Good question. (If I do say so myself!)
Something a bit different for my last post of the year...I'll share a poem that doesn't rhyme, as well as one that does, all in the course of telling you about the year I decided to make my horoscope come true.
I started out 2011 feeling flat - not depressed, but stuck in my routines and frustrated with myself. The last day of 2010 I read my horoscope, which as usual promised great things. (Who would bother reading them if they didn't?) Anyhow, my horoscope foretold such great things for the year to come that I had to read what was in the cards for my boys (both Libras) and Todd (an Aries). Apparently great things were forecast for all of us, so I snipped out our horoscopes for the year and stuck them to the fridge.
I read that Aquarius forecast several times over the first few months. It talked at length about trying new things and freeing myself of old attitudes that weren't serving me well. It made sense to me to try to make those predictions come true, so rather than set a ton of resolutions I decided to use those predictions as the basis of making change. It may sound crazy, but it worked.
I consider myself a woman with faith, but sadly my faith in myself has been compromised most of my life. This past year I plugged my nose (as I've never been good at holding my breath) and I dove into a few projects that I never would have had sufficient faith to follow through with before. I gave myself the year I needed to have, primarily because I had enough faith in myself to follow the stars that were there to guide me.
I'm still no believer in horoscopes, unless they're used as I chose to use mine. We choose where fate leads us, based on our faith in ourselves, and our faith in a higher power. For many of us, a belief in God inspires us to act in positive ways, for others it is the power of love. For true "believers" the two should be inseparably connected.
This poem was one of the first I ever wrote. I was twenty years old, and thought I had all the answers.
Sharon's Star: (By Sharon A. Flood - May 1982)
My sister wrote a poem about herself.
She said she had a dream
and saw a star that beckoned.
(She woke and it was gone.)
I see stars in waking hours.
They try to chart my course -
I will not follow.
I don't look to the heavens to see
where I should go.
I look at the ground - my footprints
show me where I've been.
It isn't enough to know
what not to do, where not to return.
If I would lift my gaze -
look up and forward -
I would recognize my guiding star
and follow it to the Son.
Now, at the ripe old age of almost fifty, I can easily admit that I most definitely do not have all the answers. I'm getting good at identifying the problems (in my life and in the world as a whole), and I do believe that having faith in ourselves and in those "higher powers" that I previously mentioned can move us all forward as we gain the courage to follow the stars that are there to lead us all onward and upward.
The second poem I'm sharing might seem grim. Society does seem to be slipping, but each of us can do our part to lay down a little sand. We are here to live, to learn and to make every day better than the last in some small way. Who's up for the challenge? Happy New Year to all of my friends and family. I love you all and look forward to another year of learning from whatever life hands me.
And of course, I leave you at the close of the year with one last poetic thought...
Humanity (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April 2010)
The human condition
so broad and complex
has infinite power to baffle and vex.
There's no comprehending
the choices we make -
the creeds that we live by;
the vows we forsake.
The things that most want are
illusions at best -
and thanks for what's given
is seldom expressed.
We're searching for wealth and
perpetual youth -
and claim to seek wisdom,
but hide from the truth.
Our confidence wavers,
our manners are crude -
and most of us harbor
a bad attitude.
Compassion is lacking -
what's not understood
is too often labeled
as being no good.
We're all armed for battle
and itching to fight -
and egos convince us
our cause must be right.
Surrounded by plenty,
desires still taunt -
not too many of us
are sure what we want.
The answers may reach us,
if question we dare -
most grow apathetic -
too jaded to care.
Faith offers us answers
we choose to resist...
God wants all to live
but we mostly exist.
Saturday 31 December 2011
Monday 5 December 2011
Christmas Light
I love Christmas!
Every year by the end of November I've begun my holiday preparations - writing the annual family Christmas letter to relatives and friends, going on the prowl for gift ideas and baking up a storm. I decorate my house with multiple Christmas trees and cover my windows in (mostly) hand-made snowflakes. Sam hangs our outdoor lights and helps me make his favorite candy cane cookies. Most years Dan and Todd limit their involvement to sniffing the air appreciatively and waiting for their next taste test - we always sample a bit of everything. The rest we share with friends and save for holiday noshing.
Christmas is a season of joy. People are more energetic and more filled with good will than usual. The happiness and excitement surrounding the season can be infectious. It's a season that makes us want to sing. I love Christmas carols, but have to confess that I find "holiday music" (Frosty and Rudolph - and especially that that "drummer boy" - ugh) a bit irritating. They grate on my nerves in short order, probably because I think they're out of context. None of them really have a thing to do with what I'm celebrating.
I am unabashed about expressing my opinion that Christmas is a religious holiday. Others can celebrate it as they wish, but I'm celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. I'm celebrating the concept of "Peace on earth and goodwill towards men." I say "Merry Christmas" without apology, and to my knowledge it has never offended anyone. Why should it? I'm just telling them to enjoy Christmas day happily - however they want to spend it.
Christmas is a time of reflection. As I contemplate a birth that changed the course of history I evaluate what I've accomplished throughout a year that is coming to an end. What have I left unfinished? What can I do to improve my life and my world in the year to come? In a season of lights I am looking for personal enlightenment, and striving to share whatever light and hope I have within me with those around me.
I've written a lot of poems about Christmas, but this is my favorite. Love, light and hope to all, and Merry Christmas!
Christmas Light - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (December 2007)
As days grow shorter, dull and dark
we pause to celebrate -
remembering the sacred birth
that changed our human fate.
Promised Messiah, born to save,
redeeming all from sin -
He takes our dim and troubled souls
and lights them from within.
A star shone o'er the earth that night -
it was the promised sign -
symbolic of the guiding truth
that did His life define.
It led the shepherds to the place
where He in manger lay -
and Magi from the eastern lands
were led by glorious ray.
The world too much in darkness dwells,
with eyes so often blind
to all the beauty that exists
and goodness in mankind.
The Savior came to bring us hope,
His teachings light the way -
and all enjoy a brighter path
who seek Him every day.
If we are willing to be led
like shepherds on a hill -
with earnestness of heart and mind,
we too can find Him still.
Then darkest seasons of our lives
are lit by stars above -
and we in turn will radiate
the wonders of His love.
Every year by the end of November I've begun my holiday preparations - writing the annual family Christmas letter to relatives and friends, going on the prowl for gift ideas and baking up a storm. I decorate my house with multiple Christmas trees and cover my windows in (mostly) hand-made snowflakes. Sam hangs our outdoor lights and helps me make his favorite candy cane cookies. Most years Dan and Todd limit their involvement to sniffing the air appreciatively and waiting for their next taste test - we always sample a bit of everything. The rest we share with friends and save for holiday noshing.
Christmas is a season of joy. People are more energetic and more filled with good will than usual. The happiness and excitement surrounding the season can be infectious. It's a season that makes us want to sing. I love Christmas carols, but have to confess that I find "holiday music" (Frosty and Rudolph - and especially that that "drummer boy" - ugh) a bit irritating. They grate on my nerves in short order, probably because I think they're out of context. None of them really have a thing to do with what I'm celebrating.
I am unabashed about expressing my opinion that Christmas is a religious holiday. Others can celebrate it as they wish, but I'm celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. I'm celebrating the concept of "Peace on earth and goodwill towards men." I say "Merry Christmas" without apology, and to my knowledge it has never offended anyone. Why should it? I'm just telling them to enjoy Christmas day happily - however they want to spend it.
Christmas is a time of reflection. As I contemplate a birth that changed the course of history I evaluate what I've accomplished throughout a year that is coming to an end. What have I left unfinished? What can I do to improve my life and my world in the year to come? In a season of lights I am looking for personal enlightenment, and striving to share whatever light and hope I have within me with those around me.
I've written a lot of poems about Christmas, but this is my favorite. Love, light and hope to all, and Merry Christmas!
Christmas Light - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (December 2007)
As days grow shorter, dull and dark
we pause to celebrate -
remembering the sacred birth
that changed our human fate.
Promised Messiah, born to save,
redeeming all from sin -
He takes our dim and troubled souls
and lights them from within.
A star shone o'er the earth that night -
it was the promised sign -
symbolic of the guiding truth
that did His life define.
It led the shepherds to the place
where He in manger lay -
and Magi from the eastern lands
were led by glorious ray.
The world too much in darkness dwells,
with eyes so often blind
to all the beauty that exists
and goodness in mankind.
The Savior came to bring us hope,
His teachings light the way -
and all enjoy a brighter path
who seek Him every day.
If we are willing to be led
like shepherds on a hill -
with earnestness of heart and mind,
we too can find Him still.
Then darkest seasons of our lives
are lit by stars above -
and we in turn will radiate
the wonders of His love.
Friday 18 November 2011
The Mouse and the Spouse - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (November 17, 2011)
I am beginning this blog post with an ALMOST disclaimer.
This is a poem that could almost be about my husband and I. Todd loves his electronic gadgetry, and plays with his phone a lot. He's self-employed, and sometimes doesn't know quite when to end his business day - or for that matter when to not start another business day.
As far as Todd is concerned, that's where the similarities end. He seldom texts, and never wears his Bluetooth in the house. (It stays in the car, where it belongs.) Todd does not own a Blackberry. He almost always remembers to comb his hair when he gets out of the shower, and nothing comes between him and his breakfast - especially on Saturdays. ("Family breakfast" on Saturdays is a tradition. I make pancakes or waffles or muffins or something equally yummy.)
As far as "the spouse" is concerned....hmmmm - she could be me IF Todd were silly enough to choose the mouse over the spouse on any given Saturday!
So here goes - my latest offering - penned only yesterday. (Inspired by Dr. Seuss - one of my all time favorites.)
The Mouse and the Spouse - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
It rained, or the sun shone, he never knew which.
