While I'm working on a YA novel (WIP) and taking off time to enter my first Script Frenzy,
I was challenged to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month 2011.
I like poetry. Silly stuff. Good stuff. Rhymes and rhythms. Irregular and regular. So, I started (late to the party of course) but decided to blend my interests. et Voila!
At a virtual write-in for my script My fingers across the keyboard skipped. The pages mounted, literally ripped From my mind and to the page they zipped. I hadn’t meant my first draft to encrypt But at first read I should be closed-lipped. Or dare I say, the fluff needs to be chipped Away so all but the kernel is stripped. In future, I hope to be better equipped And someday good champagne will be sipped When producers, directors, and actors are gripped By the emotions, the action--the thrill of my script.
Holding up my dirty sock, and smelling the stinky toe, I stop.It drops.I think it winks at me!
“Where is your other sock?” my mom asks for the third time tonight.
“Dunno.” Looking down at the one in my hand and then at the floor for the match. No, it’s not there.
“Do you know where my other sock is?” I whisper to the sock in my hand.I hope that no one knows I’m talking to my sock.
The sock says nothing but sags down low, looks sort of sad; not bad exactly, more twisting its toe—or is it a head—in a shrug?I let go and it falls to the rug.
I lean down low and creep up close, bending my head till I scrunch my nose and eyes and ask again.“Can you tell me where lonely socks go?” Wrinkling my nose from the smell of its toe, I’m not sure if it’s friend or foe.I wait for more, but it chooses not to say; so, I’m stuck with a puzzle.Can I learn today, the secret place where lonely socks go?
Perhaps, some sock can explain how lone socks know to start on a journey and go where they go.There must be one who’s been there and back who will tell its tale; I just have to find it and follow its trail; back to the place where lonely socks go.
So many of mine have gone away that I am certain there must be a special space that lonely socks gather to meet up with others as they travel the world or search the earth; a place where they might need my help to come home.
I seek the one that’s been there and back but I mix up whose’s whose and which’s which, so I’m not certain I’ll track which of my socks has come back from that space where lonely socks go. ...
There's more to the story, it's plain to see, each has lost a sock, maybe two or three. For this explorer the where is revealed yet a question remains though the solution is found. A conundrum exists in the story, as in life. The fun's in the journey more than solving the plight.
