Upon Turning 50

Does fifty feel different?
Does it look different
From 39 or 49?

Am I old?
Eldery?
A senior citizen?
Or caught somewhere
In the in-between?

Have I lost my edge?
Can I carry on
Being, living, breathing?

Should I sit
With a blanket over my lap
Quiet and sedate?

Or do I rage
Rage and fight?
Refusing to give in
Refusing to lie down
To this new age.

Do I accept
The things I cannot change:
Looser skin,
Ten extra pounds,
The aches and pains?

These things,
Now a part of me,
But do not define
How I see myself
Will fifty define me?
No. 

I refuse
I insist
I rise
Above that number
That AGE
To find myself again.

New.

Writing Club

Seven girls writing
Discussing
Thinking

Drawing cartoons
Writing their dreams
Wishes
Loves
Hopes

Writing on paper
Not writing on computers
Fiction and poetry
Talking about books and 
Disney movies

The quiet half of the room 
And the noisy half
Thinking out loud
Thinking deeply

But maybe NOT writing...

"I'm not a liar; 
I just have a very 
expressive face."

"I need a name..."

"Astrid."

"You'll have 
to pay for that."

Writers tell stories
Craft lies
Exaggerations
Inspired by books,
Authors and

Each Other!

Write a poem that includes the following elements: dancing, a pitch-black room, and the smell of lilacs

 The Madness of the School Dance

Twilight turned to night
Nerves reaching their breaking point
Dresses swishing and shoes pinching
Ties and cummerbunds itching

Spotlights pierce a pitch-black room
Party lights glow softly
Music pulses through the air
The beat driving a maddened frenzy

Dancing, twisting, sliding
The mob contorts themselves wildly
Moving mindlessly and awkwardly
Mechanical shapes in the darkness

He abruptly freezes
Drinking in the wafting smell
Of lilacs which drifts across the room
From a girl in a lavender dress

She floats toward the door
Away from the crowd
And he follows, helplessly,
Unable to resist the lure of her

She turns as if suddenly aware
And he moves forward
Quick as a shark
Hope shining in his eyes

Some writing using my school students' vocabulary words.

               Thinking back on the whole day, I can’t even remember when everything started to go so wrong.  Was it when I woke up 45 minutes late after turning off my alarm clock off accidentally? Could it have been when I passed through the kitchen and saw the box of delectable donuts on the counter only to find out it was empty?  Maybe was it when I glared at the dark, ominous clouds and jinxed myself by saying it wouldn’t rain on my way to school?  Or was it the appalling looks I got the office staff as I arrived at school, soaked through, hair frizzed uncontrollably, and shivering?

                None of that really matters.  What matters is what happened after I got to school, dripping wet and as perturbed as a cat being forced to take a bath.  I slammed my locker shut a little more forcefully than necessary and quickly walked toward my English classroom.  I was almost there when I was stopped by Mrs. Wilkins, the hall monitor.

                “Tardy pass?”  She growled at me, holding out her hand.  She was a meticulous woman who believed that any student out of class, should be returned to their designated room immediately.  She often said she enjoyed dotting every I and crossing every t – whatever that means. 

                “Um, sure,” I said congenially.  Trying very hard to smile, I dug through my soggy pockets for the pass.   It wasn’t wise to make Mrs. Wilkins angry.  I pulled out the smeared and damp pass, and gave it to her.

                “Woke up late?  What kind of excuse is that?  School starts every day at the same time.  It is the least you can do to show up at that time.  Punctuality is very important,” Mrs. Wilkins looked at me disapprovingly.

                I didn’t plan it, but when I opened my mouth, the words escaped in a perfect emulation of Mrs. Wilkins’ nasally tone, “Woke up late?  What kind of excuse it that?” 

                “I don't have to take your sass!”  Mrs. Wilkins glared at me, and she whipped out her detention forms and began diligently filling it out.  She ripped the form off of her clipboard, and handed me a copy of my after school detention for the next day.

                I sighed despondently and lowered my eyes to my soggy shoes, “I’m sorry Mrs. Wilkins,” I mumbled sadly.  “Can I go to class now?”

                “Yes, yes, of course,” Mrs. Wilkins snapped.  “Off you go.”  She marched off down the hall ecstatically looking for other tardy students. 

Tell the story of your most embarrassing moment in 4 paragraphs. To make the telling easier, use a 3rd person narrator.

Many years ago, a young, unseasoned teacher was the Forensics coach at her local middle school.  That year, the team had done pretty well in the city-wide division and had won third place overall.  At the conclusion of the season, all the students and the coach had come back together for awards night along with the other spring sports of softball, baseball, and field hockey.