As soon as he woke up his fingers would twitch.
Eight hours without texting had taken their toll -
his Blackberry held him within its control.
He rushed to get showered and dressed in great haste -
his emails awaited, he'd no time to waste!
To sit and eat breakfast - a hardship - a chore!
The pull of his keyboard was hard to ignore.
So there he sat typing (Bluetooth in his ear)
when a clout on the head told him someone was near.
He looked, and he saw her, the wife of his youth -
her face wore expression of hearty reproof.
She said to him, "WHY do you spend all your days
all hooked up to gadgets in multiple ways?
It seems all you do is just sit, sit, sit, sit -
and I do NOT like it - not one little bit!
Your waistline's expanding, your skin's looking gray,
I know you may tune out each word that I say -
but gosh - you'd be fitter if you would relax -
your workload's too heavy, you're stressed to the max!
Your neck muscles bunch because you sit there bent -
you're tired, and cranky, and quite discontent.
To cellphone and ipad it seems you're a slave.
Your Blackberry lures you to earlier grave.
Your fingers - arthritic - although you're not old -
I swear by these gizmos your life is controlled!
So switch off your cellphone and Bluetooth remove -
the sun - it is shining! Get into the groove!"
He looked at his spouse and he knew she was right -
his stomach - it rumbled! His hair looked a fright!
The sun - it was shining. The sky - it was blue.
He looked at his wife and he knew what to do.
Her eyes - they were blazing! Her nostrils - they flared!
She frightened him sorely, but he knew she cared.
His blogging and tweeting would just have to wait.
He'd look to his health and he wouldn't tempt fate.
He stroked his mouse gently, and then powered down.
His wife's mouth was no longer wearing a frown.
He pulled out his earpiece with nary a tear -
his day's new agenda was perfectly clear.
A whole world awaited outside his front door!
A world full of promise was his to explore!
His emails and web casts could wait a few days
while he reconnected in multiple ways.
He'd spend time relaxing and taking his ease -
he'd bask in the sunshine and do as he pleased.
From shackles of phone and of laptop, be free!
He'd walk in the woods and he might hug a tree!
His tension dissolved as he thought these good thoughts -
his muscles, they loosened - released all their knots.
His wife stood there beaming and reached for his hand -
her plot to reform him, progressing as planned.
She knew he'd relapse when the weekend was done,
but for now he was hers; they were off to have fun.
This is a poem that could almost be about my husband and I. Todd loves his electronic gadgetry, and plays with his phone a lot. He's self-employed, and sometimes doesn't know quite when to end his business day - or for that matter when to not start another business day.
As far as Todd is concerned, that's where the similarities end. He seldom texts, and never wears his Bluetooth in the house. (It stays in the car, where it belongs.) Todd does not own a Blackberry. He almost always remembers to comb his hair when he gets out of the shower, and nothing comes between him and his breakfast - especially on Saturdays. ("Family breakfast" on Saturdays is a tradition. I make pancakes or waffles or muffins or something equally yummy.)
As far as "the spouse" is concerned....hmmmm - she could be me IF Todd were silly enough to choose the mouse over the spouse on any given Saturday!
So here goes - my latest offering - penned only yesterday. (Inspired by Dr. Seuss - one of my all time favorites.)
The Mouse and the Spouse - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
It rained, or the sun shone, he never knew which.
As soon as he woke up his fingers would twitch.
Eight hours without texting had taken their toll -
his Blackberry held him within its control.
He rushed to get showered and dressed in great haste -
his emails awaited, he'd no time to waste!
To sit and eat breakfast - a hardship - a chore!
The pull of his keyboard was hard to ignore.
So there he sat typing (Bluetooth in his ear)
when a clout on the head told him someone was near.
He looked, and he saw her, the wife of his youth -
her face wore expression of hearty reproof.
She said to him, "WHY do you spend all your days
all hooked up to gadgets in multiple ways?
It seems all you do is just sit, sit, sit, sit -
and I do NOT like it - not one little bit!
Your waistline's expanding, your skin's looking gray,
I know you may tune out each word that I say -
but gosh - you'd be fitter if you would relax -
your workload's too heavy, you're stressed to the max!
Your neck muscles bunch because you sit there bent -
you're tired, and cranky, and quite discontent.
To cellphone and ipad it seems you're a slave.
Your Blackberry lures you to earlier grave.
Your fingers - arthritic - although you're not old -
I swear by these gizmos your life is controlled!
So switch off your cellphone and Bluetooth remove -
the sun - it is shining! Get into the groove!"
He looked at his spouse and he knew she was right -
his stomach - it rumbled! His hair looked a fright!
The sun - it was shining. The sky - it was blue.
He looked at his wife and he knew what to do.
Her eyes - they were blazing! Her nostrils - they flared!
She frightened him sorely, but he knew she cared.
His blogging and tweeting would just have to wait.
He'd look to his health and he wouldn't tempt fate.
He stroked his mouse gently, and then powered down.
His wife's mouth was no longer wearing a frown.
He pulled out his earpiece with nary a tear -
his day's new agenda was perfectly clear.
A whole world awaited outside his front door!
A world full of promise was his to explore!
His emails and web casts could wait a few days
while he reconnected in multiple ways.
He'd spend time relaxing and taking his ease -
he'd bask in the sunshine and do as he pleased.
From shackles of phone and of laptop, be free!
He'd walk in the woods and he might hug a tree!
His tension dissolved as he thought these good thoughts -
his muscles, they loosened - released all their knots.
His wife stood there beaming and reached for his hand -
her plot to reform him, progressing as planned.
She knew he'd relapse when the weekend was done,
but for now he was hers; they were off to have fun.
Friday 21 October 2011
In Progress - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I spend a lot of my time feeling frustrated with myself.
If misery really "loves company" I guess I can take comfort in the fact that there are plenty of other people in this world who are as impatient with themselves as I am. After all, in an age where everything happens quickly, it's understandable that so many of us crave instant gratification on the self-improvement front. We want to be bigger, stronger, faster, smarter and more attractive - and doggone it - we want it all NOW!
The media inundates us with commercials featuring beautiful people, and stories of meteoric success. Many become discouraged by the small increments of progress that they may (or sadly, may not) notice in themselves.
"Why do I keep trying?" many of us ask ourselves. "Wouldn't it be easier to stop all this striving for improvement and settle for mediocrity?"
As one who has "settled" for being average most of my life I can tell you that nothing is more soul destroying than not challenging yourself from time to time. There's no need to go into flat-out "beauty pageant mode" and try to be the winner, but it's important to keep plugging away at those self-improvement projects, even if at times you feel as exposed as a reluctant beauty queen teetering around in high heels, sash and bikini.
You may be struggling to keep going to the gym when your cellulite is telling you that you're wishing on the moon, but hang in there! You didn't put on the extra weight over-night, and it won't miraculously melt off by tomorrow morning either. You may be trying to get ahead in your career and feeling pushed aside or ignored at every turn, but you can't afford to give up. Persistence always pays off, one way or another.
Creative endeavors can be the most challenging to pursue. Some will be quick to tell you that you can succeed, but just as many (probably a whole lot more!) will sneer at your artistic aspirations or give you pitying glances behind your back. Write, draw, paint, act anyway. Do what speaks to your soul.
In the past I've made the claim that my children are my ultimate creation. I gave them life, but they create themselves, and re-create themselves on a constant basis. Therefore it follows that I am my own ultimate creation. Here a bit, there a bit I improve on my self portrait or my autobiography. Some day I may have a masterpiece to show for my efforts...
For now I'm a work in progress.
In Progress - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (August '08)
I am a work in progress,
unmolded, unbaked clay -
meant to be bent and twisted
until it's fired one day.
Like plasticine or putty
I'll set but not cement -
I'm not ready to harden
to any great extent.
Creation is a process -
a moth in a cocoon
won't survive to fly away
if wings are freed too soon.
Paint daubs upon a canvass
are patiently applied -
built up 'til art emerges
before the paint has dried.
If like unfinished portrait
I seem too smeared and blurred -
or like unfinished sentence
I seem to lack a word -
my wings are not yet ready,
my story not complete;
my portrait isn't painted -
It's not cause for defeat.
I'm still a work in progress -
roughly sketched - unfinished,
but 'though I am imperfect
my worth is not diminished.
If misery really "loves company" I guess I can take comfort in the fact that there are plenty of other people in this world who are as impatient with themselves as I am. After all, in an age where everything happens quickly, it's understandable that so many of us crave instant gratification on the self-improvement front. We want to be bigger, stronger, faster, smarter and more attractive - and doggone it - we want it all NOW!
The media inundates us with commercials featuring beautiful people, and stories of meteoric success. Many become discouraged by the small increments of progress that they may (or sadly, may not) notice in themselves.
"Why do I keep trying?" many of us ask ourselves. "Wouldn't it be easier to stop all this striving for improvement and settle for mediocrity?"
As one who has "settled" for being average most of my life I can tell you that nothing is more soul destroying than not challenging yourself from time to time. There's no need to go into flat-out "beauty pageant mode" and try to be the winner, but it's important to keep plugging away at those self-improvement projects, even if at times you feel as exposed as a reluctant beauty queen teetering around in high heels, sash and bikini.
You may be struggling to keep going to the gym when your cellulite is telling you that you're wishing on the moon, but hang in there! You didn't put on the extra weight over-night, and it won't miraculously melt off by tomorrow morning either. You may be trying to get ahead in your career and feeling pushed aside or ignored at every turn, but you can't afford to give up. Persistence always pays off, one way or another.
Creative endeavors can be the most challenging to pursue. Some will be quick to tell you that you can succeed, but just as many (probably a whole lot more!) will sneer at your artistic aspirations or give you pitying glances behind your back. Write, draw, paint, act anyway. Do what speaks to your soul.
