Monthly Archives: February 2008

I Am But a Wounded Bird

I sit at my desk….thinking about the significance

of the chocolates that he gave to me today

His…a surprise above any thinking of mine own

I am doing all that I can to not cry for myself

For I am so frightened by any signs of a promised love

I am but a wounded bird

Who flies above the world with eyes patched to darkness

Praying and hoping that this…will some how pass me by

Because I can not endure the passions of my own heart

I am a masterpiece for the macabre to a spirit

That withers in the wind

As I think of the touch of his lips as soft as the pillow of which I lay my head

Why am I so frightened of love?

And what shall I do about it?

Time is passing me by and I am so tired of running

For there have been so many suitors… of no interest to me

Fear has lead me here…as I search for answers from my God above

Has he sent me love?

Or a false imitation of a fear to be known?

I…the wounded bird…cursed by what I can not see

I… the wounded bird who sits at her desk

In fancy of you….my love…who moves about my mind and soul

As the white doves fly through the merciful clouds

That adorns the Heavenly skies

I can not lie

I am but a wounded bird

Who is, but a hopeless slave to her own fears

Women helping women… the power of love.

I give thanks every single day for my many blessings. And because I feel so blessed, I always want to try to help others. Giving is an addictive thing, but luckily, I’m in a wonderful position to make it easier.
A good friend and I organize an annual “Reader & Author Get Together” every June, in West Chester, Ohio. Authors in various stages of their careers gather with happy readers and industry professionals to share our love of the written word, to chat and eat and relax. It’s like a giant, loosely organized tea party. During the event, we raffle off donated baskets, and donate the proceeds to various organizations.
(Registration is open to everyone, cost is only $35 for the entire weekend -which covers most meals- and you can find more information here: http://lorifoster.com/community/readergettogthr.htm )

This year, to go along with our special event, we’ll have a very special book release. The Power Of Love is a romance anthology published by Berkley.

Authors include:

Lori Foster
Erin McCarthy
Toni Blake
Dianne Castell
Karen Kelley
Rosemary Laurey
Janice Maynard
LuAnn McLane
Lucy Monroe
Patricia Sargeant
Kay Stockham
J.C. Wilder

Best of all? The authors and their agents are donating ALL of their proceeds to the Cincinnati Battered Women’s Shelter.
Every book sold will add to the amount given. It’ll be the gift that keeps on giving.
I’m really excited about it, and I hope readers will be too.
There’s more, and a link to buy, on my website at www.lorifoster.com

Thank you!

Lori Foster
also writing as L.L.Foster

My Darkest Fear

Beyond the haziness that is my mind,
a thought does plague me so.
Lost, adrift and nearly blind…
there’s no true course to go.

Emotional love, what’s that? I implore –
but dark shadows exposed to the light?
A gale merely settled before became storm –
Smooth waters hiding vampirism might.

Lost, still, in this sea of dysfunctional trust,
a moment in time is lost to soul’s rant.
Words that haunted my heart are thrust
forward revealing my devlish desires decadent.

My agony and ecstasy purged in these waters –
silenced a moment, but still raging.
My darkest fear is that love really matters
and is not for the heart to be caging.

Whisper for me into the wind
as my vessel drifts beyond the mists
Perhaps a new map, angels will send
and I’ll know the joy of truly being kissed.

©2004, Lori S. Maynard

Why I tell the stories I tell…

There a lot of people in my world who keep expecting my next piece to be an edgy – hip play that pushes the boundaries and has lots of cool swear words and images. That isn’t going to happen. I just ain’t edgy.

People figure since I’m a blue collar dude from Chicago, I should be cranking out Mametian work rife with angst and f-bombs. There really is no reason to – Mamet already does it and very few do it better.

I try to tell stories that create a world that I would want to live in or at the very least control in some way or another. In some cases I want to recreate a moment so I can go back and fix what was broken for me – or for someone I love – in that moment. Sometimes I go back to pay tribute to the people or the event – or both. Sometimes I just want to go back because things were simpler in the twenty-first century.

My father used to take me to movies that were way over my head when I was a little kid and afterward we would go to the Majestic restaurant and get a cup of sherbet and he would patiently explain it to me. This created a passion for creating art that could be shared with a family across generations.

My mother and I used to write (terrible) pop songs. We pulled every cliché out of the book and arranged them with a forced rhyme scheme which I then typed up on her Princess Electra typewriter. Even the melodies we banged out on that old Sear guitar were predictable – but what a time we had. This created a passion to develop art with someone I love.

I tell the stories I tell because they are mine. They are my moments. They are my memories. I only hope I strike some universal chord with them and inspire someone else to mine their history for their own stories to share.

Submersion

She sat on a chair in the den reading a book, but was unable to concentrate. Her eyes continuously drifted to where he sat sleeping in front of the television, his head thrown back, his mouth slightly open. His right shoulder was pressed against the arm of the sofa, and his left hand was thrown across the dog as it lay sleeping beside him. He desperately needed a haircut, and as she lowered her eyes, she caught sight of his big toe poking through a hole in his sock.

Something suddenly caught her eye and she gasped, causing him to jump. “Spider!” She pointed to the floor as it quickly scurried across.

He leaned forward, picked up his slipper, and smacked it. After tossing the slipper back to the floor, he reached for the remote control.

She looked at the spider lying there dead. “Are you just going to leave it there?”

He stared at her for a long moment with that smirk on his face she had come to despise in recent months, then slowly walked into the kitchen to get a napkin. After picking the spider up, he lay down on the couch and began to channel surf, holding the crumpled napkin in his hand.

Looking at him in disgust, she snapped her book shut. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be there in a little while,” he said, never once looking at her.

She wanted to say, “Don’t do me any favors,” but felt tired of arguing. It seemed as though that was all they ever did, unless they had one of their major blowouts. Then they would give each other the silent treatment for a few days, until one of them finally broke down and spoke first.

She went upstairs into the bathroom, stepping over his work clothes, underpants, socks, and the towel he used after his shower. I could kill him, she thought looking at the mess on the floor. It was not the first time she had such thoughts. She filled the bathtub with hot water, and added a generous capful of bath oil. There has to be a way. There’s got to be!

As she stepped out of her clothes, she determined to end their relationship and finish the rest of her life without him. She turned off the water and smiled as a plan slowly began to unfold in her mind. Stepping into the tub, she reached for the shower curtain as she slipped, hitting her head hard on the side of the tub, knocking herself unconscious. Lying completely submerged for several minutes, he was no longer a part of her life.

Writing Notebooks in Grade 2

As an early childhood educator I am a staunch supporter of the writing workshop approach as a way to encourage and nurture young writers. This year, after having read Notebook Knowhow by Aimee Buckner, I decided to try writing notebooks with my grade 2 students. Previously I had only used writing folders and at times premade small books for children to write in. After reading Aimee Buckner’s clearly written book with easy to implement lessons, I decided to give it a go in my own classroom. The resulting writing by my students has far exceeded my initial expectations. The 5 – 10 minutes of independent writing that they do several times a week in their writing notebooks has revealed to them, and to me, what they are capable of doing on their own. I have some children who will only engage in writing if they have a friend to do it with. The writing notebook has become a place for my more reluctant writyers to experiment and take risks that might not happen in our usually bustling writing workshop time. In my next posts, I will share the lessons I borrowed from Notebnook Knowhow and how I modified them. And, of course, I will post some of my students’ writing in response to these lessons.