The auditorium was packed with parents, school officials, teachers, and students, and the teacher was nervous.  She was not very good at delivering speeches and off the cuff remarks in front of a crowd which was ironic since she was the Forensics coach.  Nevertheless, she was trying not to squirm in her seat and project a sense of calm and an aura of effortlessness. 

When the time came for her to mount the stairs to the stage, her hands were clammy, and butterflies were crashing into one another in her stomach.  She reached the podium and called her students up on the stage, and began to give out her awards.  Just as she was congratulating herself on pronouncing the last student's name correctly, she noticed the students waving at her and pointing.  This seemed a little strange, so she glanced in the direction they were point near her legs and saw her slip sagging slowly down her calves way past her skirt.

Cheeks heating with embarrassment, she knew she couldn't hike up her slip on the stage, nor could she walk away from the podium without it falling around her ankles.  In a moment of desperation, she bent at the knees and yanked the end of it, so that it dropped to the floor, and she kicked it underneath the podium.  By this time, all of the students were laughing hysterically.  Quickly she finished the award presentation and headed back to her seat in the auditorium.  Much later, after all the awards had been given out and all the parents had carted their children home, she went back and fished her slip out from under the podium, and she threw it away on her way home.

Write a poem that includes a tombstone, a first kiss, and a butterfly collection.

A boy and a girl
Walking home from school
Holding hands 
As the sun sets behind them.

Taking the shortcut 
Through the tombstones
Of the old cemetery
On the hill.

Reading the stones
Collecting names 
Like a Lepidopterologist
Collecting butterflies.

She stops at a stone
Crooked and worn
By weather and time
Tears gathering in her eyes.

The girl buried at thirteen
Gone for close 
A hundred years
Left behind a loving family.

She recognizes the name
As hers and wonders
What else do they  
Have in common?

The boy hoping to comfort her
Draws her close 
And kisses her gently 
For the first time.

As the sun sets
And shadows grow
They walk toward home
Holding hands. 

Your character moves into a new apartment. On the surface, the place seemed ideal, but his/her first night there, your character discovers a terrible problem with the place that he/she didn't take into account...

The boxes were all inside, the moving truck was finally gone along with the sweaty movers, and were were finally alone in our first cozy home.

I let the cats out of their crates, and picked up the baby and did a little jig of happiness.  This place was perfect.  

It was a small house for the three of us, but it had a big kitchen and a beautiful backyard which led out to a public park with a small forest and a pond.  Big beautiful windows looked out at the yard which was in bloom with spring flowers.

I put the baby down in her swing in the middle of the kitchen an cranked the handle letting her go for a ride as my husband came in from the garage.

"Looks like it might rain out there.  Good thing we got it all in when we did," he said smailing at the baby and giving her swing a little extra push.

"I guess we need to tackle some of these boxes," I said looking at the boxes stacked up along every wall of the house.

"I'm going to set up the crib first, and then get some dinner," my sensible husband said as he moved toward the baby's room.

I settled in to unpacking boxes in between cranking the baby's swing all the while singing and talking to her.  Our cats had finished their inspection of the house and had come in to the kitchen to check out what was going on.  Outside the sky opened up and then rains hammered down, but we were safe, and warm, and dry inside.

"Hey," My husband caught my attention, "Have you gotten any bites in the last little bit?"

"Bites?"  I asked alarmed, "No, what are you talking about?"

"Look at my legs," he pointed to his calves, bare above his socks because he was wearing shorts.

I noticed his legs were covered with red bumps.  I looked down at my legs and saw that I too had red bumps which hadn't been itchy until I noticed them.  Now they were begging to be scratched.

My husband was scratching his legs, "I haven't seen any bugs, but there must be something.." he turned to look at our cats who were suddenly consumed with scratching, licking, and biting their fur.

"It's --" he started.

"Fleas!"  We both exclaimed. 

The previous owners had two dogs.  Both had always worn flea collars whenever we had seem them, but the house had been unoccupied for a week since they had moved out.  Obviously the fleas had multiplied and were very hungry.

I picked up the baby and noticed some pink bumps on her little legs and feet.  

"What do we do?" I cried staring down at my poor kitties and our legs.  "We can't stay here!"

My husband stopped scratching, and met my eyes, "Put the cats in their carriers.  Call the vet for an emergency flea dip.  I'll call an exterminator, and have them come out on an emergency call."  

He picked up the baby and grabbed his cell phone while I wrangled the very grumpy cats back into their carriers.

The pouring rain outside felt very welcome on our itchy skin as we rushed to the car to make our phone calls.