In the past I've made the claim that my children are my ultimate creation. I gave them life, but they create themselves, and re-create themselves on a constant basis. Therefore it follows that I am my own ultimate creation. Here a bit, there a bit I improve on my self portrait or my autobiography. Some day I may have a masterpiece to show for my efforts...
For now I'm a work in progress.
In Progress - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (August '08)
I am a work in progress,
unmolded, unbaked clay -
meant to be bent and twisted
until it's fired one day.
Like plasticine or putty
I'll set but not cement -
I'm not ready to harden
to any great extent.
Creation is a process -
a moth in a cocoon
won't survive to fly away
if wings are freed too soon.
Paint daubs upon a canvass
are patiently applied -
built up 'til art emerges
before the paint has dried.
If like unfinished portrait
I seem too smeared and blurred -
or like unfinished sentence
I seem to lack a word -
my wings are not yet ready,
my story not complete;
my portrait isn't painted -
It's not cause for defeat.
I'm still a work in progress -
roughly sketched - unfinished,
but 'though I am imperfect
my worth is not diminished.
Monday 19 September 2011
Center Stage - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about what's important to me. There have been a lot of changes in my life these past several months, and each change reminds me of how many more changes will inevitably come as my sons leave home to pursue their own lives and their own dreams. Oddly, contemplating the changes in my life has made me more aware of the things that remain constant.
Every now and then someone manages to cut me to the quick with a thoughtless comment. Last week, I felt that someone was accusing me of being materialistic. (In reality, it was probably just a case of someone having a bad day and over-reacting to something I said first.) Nevertheless, it made me think.
I was raised by a steel-worker and a telephone operator. We lived comfortably because my father insisted on frugality. I was nicely dressed as a youth because my mother was a gifted seamstress. I learned that money has its place - it is a necessity in everyone's life. It provides comfort and security, but it truly cannot buy happiness. I lived one step above abject poverty when I left home. At a few different points my parents, worried about my dire financial straits, tried to convince me to move home. I staunchly refused. The satisfaction I felt at being able to survive "on my own" (no matter how uncomfortably) mattered more to me than the financial security that my parents could have provided for me. I wanted to stand on my own. Independence brought me satisfaction.
During my first decade of married life the "lean years" continued. Todd endured three periods of unemployment and a series of low-paying jobs. Our finances were sometimes shaky, but our happiness as a couple, and a family, remained constant.
When we lived in Quebec, my husband was viewed as an "up and comer" by his employers. As news spread that he was planning to move back to Ontario (a move our family desperately needed) several co-workers advised him to send his family to Ontario, and remain behind. That advice, we both felt, wasn't even worthy of consideration. Instead, Todd accepted a demotion so that we could move to a place where we could be happier as a family. There are some losses that money just can't compensate for.
We consider ourselves fortunate to be enjoying financial security in an era where the economy is unsteady and many around us are experiencing hardship. We have a healthy appreciation for all that we have, and a healthy fear that it will all disappear. The reality is that the "success" (and I use the term loosely) that we presently enjoy could "turn on a dime." We're trying to plan wisely for an uncertain future. But if we are poor again tomorrow, we will still have love in our family, we will still strive to improve ourselves, and we will continue to have faith in each other.
I related what I'd perceived as a slight on my priorities to my younger son, who is away from home. I asked him what he felt he'd learned from us. (I wanted to be reassured that I hadn't inadvertently preached the "Gospel of Materialism" to him.) This was his response:
"Money doesn't make me happy, and accolades don't thrill me. What satisfies me is knowing that I've done my best and I've become a better person for it. I think that's what our family is all about. I'm quite confident that you and Dad feel the same way."
My older son said recently. "I don't aspire to ever live in a house any bigger or nicer than this one." It warmed my heart to hear him say that.
Amen to both of them. A "good life" isn't a life of decadence or fame. Success is measured in satisfaction, in the knowledge that you're doing your best and making some sort of progress on a daily basis. I'm glad that my sons somehow heard and understood the messages my husband and I tried to convey.
This month's poetry selection is one that I feel illustrates my philosophies on money, success, and life.
Center Stage - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September'07)
A man's worth more than the amount
of dollars in his bank account.
His worth lies not in what is seen,
but what he's done and who he's been.
How did he act, what did he say;
what graciousness did he display?
When he stood out at center stage,
how did he with the cast engage?
Did he shine in his starring role
or use position to control?
In lesser roles, how did he act?
(For this determines worth, in fact.)
All men can shine when light are hot,
but worth's determined when they're not
and how a man acts in the wings
illuminates a lot of things.
By how he acts there we can know
what is for real, and what's for show.
Most men can prosper and seem bright
when they are upstage in spotlight,
but stars are born when lights are out
and there's no audience about.
All do perform for better cause
by acting well, without applause.
Every now and then someone manages to cut me to the quick with a thoughtless comment. Last week, I felt that someone was accusing me of being materialistic. (In reality, it was probably just a case of someone having a bad day and over-reacting to something I said first.) Nevertheless, it made me think.
I was raised by a steel-worker and a telephone operator. We lived comfortably because my father insisted on frugality. I was nicely dressed as a youth because my mother was a gifted seamstress. I learned that money has its place - it is a necessity in everyone's life. It provides comfort and security, but it truly cannot buy happiness. I lived one step above abject poverty when I left home. At a few different points my parents, worried about my dire financial straits, tried to convince me to move home. I staunchly refused. The satisfaction I felt at being able to survive "on my own" (no matter how uncomfortably) mattered more to me than the financial security that my parents could have provided for me. I wanted to stand on my own. Independence brought me satisfaction.
During my first decade of married life the "lean years" continued. Todd endured three periods of unemployment and a series of low-paying jobs. Our finances were sometimes shaky, but our happiness as a couple, and a family, remained constant.
When we lived in Quebec, my husband was viewed as an "up and comer" by his employers. As news spread that he was planning to move back to Ontario (a move our family desperately needed) several co-workers advised him to send his family to Ontario, and remain behind. That advice, we both felt, wasn't even worthy of consideration. Instead, Todd accepted a demotion so that we could move to a place where we could be happier as a family. There are some losses that money just can't compensate for.
We consider ourselves fortunate to be enjoying financial security in an era where the economy is unsteady and many around us are experiencing hardship. We have a healthy appreciation for all that we have, and a healthy fear that it will all disappear. The reality is that the "success" (and I use the term loosely) that we presently enjoy could "turn on a dime." We're trying to plan wisely for an uncertain future. But if we are poor again tomorrow, we will still have love in our family, we will still strive to improve ourselves, and we will continue to have faith in each other.
I related what I'd perceived as a slight on my priorities to my younger son, who is away from home. I asked him what he felt he'd learned from us. (I wanted to be reassured that I hadn't inadvertently preached the "Gospel of Materialism" to him.) This was his response:
"Money doesn't make me happy, and accolades don't thrill me. What satisfies me is knowing that I've done my best and I've become a better person for it. I think that's what our family is all about. I'm quite confident that you and Dad feel the same way."
My older son said recently. "I don't aspire to ever live in a house any bigger or nicer than this one." It warmed my heart to hear him say that.
Amen to both of them. A "good life" isn't a life of decadence or fame. Success is measured in satisfaction, in the knowledge that you're doing your best and making some sort of progress on a daily basis. I'm glad that my sons somehow heard and understood the messages my husband and I tried to convey.
This month's poetry selection is one that I feel illustrates my philosophies on money, success, and life.
Center Stage - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September'07)
A man's worth more than the amount
of dollars in his bank account.
His worth lies not in what is seen,
but what he's done and who he's been.
How did he act, what did he say;
what graciousness did he display?
When he stood out at center stage,
how did he with the cast engage?
Did he shine in his starring role
or use position to control?
In lesser roles, how did he act?
(For this determines worth, in fact.)
All men can shine when light are hot,
but worth's determined when they're not
and how a man acts in the wings
illuminates a lot of things.
By how he acts there we can know
what is for real, and what's for show.
Most men can prosper and seem bright
when they are upstage in spotlight,
but stars are born when lights are out
and there's no audience about.
All do perform for better cause
by acting well, without applause.
Tuesday 23 August 2011
Superior - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
When I was a toddler my father dragged the entire family to a remote area in behind Goulais Bay. As the story is told it was dusk when we arrived, and the mosquitoes were beginning to swarm. My parents picked their way through the trees and brush to the waterfront. The view that awaited them didn't disappoint. The sand on the shore was fine and light, and the sun setting over Lake Superior was breath-taking. Land was quickly purchased, and a cabin erected.
In Southern Ontario people say, "I'm off to the cottage." But we Northern Ontarians say, "I'm going to camp."
I don't remember what it was like to not have a camp. When I was small, our cabin was a rough unfinished shell with tarps strung up over two-by-fours to divide the bedrooms the kids slept in. (Only my parents' room had walls.) Our meals were cooked at a wood stove, which also provided heat if summer nights grew cool. We had no plumbing. My father would row far out into the lake to fill buckets of drinking water. Our wash basin and dish pan were filled at the shoreline.
There were rituals at camp...Mornings began with my father yelling, "Up and at'em!" and hustling us all down to the beach, where the basin would be waiting on a large stump. We'd all wash faces and hands, and head back inside for breakfast. I have great memories of eating breakfast at camp, which usually consisted of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and hot chocolate. Food always tasted better at Nil's Bay.
In the evenings after admiring the sunset from the picture window in our living room, we'd play cards or board games by lamp light until it was time for bed. "Last call for the outhouse!" my mother would tell us. "If you don't go now you'll have to pee in the pot!" The old chamber pot was too undignified for most of us to want to risk, so off we'd file to take turns in the out-house. Mom usually went first, after giving the side of the plywood structure a good whack - "to scare off the critters". (At one time or another most of us entered that outhouse to find it occupied - snakes, skunks and even porcupines sometimes found their way in.)
