowing cloud of bubbles and fish schools,
or is that all part of the illusion?
The lure that captured their attention
bobbed on the surface like glass baubles
the ones ancient druids used
to interpret and determine the future.

It is not open for discussion,
or interpretation. All manner
of female oppression becomes
central. In reality not one
of those fisherwives needed a man,
and the boundaries of fidelity hang
wide open, like the Sheela-Na-Gig.

©2003 ~J. Hudock