Hurry Up and Wait

Posted: April 9, 2012 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Poetry, Writing | Tags: Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

My fingers fly across the keys
As fast as they can go.
I hit publish and wonder why
The Internet is so slow.

Hurry up and wait!
Hurry up and wait!
Seems that’s all I ever do.
If my computer would go faster
I’d already be through.

I watch the little hour-glass
That tells me it’s working hard
But nothing seems to happen
From what I’ve seen so far.

Hurry up and wait!
Hurry up and wait!
Seems that’s all I ever do.
If my computer would go faster
I’d already be through.

I have stories bouncing in my head
Just waiting to be written down.
My computer won’t go faster
No matter how I scowl and frown.

Hurry up and wait!
Hurry up and wait!
Seems that’s all I ever do.
If my computer would go faster
I’d already be through.

I published this on the old blog in 2009. Just thought I’d reprint it today to share with my new readers. Hope you like it.

What’s in a Poem?

Posted: November 30, 2010 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Poetry, Writing | Tags: Art, Dance, Harlequin, Intimacy, Mitch Barrett, Poetry, Voices | 2 Comments

When this blog was on the Today.com site, as I’ve mentioned before, I published a poem at the end of every post. In “Poetry Worth Noting” I reposted two poems written by others that I had posted on the old blog site, which received several views, making me think that perhaps the poetry is something that my readers might have an interest in. So, in this post, I will publish two of my own poems and tell you a little about the stories behind them. Please leave comments to let me know if this is something that you would like to see more of here, on Writing to be Read.

The first is called Voices and it really has a lot to do with the point where I really began to feel like a writer. I was preparing for the 2008 Fremont County Writers’ and Artists’ Fair. I had a table at the fair, but I had no book to sell, so I was putting each of my poems on an illustrated background for display. While looking for a suitable background for this particular poem, I discovered a painting, by artist Mitch Barrett, of the same name. I contacted the artist and obtain copyright permission to use his painting as the background for my poem. This was all very exciting for me for several reasons. First, the painting fit absolutely perfect with the content of the poem, with a central head, surrounded by faces that all seemed to be screaming at him. Second, this was the first time that I had every participated in any type of writing function, and I was beginning to feel like a “real” writer. And third, Mitch Barrett lives in England, and that is where he called me from. I was thrilled that this man would go out of his way to make an international call to me and grant me permission to use his work!

Voices

Is what I hear voices from above?
Or are they the voices of foolish love?

Sometimes they tell me to open my eyes,
And not believe your blatant lies.
Sometimes they tell me to forgive all.
At times they warn that I’m about to fall.

Sometimes they whisper, so I can barely hear.
Other times, they are so near
That it sounds as if they’re shouting in my head.
Sometimes they caution; I could end up dead.

They tell me I’m heading for dangerous ground,
Or tell me I shouldn’t have you around.
Sometimes they say I’m headed straight for the top.
Other times, they scream that I must stop.

They urge me to go faster,
Then they say slow way down.
They seem to speak most
When there’s no one around.

They tell me to do what I feel is right,
But then they say that it’s not worth the fight.
When I feel that my heart is shattered glass,
They say that I’d better get off my ass.

They that I might just think for a bit,
But they never allow me to give up or quit.
I listen, sometimes long into the night,
And they always say that I must do what is right.

They push me one way, then pull another.
Sometimes they sound just like my mother.
Often, I wonder if they’re from my past.
Sometimes, I long for silence at last.

Is what I hear voices from above?
Or are they the voices of foolish love?

Background Painting by Mitch Barrett, Poetry by Kaye Lynne Booth

The second poem that I would like to include here, came about because of Voices and that first initial contact with Mitch Barrett. Not long after the fair, Mitch contacted me about some paintings he was working on that he wanted to display with poetry, and he asked me to see what I could come up with to go with them. He explained what he was trying to do in the painting and sent me sketches of what the intended works would look like. This past summer, his painting, Intimacy went on display at the Kaleidoscope Gallery at Battle Sea Park, in London, featuring my poem, Intimacy and the Harlequin Dance. Just recently, the painting sold, which thrilled me to no end. It now has a home in Milan, I am told. It is a great painting, with my poetry, and there has been interest expressed by gallery owners of exhibiting more artwork/poetry combinations, so I may be collaborating with this talented artist again in the future.

Intimacy and the Harlequin Dance
By Kaye Lynne Booth

We dance through the masquerade of life
Disguised to fit the music
Of so many different melodies
That at times, we forget which tune
Holds the heartstrings of who we really are.

Then one day, we find the perfect dance partner,
But to attain the perfect rhythm
We must open ourselves up and reveal our souls.
Intimacy requires that we relinquish the mask
To expose the genuine self that lies beneath.

After all the years of dancing to false tunes
Will we be able to keep time
To the genuine dance and the original rhyme?
Or shall we don the mask once more and continue to
Keep time to the false melody of the Harlequin dance?