Days were spent outside, unless the weather was foul or you had a wicked sunburn. (Those days were spent inside reading ancient issues of Reader's Digest and Good Housekeeping, or the dusty old books and readers that filled the bookcase.) Otherwise, you spent the day on the beach and in the water OR playing in the woods behind the cabin. (We built a community of forts back there, with the highly original name of "Fortsville"). Some days we took long treks along the shore "beach combing" and hauling back "pretty rocks" and buoys and chunks of driftwood. Other times we'd hike along the back road, stopping to pick raspberries wherever a good patch presented itself.
As I child I loved it out there, but as a teenager I balked - preferring to spend time with my friends. When I was in my late teens the cabin got electricity, which I thought kind of spoiled the romance of the place. My husband jokes that he arrived on the scene at the perfect time - the cabin got an indoor toilet earlier that summer. The annual trek to camp has been a tradition for the two of us and our sons, and I have had the satisfaction of seeing my boys enjoy the same pastimes I used to - jumping the waves, building sand castles and taking rowboat rides.
The cabin has been sold, and I'm about to help my mother pack up the remaining belongings and clean the place out for its new owners. (I have the sinking feeling they will bulldoze our cabin, and build a home there.) I am not looking forward to this last visit.
My father grew up on Cockburn Island, and he loved being near the water. I'm grateful that he gave us the opportunity to enjoy the simple pleasures of his youth, and to build memories on the shores of Lake Superior.
Superior - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March '06
Fortresses upon her shores
my small hands built with skill,
and hands grown larger dipped the oars
into her waters still.
Treasures that she offered me
I carried in my hands -
peace offerings, strewn carelessly
upon her sodden sands.
I've seen sun's fiery orb subside
into her silent deep,
and rhythmic movements of her tide
were prelude to my sleep.
She was the backdrop on our stage
through acts of youthful play -
dramatic was her stormy rage
upon our sheltered bay.
Romantic feelings she'd invite
beneath a dazzling sun -
though she'd oft' seduced by moonlight
the lovers that she won.
I long for her untamed beauty
whenever we're apart,
but memories she's given me
I cherish in my heart.
(RIP "Sunset View" 1963-2011)
PS - Family members have visited our old stretch of the beach since we sold the cabin, thanks to the generous offer of our former next-door neighbour. The cabin still stands, with a few improvements and a nicer deck. From what I've observed, even most of the trees survived the new owner's chainsaw! - SFK, 2014
In Southern Ontario people say, "I'm off to the cottage." But we Northern Ontarians say, "I'm going to camp."
I don't remember what it was like to not have a camp. When I was small, our cabin was a rough unfinished shell with tarps strung up over two-by-fours to divide the bedrooms the kids slept in. (Only my parents' room had walls.) Our meals were cooked at a wood stove, which also provided heat if summer nights grew cool. We had no plumbing. My father would row far out into the lake to fill buckets of drinking water. Our wash basin and dish pan were filled at the shoreline.
There were rituals at camp...Mornings began with my father yelling, "Up and at'em!" and hustling us all down to the beach, where the basin would be waiting on a large stump. We'd all wash faces and hands, and head back inside for breakfast. I have great memories of eating breakfast at camp, which usually consisted of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and hot chocolate. Food always tasted better at Nil's Bay.
In the evenings after admiring the sunset from the picture window in our living room, we'd play cards or board games by lamp light until it was time for bed. "Last call for the outhouse!" my mother would tell us. "If you don't go now you'll have to pee in the pot!" The old chamber pot was too undignified for most of us to want to risk, so off we'd file to take turns in the out-house. Mom usually went first, after giving the side of the plywood structure a good whack - "to scare off the critters". (At one time or another most of us entered that outhouse to find it occupied - snakes, skunks and even porcupines sometimes found their way in.)
Days were spent outside, unless the weather was foul or you had a wicked sunburn. (Those days were spent inside reading ancient issues of Reader's Digest and Good Housekeeping, or the dusty old books and readers that filled the bookcase.) Otherwise, you spent the day on the beach and in the water OR playing in the woods behind the cabin. (We built a community of forts back there, with the highly original name of "Fortsville"). Some days we took long treks along the shore "beach combing" and hauling back "pretty rocks" and buoys and chunks of driftwood. Other times we'd hike along the back road, stopping to pick raspberries wherever a good patch presented itself.
As I child I loved it out there, but as a teenager I balked - preferring to spend time with my friends. When I was in my late teens the cabin got electricity, which I thought kind of spoiled the romance of the place. My husband jokes that he arrived on the scene at the perfect time - the cabin got an indoor toilet earlier that summer. The annual trek to camp has been a tradition for the two of us and our sons, and I have had the satisfaction of seeing my boys enjoy the same pastimes I used to - jumping the waves, building sand castles and taking rowboat rides.
The cabin has been sold, and I'm about to help my mother pack up the remaining belongings and clean the place out for its new owners. (I have the sinking feeling they will bulldoze our cabin, and build a home there.) I am not looking forward to this last visit.
My father grew up on Cockburn Island, and he loved being near the water. I'm grateful that he gave us the opportunity to enjoy the simple pleasures of his youth, and to build memories on the shores of Lake Superior.
Superior - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March '06
Fortresses upon her shores
my small hands built with skill,
and hands grown larger dipped the oars
into her waters still.
Treasures that she offered me
I carried in my hands -
peace offerings, strewn carelessly
upon her sodden sands.
I've seen sun's fiery orb subside
into her silent deep,
and rhythmic movements of her tide
were prelude to my sleep.
She was the backdrop on our stage
through acts of youthful play -
dramatic was her stormy rage
upon our sheltered bay.
Romantic feelings she'd invite
beneath a dazzling sun -
though she'd oft' seduced by moonlight
the lovers that she won.
I long for her untamed beauty
whenever we're apart,
but memories she's given me
I cherish in my heart.
(RIP "Sunset View" 1963-2011)
PS - Family members have visited our old stretch of the beach since we sold the cabin, thanks to the generous offer of our former next-door neighbour. The cabin still stands, with a few improvements and a nicer deck. From what I've observed, even most of the trees survived the new owner's chainsaw! - SFK, 2014
Friday 29 July 2011
What Monkey See From Lofty Tree - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Oct. '07
This poem is a pretty straight forward fable that speaks to the importance of experience. We all learn from our mistakes - right? "Monkey" certainly learned a thing or two about friendship, kindness and humility when his usual dexterity failed him and he tumbled out of his tree!
What Monkey See From Lofty Tree-Sharon Flood Kasenberg-Oct. '07
A monkey sat within a tree,
and much to his delight -
not many problems did he see
that he could not put right.
No faults could escape detection
from his sharp little eyes
and there was no imperfection
he did not criticize.
It never once to him occurred
that most obviously
no trials had he yet endured,
so well ensconced was he.
From his lofty perch he chattered
advice both day and night.
With false confidence he nattered;
he thought it was his right.
How could those silly creatures miss
their glaring huge mistakes?
And rashly, he concluded this:
"They don't have what it takes.
With just a fraction of my wit
they'd see where they went wrong -
root out the flaw and fix it
before too very long.
Their poor eyes cannot comprehend
the broader scope mine do -
'cause if they could they'd see the end
of ills they're going through.
If their brains were as sharp as mine
they'd have things all worked out - "
Thus did our little friend opine -
he knew all, without doubt.
When from his tree by tail he'd swing
sometimes quite far below
he'd hear the other critters sing
as he swung to and fro -
and he'd criticize their chorus,
boasting, "It's very clear
that nobody in this forest
is gifted with my ear."
And if another creature fell
and landed on his face,
the monkey would be sure to yell
that no one had his grace.
Time and again from lofty height
he arrogantly bragged
and thumped his chest with all his might
upon a branch that sagged
until it couldn't bear his weight
and then it simply snapped -
and when the monkey met his fate
some forest creatures clapped.
These creatures knew what he did not -
the perils of the ground
and that a fall could hurt a lot,
could muddle and confound -
and so they clapped - not out of spite
because he slipped and fell -
but with relief he was alright
and lived the tale to tell.
The animals he'd so abused
came swiftly to his aid -
his criticisms were excused,
and friends were swiftly made.
The monkey sat upon the ground
and rubbed his swollen head.
He marveled at friends gathered round
who could have shunned instead.
When past behavior he reviewed,
he saw he'd been unkind.
His observations had been skewed
to faults and failings find.
He now saw challenges they faced -
like struggles to find food -
and soon compassion had replaced
his prior attitude.
From treetops he saw far and wide
and dangers could detect -
he realized he should have tried
to help and to protect.
His friends urged him to bide his time
and keep them company,
but Monkey knew he had to climb
once more into his tree.
It seems because he slipped and fell
some lessons he has learned -
no longer does he brag or yell
since higher he returned.
His eyes are now much more aware
of perils down below -
his store of food he'll gladly share;
protection he'll bestow.
His ears have learned their songs to love -
now as they chorus raise
all they will hear from up above
are kindly words of praise.
That little monkey sits there still,
and forever chatters -
but since the day he took a spill,
he has learned what matters.
He understands he needs good friends
and kindness he must show -
superior behavior ends
once we've fallen below.
Respect from others must be earned.
It comes to those who care,
and who from their own trials learned
how to compassion share.
Now Monkey knows a better way
and does things differently -
since once upon a fateful day
he fell out of his tree.
What Monkey See From Lofty Tree-Sharon Flood Kasenberg-Oct. '07
A monkey sat within a tree,
and much to his delight -
not many problems did he see
that he could not put right.
No faults could escape detection
from his sharp little eyes
and there was no imperfection
he did not criticize.
It never once to him occurred
that most obviously
no trials had he yet endured,
so well ensconced was he.
From his lofty perch he chattered
advice both day and night.
With false confidence he nattered;
he thought it was his right.
How could those silly creatures miss
their glaring huge mistakes?
And rashly, he concluded this:
"They don't have what it takes.
With just a fraction of my wit
they'd see where they went wrong -
root out the flaw and fix it
before too very long.
Their poor eyes cannot comprehend
the broader scope mine do -
'cause if they could they'd see the end
of ills they're going through.
If their brains were as sharp as mine
they'd have things all worked out - "
Thus did our little friend opine -
he knew all, without doubt.
When from his tree by tail he'd swing
sometimes quite far below
he'd hear the other critters sing
as he swung to and fro -
and he'd criticize their chorus,
boasting, "It's very clear
that nobody in this forest
is gifted with my ear."
And if another creature fell
and landed on his face,
the monkey would be sure to yell
that no one had his grace.
Time and again from lofty height
he arrogantly bragged
and thumped his chest with all his might
upon a branch that sagged
until it couldn't bear his weight
and then it simply snapped -
and when the monkey met his fate
some forest creatures clapped.
These creatures knew what he did not -
the perils of the ground
and that a fall could hurt a lot,
could muddle and confound -
and so they clapped - not out of spite
because he slipped and fell -
but with relief he was alright
and lived the tale to tell.
The animals he'd so abused
came swiftly to his aid -
his criticisms were excused,
and friends were swiftly made.
The monkey sat upon the ground
and rubbed his swollen head.
He marveled at friends gathered round
who could have shunned instead.
When past behavior he reviewed,
he saw he'd been unkind.
His observations had been skewed
to faults and failings find.
He now saw challenges they faced -
like struggles to find food -
and soon compassion had replaced
his prior attitude.
From treetops he saw far and wide
and dangers could detect -
he realized he should have tried
to help and to protect.
His friends urged him to bide his time
and keep them company,
but Monkey knew he had to climb
once more into his tree.
It seems because he slipped and fell
some lessons he has learned -
no longer does he brag or yell
since higher he returned.
His eyes are now much more aware
of perils down below -
his store of food he'll gladly share;
protection he'll bestow.
His ears have learned their songs to love -
now as they chorus raise
all they will hear from up above
are kindly words of praise.
That little monkey sits there still,
and forever chatters -
but since the day he took a spill,
he has learned what matters.
He understands he needs good friends
and kindness he must show -
superior behavior ends
once we've fallen below.
Respect from others must be earned.
It comes to those who care,
and who from their own trials learned
how to compassion share.
Now Monkey knows a better way
and does things differently -
since once upon a fateful day
he fell out of his tree.
Thursday 30 June 2011
Perspective - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I think most of us go through those reflective periods in our lives where we spend some time reviewing the past. Sometimes those backward glances provide incentive to make the most of today, and propel us into a more vibrant future. I had a strange experience a few months ago, when someone I used to know suddenly started to intrude on my thoughts in a somewhat uncomfortable way. I can't say I appreciated it much, but the digging it prompted me to do into the experiences of my youth was enlightening.
There are times when I look back on my younger self and shudder at my past stupidity, but this wasn't one of those experiences. Instead I learned that I was actually better in those days than I gave myself credit for. I was stronger, smarter and more self aware than I believed at the time.
It's interesting that these revelations all came to light smack-dab in the middle of a personal mid-life crisis. I was at a cross-road, wondering which direction to move in and what to do next. I was doubting my ability to make a positive contribution to the world when my detour down memory lane made me realize how skewed my vision was in those long ago days. I suddenly recognized the fact that the younger me had been gazing at myself in some distorted fun house mirror, and that I was once again staring into a warped looking-glass.
"For now we see through a glass darkly; but then we see face to face: now I know in part: but then I shall know even as I am known." (1 Corr. 13:12)
I always liked that scriptural passage, and now finally I'm beginning to understand it. We all get hung up on the image we see in what I'll call "the social mirror". We see ourselves the way we think the world brands us - "middle-aged housewife, past her prime" - in my case. When I looked back on my younger self I saw more than I expected to see. So could it be that my vision of myself was lacking some clarity NOW? It's pretty easy to get hung up on the minute details and miss the broader picture....
I think this poem explains the importance of perspective fairly well.
Perspective - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (July'06)
What used to be is finished now
and cannot be recaptured -
would I return there if I could
and find myself enraptured?
My mind and heart have edited
the memories of my youth;
somewhere between what I recall
and what you would tell, lies truth.
The "now" a portrait by Seurat
viewed too closely to make sense -
we can't put into perspective
what is seen in present tense.
Too intent on just one detail,
one small solitary dot -
that separated from the whole
doesn't really mean a lot.
Only in the distant future
might we clearly see the past
when the dots all meld together
in coherence at long last.
Both art and life in broader view
invite interpretation
that changes as our lives progress
through every incarnation.
I've no desire to see ahead
and for the past no yearning.
Today's the day I have - to live
the lessons I am learning.
There are times when I look back on my younger self and shudder at my past stupidity, but this wasn't one of those experiences. Instead I learned that I was actually better in those days than I gave myself credit for. I was stronger, smarter and more self aware than I believed at the time.
It's interesting that these revelations all came to light smack-dab in the middle of a personal mid-life crisis. I was at a cross-road, wondering which direction to move in and what to do next. I was doubting my ability to make a positive contribution to the world when my detour down memory lane made me realize how skewed my vision was in those long ago days. I suddenly recognized the fact that the younger me had been gazing at myself in some distorted fun house mirror, and that I was once again staring into a warped looking-glass.
"For now we see through a glass darkly; but then we see face to face: now I know in part: but then I shall know even as I am known." (1 Corr. 13:12)
I always liked that scriptural passage, and now finally I'm beginning to understand it. We all get hung up on the image we see in what I'll call "the social mirror". We see ourselves the way we think the world brands us - "middle-aged housewife, past her prime" - in my case. When I looked back on my younger self I saw more than I expected to see. So could it be that my vision of myself was lacking some clarity NOW? It's pretty easy to get hung up on the minute details and miss the broader picture....
I think this poem explains the importance of perspective fairly well.
Perspective - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (July'06)
What used to be is finished now
and cannot be recaptured -
would I return there if I could
and find myself enraptured?
My mind and heart have edited
the memories of my youth;
somewhere between what I recall
and what you would tell, lies truth.
The "now" a portrait by Seurat
viewed too closely to make sense -
we can't put into perspective
what is seen in present tense.
Too intent on just one detail,
one small solitary dot -
that separated from the whole
doesn't really mean a lot.
Only in the distant future
might we clearly see the past
when the dots all meld together
in coherence at long last.
Both art and life in broader view
invite interpretation
that changes as our lives progress
through every incarnation.
I've no desire to see ahead
and for the past no yearning.
Today's the day I have - to live
the lessons I am learning.
Monday 6 June 2011
Fair Winds - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
This poem is very close to my heart. It's about the unconditional love that mothers have for their children.
I have a confession to make. In my youth I seldom thought about having children. They were just part of some package deal - you got married; you had kids. When I was expecting my older son I was filled with fear and self doubt. Motherhood seemed like a huge looming responsibility, and it frightened me. My pregnancy was difficult, and my son was born five weeks early. As a first time mother I felt overwhelmed at times, but for the most part I was simply filled with awe. I'd look down at his little face in amazement - my son!
Soon (too soon!) I was expecting another child. I was healthy as a horse (and as big as one!) the second time around, but filled with anxiety and more self-doubt. How would I juggle the needs of two babies? (My sons were born less than 13 months apart.) Sam was a very busy toddler - barely walking, very demanding...I was a bit resentful over the "bad-timing" of my second child. I remember worrying that I might not love "the baby" as much as I loved Sam.
Dan was born two days past his due-date. I told everyone at the end of my pregnancy that I just wanted the baby OUT so I could hand it to someone else. But as soon as Dan was born, I was smitten. After a long labour I was exhausted, but when I tried to sleep I couldn't - until he was nestled in the crook of my arm.
My sons are grown now. Dan is on a mission for his Church, and has been away from home for six months. I miss him every day. Maybe I was an over-protective mom, too clingy and hovering... Certainly I've learned that I need my sons as much as they've ever needed me. When they were teenagers I would stand and look at their sprawled forms before I roused them from sleep, and I'd still be amazed that they were mine.
Sam gets a kiss good-night every night. (He was warned that he'd need to put up with extra affection when his brother left, and is a good sport about it.) Sometimes I ask him, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" To which he answers, "Mom, you never let me forget!!"
The way I see it, if they never forget that I love them, I've done something right.
Fair Winds: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg-March 2008)
Sometimes I miss the person
that you were yesterday -
who wanted my attention
and pestered me to play.
Your childhood needs were simple -
at least as I recall;
I gave you what you needed
when you were very small.
These days it's not so easy
to know what you require -
to anticipate your wants
or know your heart's desire.
Whoever you're becoming
I hope you'll always know -
I'll love you forever
no matter how you grow.
The tree grows as the twig's bent
and buffeted by gales;
a sailboat glides on water
when a fair wind prevails.
How will you be affected
when billows gain in force?
Will you bend, but never snap
and keep your ship on course?
Storms all must surely weather -
have I prepared you well
to survive the elements
and fearfulness to quell?
Perhaps I'm no example -
my exploits have been tame -
to stay in calmer waters
has always been my aim.
I'd shelter you forever
to keep you from harm's way -
but to ensure your freedom
I risk the chance you'll stray.