Painting by Mitch Barrett, Poetry by Kaye Lynne Booth

We Miss You

Posted: September 21, 2010 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Poetry | Tags: Grief. Poetry, Loss | 7 Comments

Two years ago today
You left us in this place
To carry on without you
Never again to see your face

You left all of those who loved you
We all miss you every day
We see you now in pictures
And wish that you had stayed

She was just one girl of many
And we know you loved her so
We know she hurt you terribly
But you didn’t have to go

We could have helped you work through
All the pain she caused for you
You built your world around her
And felt no one else would ever do

We wish you’d given us the chance
To help ease your suffering then
To comfort your poor wounded soul
And prove that it could mend

You’re in our thoughts each and every day
We long to hold you once again
You were our cherished son and you
Were much too young for life to end

Michael Daniel Lee Booth

Hello readers!

Posted: May 16, 2010 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Poetry, Writing | Tags: Inspiration, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Originally, Writing to be Read was a blog on Today.com. If you are a reader looking for that blog, you have come to the right place. I went to publish a post one day and found the whole site was gone. Not just my blog, but the whole blogging network, had disappeared into the unexplored realms of cyberspace. So this is the new home of Writing to be Read and I am pleased that you have found your way here. If you are not a former reader, but new to my blog, then I am equally pleased. I hope that you will enjoy what you read her, perhaps even find it informative, and visit again and again. For my first post, here on WordPress, I thought I would re-post my favorite blog from the other site, not just because I am fond of it, but also because I feel that it was one of my best, so it is a good way to begin here at this new blog site. If you are a former reader that has already read this post, I can only hope that it was one of your favorites, too. And so, without futher ado…

Learning to Listen to My Muse

Muse: taken from the Greek word, meaning a spirit or power watching over artists, poets, and musicians. Today, it is generally used to refer simply to the power of inspiration. In this respect, every creative mind has a muse, each taking a different form or even a distinctly individual personality. I know mine does.

Perhaps because of the mythological origins of the word, which actually referred to nine Greek Goddesses that acted as protectors for artists, or maybe it’s just because I am a woman and I believe that the personality of the muse takes on aspects of the mistress or master, but I always think of my muse as being female. At the rate that Stephen King produces books, I would think that his muse must message him daily and cook, clean and take care of all menial chores, so that he can concentrate on creating best sellers. Not mine, however. Although I think that my muse really does try to be a good muse, playfully teasing in attempts to improve my mood when I’m down, pointing out things that she thinks might inspire me, trying desperately to cajole me into concentrating on the work at hand instead of a million other distractions, it always seems that when I need her the most, she is no where to be found.

It is at those times when I need to write, because I have a deadline to meet, or just because I’m stuck and need to move the story forward before frustration causes me to throw up my hands in despair, that I really need my muse. She disappeared for awhile after the death of my son, after nothing she could think to do would cheer me, but then she came up with a way to get me writing, like any good muse would, and she came back with the throttle open, doling out inspiration by the bucketful, by planting the idea that it was good to express my feelings of grief on paper. Grief, I had plenty of and man, did I write.

The past couple of weeks we have been busily moving into our new home, and I haven’t taken time to sit and write like I should. As I busied myself unpacking and cleaning everything that we have had in storage for almost five years, I didn’t really pay attention as my muse tried to amuse and draw my attention to the keyboard. Last week, when I finally got around to trying to write my blog entry, I found her sulking in the corner, with injured pride, unwilling to assist in inspiring, like a pouting child. Today, as I prepared to sit down before the keyboard, I couldn’t help but notice the heaviness left by her total absence. I looked high and low. I looked here and there, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally, I gave up on trying to write and took a drive up to Lake DeWeese with my husband.

When we arrived at the lake, what did I find, but my muse sitting on a rock at the base of the dam. The sound of the water pounding over the top and down behind her only fueled my anger at her perceived abandonment of me. I slashed my way through the bushes, unmindful of the sticker bushes intermingled with the willows that grabbed for the flesh of my legs. Just before I reached her, slopping through the marshy muck, she looked up to reveal eyes full of hurt and a tear streaked cheek. Like a slap in the face, the revelation hit me. My muse was not acting like a rebellious child, but simply finding solitude to lick her wounds. Wounds that I had inflicted by ignoring her, as she had danced around, trying to get my attention. She hadn’t run away, and she wasn’t hiding. I had chased her away. I immediately apologized and asked her to come home. She smiled, and pointed to a hawk, sailing on the wind currents above our heads, then pointed to a pair of geese that were sunning on the bank downstream. All was forgiven. My muse danced off over the water to stand in the middle of the river at the base of the dam, where no human being would be able to stay upright in the water at this height. She spread her arms open toward the sky, the water pounding down upon her from the overflow as if to say, “I’m right here and I’m free. All you need do, is to listen to me.”

My Muse

My muse is always trying to inspire in every way.

She dances and sticks out her tongue, enticing me to play.

She knows just what inspires me

And she tries to make me see

A world that’s filled with beauty, everywhere I go.

Inspiration is all around, my muse does surely know.

On days when I am feeling down or am busy as can be

I don’t always take the time to see what she wants me to see.

By the time I’m ready to be inspired,

Of this game, she has grown tired.

She may be sulking in the corner, or in the other room