No matter how you're tempted
I hope you never doubt -
both heart and door stay open -
I'd never lock you out.
I pray that winds of fortune
and strong tides bear you home
to bask in my affection
however far you roam.
May you sail in fair breezes
whenever we're apart -
and let them blow you homeward
to the harbour of my heart.
I have a confession to make. In my youth I seldom thought about having children. They were just part of some package deal - you got married; you had kids. When I was expecting my older son I was filled with fear and self doubt. Motherhood seemed like a huge looming responsibility, and it frightened me. My pregnancy was difficult, and my son was born five weeks early. As a first time mother I felt overwhelmed at times, but for the most part I was simply filled with awe. I'd look down at his little face in amazement - my son!
Soon (too soon!) I was expecting another child. I was healthy as a horse (and as big as one!) the second time around, but filled with anxiety and more self-doubt. How would I juggle the needs of two babies? (My sons were born less than 13 months apart.) Sam was a very busy toddler - barely walking, very demanding...I was a bit resentful over the "bad-timing" of my second child. I remember worrying that I might not love "the baby" as much as I loved Sam.
Dan was born two days past his due-date. I told everyone at the end of my pregnancy that I just wanted the baby OUT so I could hand it to someone else. But as soon as Dan was born, I was smitten. After a long labour I was exhausted, but when I tried to sleep I couldn't - until he was nestled in the crook of my arm.
My sons are grown now. Dan is on a mission for his Church, and has been away from home for six months. I miss him every day. Maybe I was an over-protective mom, too clingy and hovering... Certainly I've learned that I need my sons as much as they've ever needed me. When they were teenagers I would stand and look at their sprawled forms before I roused them from sleep, and I'd still be amazed that they were mine.
Sam gets a kiss good-night every night. (He was warned that he'd need to put up with extra affection when his brother left, and is a good sport about it.) Sometimes I ask him, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" To which he answers, "Mom, you never let me forget!!"
The way I see it, if they never forget that I love them, I've done something right.
Fair Winds: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg-March 2008)
Sometimes I miss the person
that you were yesterday -
who wanted my attention
and pestered me to play.
Your childhood needs were simple -
at least as I recall;
I gave you what you needed
when you were very small.
These days it's not so easy
to know what you require -
to anticipate your wants
or know your heart's desire.
Whoever you're becoming
I hope you'll always know -
I'll love you forever
no matter how you grow.
The tree grows as the twig's bent
and buffeted by gales;
a sailboat glides on water
when a fair wind prevails.
How will you be affected
when billows gain in force?
Will you bend, but never snap
and keep your ship on course?
Storms all must surely weather -
have I prepared you well
to survive the elements
and fearfulness to quell?
Perhaps I'm no example -
my exploits have been tame -
to stay in calmer waters
has always been my aim.
I'd shelter you forever
to keep you from harm's way -
but to ensure your freedom
I risk the chance you'll stray.
No matter how you're tempted
I hope you never doubt -
both heart and door stay open -
I'd never lock you out.
I pray that winds of fortune
and strong tides bear you home
to bask in my affection
however far you roam.
May you sail in fair breezes
whenever we're apart -
and let them blow you homeward
to the harbour of my heart.
Wednesday 18 May 2011
I Fight...by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In this electronic age we can reconnect with old friends at the push of a button. We can "find" people we lost touch with. Sometimes, when timing and luck are on our side we get to arrange " realtime facetime" with people we haven't seen in years.
Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet up with an old friend from my youth - to see him again after a couple of decades and meet his wife. Funny how lost years can fade. Though we are both older and wiser, we found that at heart we were still the same people - good friends who just lost touch for a while. I had a similar experience a few weeks back with a friend from high school. The two of us will also be reuniting face-to-face as soon as we can arrange to.
But at times we aren't so lucky with our online searches. Sometimes the people we look for are beyond seeking. Some of those we miss continue to live on only in our memories. We may find only online "evidence" that these friends once lived - a photograph, an obituary; a name on a quilt.
I've lost a couple of people who really mattered to me over the years to deaths that could have/should have been prevented. Both died too young - their deaths haunt me. When I think of the years those friends lost, and the experiences they missed, it spurs me on in my fight to make this crazy world a little more user-friendly...
Life is too short. We don't have time to be unforgiving or hold grudges. We need to fight harder to be inclusive - there are a lot of lonely people out there, and people who don't think, act, or live their lives the way we do. Battle your inner demons - the ones that might tell you that you're excused from caring about those deemed "too different" or "too damaged". Love them anyway. Be prepared to fight for the underdog and the unloved, the abused and the depressed.
Today, I dedicate this poem to those who lost battles, and to those who, like me, continue to "fight the good fight".
I Fight
I fight constant temptation
and battle with my will -
I fight to rein in temper
when patience has its fill.
I fight my inner dragons -
the demons of my soul;
and struggle with inertia
when I have set a goal.
On battlefields aplenty
I've stood with sword and shield -
waged war on foe unnumbered,
and still refused to yield.
Through minefields of opinion
where mercy was not shown
I've skirmished pride and ego -
sometimes it was my own.
I've felt arrows of malice -
and aimed my share as well -
seen comrades stained with envy
and known its putrid smell.
I've tried to rally soldiers
who could no longer fight -
and stood among the fallen
who felt death's icy bite.
And though 'oft disillusioned
by what those battles cost,
I'll cede no territory -
my cause is not yet lost.
I'll fight to keep believing
in love and hope and peace -
I'll fight for truth and reason,
and strength - 'til battles cease.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2011
Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet up with an old friend from my youth - to see him again after a couple of decades and meet his wife. Funny how lost years can fade. Though we are both older and wiser, we found that at heart we were still the same people - good friends who just lost touch for a while. I had a similar experience a few weeks back with a friend from high school. The two of us will also be reuniting face-to-face as soon as we can arrange to.
But at times we aren't so lucky with our online searches. Sometimes the people we look for are beyond seeking. Some of those we miss continue to live on only in our memories. We may find only online "evidence" that these friends once lived - a photograph, an obituary; a name on a quilt.
I've lost a couple of people who really mattered to me over the years to deaths that could have/should have been prevented. Both died too young - their deaths haunt me. When I think of the years those friends lost, and the experiences they missed, it spurs me on in my fight to make this crazy world a little more user-friendly...
Life is too short. We don't have time to be unforgiving or hold grudges. We need to fight harder to be inclusive - there are a lot of lonely people out there, and people who don't think, act, or live their lives the way we do. Battle your inner demons - the ones that might tell you that you're excused from caring about those deemed "too different" or "too damaged". Love them anyway. Be prepared to fight for the underdog and the unloved, the abused and the depressed.
Today, I dedicate this poem to those who lost battles, and to those who, like me, continue to "fight the good fight".
I Fight
I fight constant temptation
and battle with my will -
I fight to rein in temper
when patience has its fill.
I fight my inner dragons -
the demons of my soul;
and struggle with inertia
when I have set a goal.
On battlefields aplenty
I've stood with sword and shield -
waged war on foe unnumbered,
and still refused to yield.
Through minefields of opinion
where mercy was not shown
I've skirmished pride and ego -
sometimes it was my own.
I've felt arrows of malice -
and aimed my share as well -
seen comrades stained with envy
and known its putrid smell.
I've tried to rally soldiers
who could no longer fight -
and stood among the fallen
who felt death's icy bite.
And though 'oft disillusioned
by what those battles cost,
I'll cede no territory -
my cause is not yet lost.
I'll fight to keep believing
in love and hope and peace -
I'll fight for truth and reason,
and strength - 'til battles cease.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, 2011
Monday 25 April 2011
Defining the terms...by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
We all have our pet peeves when it comes to language usage. Don't get me started on the way the English language has been debased and abused over the past few decades! If I were to give a detailed account of all of my frustrations with the lack of grammar, spelling and general comprehension skills in our society then I would be posting a very long tirade indeed!
Thus I have decided it would be better for my blood pressure to merely list a few of my larger complaints in poetic form.
Defining the Terms-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 2011)
Perhaps it's churlish to complain,
but some from this may knowledge gain.
You see, these terms may be confused
and language shouldn't be abused.
A few of my pet peeves are these -
(so pay attention, if you please)
bear with me while I take the time
to re-define these words in rhyme.
An opposite's an antonym -
like saying "her" is "anti-him"
or how what's wrong opposes right
or that the dark is "anti-light".
Now to explain a synonym
I'd say that "thin" is just like "slim"
or "crazy" is just like "deranged" -
for these words can be interchanged.
With homonyms one must take care -
When to use they're or their or there?
Perhaps THEY'RE still on THEIR way THERE -
WEARing the WARES they bought someWHERE!
And then there is the homophone,
which really is an aural clone -
to ears - just like another sound
although in different letters found.
Uneducated men may scoff
when I say cough is not spelled "coff"
or tell me that I'm being gruff
by telling them their spelling's rough.
Yes, words used well are lovely things -
with proper usage, grammar sings -
and editors will think you kind
if you use words as they're defined.
(But stay tuned readers, there is such a proliferation of horrific linguistic bastardization in cyber-space that I feel bound and beholden to post more on this topic at a later date!)
Thus I have decided it would be better for my blood pressure to merely list a few of my larger complaints in poetic form.
Defining the Terms-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 2011)
Perhaps it's churlish to complain,
but some from this may knowledge gain.
You see, these terms may be confused
and language shouldn't be abused.
A few of my pet peeves are these -
(so pay attention, if you please)
bear with me while I take the time
to re-define these words in rhyme.
An opposite's an antonym -
like saying "her" is "anti-him"
or how what's wrong opposes right
or that the dark is "anti-light".
Now to explain a synonym
I'd say that "thin" is just like "slim"
or "crazy" is just like "deranged" -
for these words can be interchanged.
With homonyms one must take care -
When to use they're or their or there?
Perhaps THEY'RE still on THEIR way THERE -
WEARing the WARES they bought someWHERE!
And then there is the homophone,
which really is an aural clone -
to ears - just like another sound
although in different letters found.
Uneducated men may scoff
when I say cough is not spelled "coff"
or tell me that I'm being gruff
by telling them their spelling's rough.
Yes, words used well are lovely things -
with proper usage, grammar sings -
and editors will think you kind
if you use words as they're defined.
(But stay tuned readers, there is such a proliferation of horrific linguistic bastardization in cyber-space that I feel bound and beholden to post more on this topic at a later date!)
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Earth's Quilt - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
At Writer's Guild last month we were challenged to use the word "earth" or the word "quilt" in poetry or prose form. Being a bit of a one-upper, I felt an urge to use both words.
Think of the experience of being in an airplane and looking down at the earth below. When I was about eight years old my parents asked my uncle to take us in his bush plane to Cockburn Island, where my father was born and raised. I clearly remember that flight, and how my brother Tom, who was just a toddler at the time, marveled over the "dinky cars" and "bird houses" below us. I remember looking down on farmers' fields in rural northern Ontario and thinking how much the ground below looked like one of those patchwork quilts that my grandmothers and great-aunts were so adept at making - a "crazy quilt" flung over an unmade bed - kind of lumpy and messy looking, but beautiful none the less.
Now I look in awe at pictures taken of our "little blue planet" from space.
"Somewhere down there we're all living", I think to myself, "Every person on this planet is in that picture!"
I am amazed constantly by the diversity on this planet. I'm astounded by the varying climates here, and by the flora and fauna that inhabit each zone. I'm fascinated by the different cultures that all co-exist on a common planet, and saddened by the economic disparities that stand in contrast between them.
Every day I am more enthralled by the beauty of this Earth. No matter how much we abuse our planet and take it for granted the sun still shines and the stars still come out at night.
The "design" remains grand, and I remain thankful.
Earth's Quilt-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 12th 2011)
Our Earth, with all her many lands -
her jungles, mountains, desert sands
from space appears a patchwork quilt -
blues of the waters, browns of silt,
greens in the woodlands, prairie gold
and coolest whites in polar cold.
Her varied patches, roughly sewn
in seams of coal and ore and stone
are not appreciated much -
we mar them with our careless touch.
Her fabric stained and rudely torn,
in many places strained and worn;
Some spots we mend while others fray,
unhemmed by poverty's decay;
worn thin by tyranny and war
until they can be stitched no more.
In other spots her batting's fluffed
and decadently over-stuffed
and everywhere is richness seen -
in silk and satin; velveteen.
Yet all is trimmed in thread work fine -
each surface yields some grand design -
embroidered o'er, in gold and guilt
the pattern on our earthly quilt.
Think of the experience of being in an airplane and looking down at the earth below. When I was about eight years old my parents asked my uncle to take us in his bush plane to Cockburn Island, where my father was born and raised. I clearly remember that flight, and how my brother Tom, who was just a toddler at the time, marveled over the "dinky cars" and "bird houses" below us. I remember looking down on farmers' fields in rural northern Ontario and thinking how much the ground below looked like one of those patchwork quilts that my grandmothers and great-aunts were so adept at making - a "crazy quilt" flung over an unmade bed - kind of lumpy and messy looking, but beautiful none the less.
Now I look in awe at pictures taken of our "little blue planet" from space.
"Somewhere down there we're all living", I think to myself, "Every person on this planet is in that picture!"
I am amazed constantly by the diversity on this planet. I'm astounded by the varying climates here, and by the flora and fauna that inhabit each zone. I'm fascinated by the different cultures that all co-exist on a common planet, and saddened by the economic disparities that stand in contrast between them.
Every day I am more enthralled by the beauty of this Earth. No matter how much we abuse our planet and take it for granted the sun still shines and the stars still come out at night.
The "design" remains grand, and I remain thankful.
Earth's Quilt-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April 12th 2011)
Our Earth, with all her many lands -
her jungles, mountains, desert sands
from space appears a patchwork quilt -
blues of the waters, browns of silt,
greens in the woodlands, prairie gold
and coolest whites in polar cold.
Her varied patches, roughly sewn
in seams of coal and ore and stone
are not appreciated much -
we mar them with our careless touch.
Her fabric stained and rudely torn,
in many places strained and worn;
Some spots we mend while others fray,
unhemmed by poverty's decay;
worn thin by tyranny and war
until they can be stitched no more.
In other spots her batting's fluffed
and decadently over-stuffed
and everywhere is richness seen -
in silk and satin; velveteen.
Yet all is trimmed in thread work fine -
each surface yields some grand design -
embroidered o'er, in gold and guilt
the pattern on our earthly quilt.
Friday 25 March 2011
Two Poets - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
First a bit of preamble - I get so sick of people who think that all rhyme is trite. Look at just about any modern poetry anthology, and you'll note that the vast majority of "poems" therein have no rhyme, which is fine - really. I like to rhyme, but understand it just isn't everyone's "cuppa tea", and can forgive anyone who just doesn't groove on what I consider my art form.
What I can't forgive is that so many of these "poems" (I use the term loosely) just don't mean anything! Call me old fashioned, but I strongly feel that in order for something to qualify as poetry it has to convey an idea or paint a picture with words.
Other than the obscure pieces, there are the other "poetic efforts" that get anthologized...the ones so artfully dark and maudlin that you want to hunt up the poor soul who penned that dubious gloop and suggest a good therapist. (Buck up, buckaroo - life isn't that bad - is it?) Then again, perhaps I'm not the one to correctly categorize poetry. You see, I sent off some verse to a respected poet, who told me that what I write is considered more "rhyming prose" than poetry. Which confused me a bit - what does that make all of those people that I considered the classic rhyming poets of the past?
I know poetry is subjective...what is poetic to you might not be poetic to me. But I still can't fight the urge to rail against the pseudo-intellectual types who want to relegate all rhyme to the trashcan.
Needless to say it was after reading some dubious "poetry" that I penned this fictional rhyming conversation between two rival poets...
Two Poets:
"Look at what I've written!"
(Clearly you are thrilled.
Poetry has bitten -
would that you were skilled.)
"Published!" you state smugly -
"Would you care to read?"
(Oh - this could get ugly!
but I'll read indeed.)
After all, you read mine
with derisive sneer.
Didn't need to opine -
your disdain was clear.
So I'll take a moment
your verse to peruse.
Then with glee I'll foment
ways I can abuse.
"Words tossed out at random -
chosen from a hat?
No two lines in tandem?
I don't care for that."
"It's poetry! - (you snivel) -
Artful and intense!"
Now I have to quibble -
"But it makes no SENSE!"
"Popular opinion
claims that rhyme is trite.
Were I fashion's minion,
more like YOU I'd write!"
All aghast you tremble -
lips you sternly purse.
Now you shan't dissemble -
I'm far too perverse.
"Stultifying triteness -"
you begin to scoff.
I'm through with politeness,
so I cut you off.
"All the rhyme that's written
isn't Hallmark bound.
Some, in fact, are smitten
by more rhythmic sound."
Still you are contentious -
"Publishers don't want - "
" - Verse so unpretentious?"
I can't help but taunt.
"Verses so sophomoric!",
you brashly reply -
and brazenly euphoric
I punch you in the eye.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 10. 2010
What I can't forgive is that so many of these "poems" (I use the term loosely) just don't mean anything! Call me old fashioned, but I strongly feel that in order for something to qualify as poetry it has to convey an idea or paint a picture with words.
Other than the obscure pieces, there are the other "poetic efforts" that get anthologized...the ones so artfully dark and maudlin that you want to hunt up the poor soul who penned that dubious gloop and suggest a good therapist. (Buck up, buckaroo - life isn't that bad - is it?) Then again, perhaps I'm not the one to correctly categorize poetry. You see, I sent off some verse to a respected poet, who told me that what I write is considered more "rhyming prose" than poetry. Which confused me a bit - what does that make all of those people that I considered the classic rhyming poets of the past?
I know poetry is subjective...what is poetic to you might not be poetic to me. But I still can't fight the urge to rail against the pseudo-intellectual types who want to relegate all rhyme to the trashcan.
Needless to say it was after reading some dubious "poetry" that I penned this fictional rhyming conversation between two rival poets...
Two Poets:
"Look at what I've written!"
(Clearly you are thrilled.
Poetry has bitten -
would that you were skilled.)
"Published!" you state smugly -
"Would you care to read?"
(Oh - this could get ugly!
but I'll read indeed.)
After all, you read mine
with derisive sneer.
Didn't need to opine -
your disdain was clear.
So I'll take a moment
your verse to peruse.
Then with glee I'll foment
ways I can abuse.
"Words tossed out at random -
chosen from a hat?
No two lines in tandem?
I don't care for that."
"It's poetry! - (you snivel) -
Artful and intense!"
Now I have to quibble -
"But it makes no SENSE!"
"Popular opinion
claims that rhyme is trite.
Were I fashion's minion,
more like YOU I'd write!"
All aghast you tremble -
lips you sternly purse.
Now you shan't dissemble -
I'm far too perverse.
"Stultifying triteness -"
you begin to scoff.
I'm through with politeness,
so I cut you off.
"All the rhyme that's written
isn't Hallmark bound.
Some, in fact, are smitten
by more rhythmic sound."
Still you are contentious -
"Publishers don't want - "
" - Verse so unpretentious?"
I can't help but taunt.
"Verses so sophomoric!",
you brashly reply -
and brazenly euphoric
I punch you in the eye.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, September 10. 2010
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Sins of Omission - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Since my last blog mentioned the poem about forgiveness that was the beginning of this new poetic phase in my life, I thought I'd post that poem this week. But before you read the poem I want to explain the title...
I thought a lot about forgiveness after my friend asked if I'd ever written a poem on the topic. I asked myself what I was most sorry for of all the things I've done. I've always been fairly well behaved, never committed any crimes or done anything foolish under the influence of alcohol or drugs. (Which is easy when you never use alcohol or drugs!) This has been a mixed blessing in my life. It doesn't allow me the option of "forgetting" the stupid things I do, but on the flip side, because I do remember what I did (or more likely said) to offend, I almost always have a fairly accurate inkling of what I need to apologize for.
Over the course of my life I've offered up a lot of apologies. Usually they come fairly quickly after the offense - (I possess a healthy conscience) - but there have been occasions when I stewed for a very long time before I said I was sorry. I guess the point I'm trying to make is that I have learned the importance of apologies. I try to atone for my misdeeds. Sometimes I feel a bit like the woman my mother once quoted as saying, "I've eaten crow so often I've started to develop a taste for it!" I can't say I love making apologies, but over time it has gotten easier.
I don't spend much time regretting things I've done. Once the apologies are over I move on. What I really regret though, are those things I should have done. I'm sorry there are people I wasn't kinder to. I rue the times my lack of self-confidence kept me from accomplishing what I could have, and the occasions when I should have shown more affection, or been more encouraging or understanding with those around me. I regret all the times I didn't follow a sudden urge to "do something nice" - to call a friend who might have craved a listening ear, or offer help to someone in need.
Those "sins of omission" are the things I regret the most - the opportunities I should have taken to try harder, be nicer and do better. I'm convinced that at the end of my life I will feel the most sorrow for the things I didn't do - my sins of omission.
Sins of Omission-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb.'06)
Forgive
the things I haven't done-
lives I didn't touch
and hearts I have not won.
Forgive
the words I haven't said
to sad and lonely souls
whose hearts I could have fed.
Forgive
the challenges refused-
hours that I've wasted
when talents went unused.
Forgive
the chances that I missed-
hands I should have held,
and cheeks I should have kissed.
Forgive
my fear-filled errant heart-
not for all it's done,
but all it didn't start.
I thought a lot about forgiveness after my friend asked if I'd ever written a poem on the topic. I asked myself what I was most sorry for of all the things I've done. I've always been fairly well behaved, never committed any crimes or done anything foolish under the influence of alcohol or drugs. (Which is easy when you never use alcohol or drugs!) This has been a mixed blessing in my life. It doesn't allow me the option of "forgetting" the stupid things I do, but on the flip side, because I do remember what I did (or more likely said) to offend, I almost always have a fairly accurate inkling of what I need to apologize for.
Over the course of my life I've offered up a lot of apologies. Usually they come fairly quickly after the offense - (I possess a healthy conscience) - but there have been occasions when I stewed for a very long time before I said I was sorry. I guess the point I'm trying to make is that I have learned the importance of apologies. I try to atone for my misdeeds. Sometimes I feel a bit like the woman my mother once quoted as saying, "I've eaten crow so often I've started to develop a taste for it!" I can't say I love making apologies, but over time it has gotten easier.
I don't spend much time regretting things I've done. Once the apologies are over I move on. What I really regret though, are those things I should have done. I'm sorry there are people I wasn't kinder to. I rue the times my lack of self-confidence kept me from accomplishing what I could have, and the occasions when I should have shown more affection, or been more encouraging or understanding with those around me. I regret all the times I didn't follow a sudden urge to "do something nice" - to call a friend who might have craved a listening ear, or offer help to someone in need.
Those "sins of omission" are the things I regret the most - the opportunities I should have taken to try harder, be nicer and do better. I'm convinced that at the end of my life I will feel the most sorrow for the things I didn't do - my sins of omission.
Sins of Omission-by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (Feb.'06)
Forgive
the things I haven't done-
lives I didn't touch
and hearts I have not won.
Forgive
the words I haven't said
to sad and lonely souls
whose hearts I could have fed.
Forgive
the challenges refused-
hours that I've wasted
when talents went unused.
Forgive
the chances that I missed-
hands I should have held,
and cheeks I should have kissed.
Forgive
my fear-filled errant heart-
not for all it's done,
but all it didn't start.
Monday 28 February 2011
All About My Muse...
As you can see from my first post, I write poems, and they rhyme. I offer no excuses for the fact that I am an unabashed rhymer. I fought it at first - like many I used to be a "rhyme snob". In my twenties I wrote a lot of self important gibberish that passed for poetry. (My friends all thought it was great, and at the time so did I - which explains how my friends read it in the first place : ) When I read it to my now husband he proclaimed it "Klingon love poetry". I was dismissive - what did he know? Now I can answer that question. He knew what he liked. Poetry is like any other form of art - entirely subjective.
Fast forward about twenty years. Although I always aspired to "be a writer", I was too busy living my story to write much. I made three false starts on books, but lost motivation quickly. One day I found one of the poems I had written years back, and decided to share it with a friend. It was met with great enthusiasm, and a challenge in the form of a question.
"Have you ever written a poem about forgiveness?"
I hadn't, but suddenly I felt compelled to try my hand at writing a poem on that topic. (In those days I worked at a small, struggling health food store, and had plenty of time to scribble at work.) So there I sat the very next day, and to my surprise I had a poem come to me in almost perfectly metered rhyme! When I read it to my husband on the way home from work he proclaimed -
"Now THAT'S a poem!!"
I shared it with my friend, and she loved it too. Needless to say I kept at it. The rhyme and meter come almost effortlessly to me. I've grown so accustomed to rhyming these past five years that I'm now a bit biased in favour of rhymes, and I'll tell you why. I believe that humans are naturally geared to remember patterns and rhythms. Poems that rhyme may not be considered high art, but they are memorable. Shakespeare rhymed. Ogden Nash coined the phrase "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!" Would that be as memorable stated any other way? Not all that rhymes is trite merely because it rhymes. Think about hymns and the deep and uplifting messages contained therein.
I have chosen what many dub a simplistic medium to portray a variety of deeper, broader topics. Some of what I write may be silly, but I never rhyme "just for the sake of rhyming". Every poem has to express a thought or tell a story. Those are the rules that I live by. I like engaging in the mental gymnastics involved in getting my message across within a specified rhythm pattern and with just the right rhyming words. (I'm hoping this helps me fend off dementia in my dotage!)
Now you have the whole story - read on - or don't. After all, poetry is subjective, and you don't need to listen to my muse if you don't want to.
But I'm glad I listen to her, even if she can inconvenience me at times...
Nocturnal Muse: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - May 21, 2008
She is an inconvenient muse
who wakens me by night -
yet won't inspire me when I choose,
which is by morning's light.
When I upon my pillow doze
almost submerged in sleep,
her poetry to my mind flows
and from my bed I creep.
My brain engages and I write,
though wearied I may be -
and verses weave by my lamp's light
through eyes that barely see.
To steer my pen seems such a chore
within those wee small hours -
but when she prompts I shan't ignore
lest she withdraw her powers.
When finally lines are complete
I can lay down my pen,
and settle into slumber sweet -
unless she calls again!
Fast forward about twenty years. Although I always aspired to "be a writer", I was too busy living my story to write much. I made three false starts on books, but lost motivation quickly. One day I found one of the poems I had written years back, and decided to share it with a friend. It was met with great enthusiasm, and a challenge in the form of a question.
"Have you ever written a poem about forgiveness?"
I hadn't, but suddenly I felt compelled to try my hand at writing a poem on that topic. (In those days I worked at a small, struggling health food store, and had plenty of time to scribble at work.) So there I sat the very next day, and to my surprise I had a poem come to me in almost perfectly metered rhyme! When I read it to my husband on the way home from work he proclaimed -
"Now THAT'S a poem!!"
I shared it with my friend, and she loved it too. Needless to say I kept at it. The rhyme and meter come almost effortlessly to me. I've grown so accustomed to rhyming these past five years that I'm now a bit biased in favour of rhymes, and I'll tell you why. I believe that humans are naturally geared to remember patterns and rhythms. Poems that rhyme may not be considered high art, but they are memorable. Shakespeare rhymed. Ogden Nash coined the phrase "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!" Would that be as memorable stated any other way? Not all that rhymes is trite merely because it rhymes. Think about hymns and the deep and uplifting messages contained therein.
I have chosen what many dub a simplistic medium to portray a variety of deeper, broader topics. Some of what I write may be silly, but I never rhyme "just for the sake of rhyming". Every poem has to express a thought or tell a story. Those are the rules that I live by. I like engaging in the mental gymnastics involved in getting my message across within a specified rhythm pattern and with just the right rhyming words. (I'm hoping this helps me fend off dementia in my dotage!)
Now you have the whole story - read on - or don't. After all, poetry is subjective, and you don't need to listen to my muse if you don't want to.
But I'm glad I listen to her, even if she can inconvenience me at times...
Nocturnal Muse: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - May 21, 2008
She is an inconvenient muse
who wakens me by night -
yet won't inspire me when I choose,
which is by morning's light.
When I upon my pillow doze
almost submerged in sleep,
her poetry to my mind flows
and from my bed I creep.
My brain engages and I write,
though wearied I may be -
and verses weave by my lamp's light
through eyes that barely see.
To steer my pen seems such a chore
within those wee small hours -
but when she prompts I shan't ignore
lest she withdraw her powers.
When finally lines are complete
I can lay down my pen,
and settle into slumber sweet -
unless she calls again!
Rhyming Muse - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Into my brain she popped one day,
an uninvited muse-
to give me words I had to say,
and rhymes I had to use.
I told her, "I don't write that way!"
She said, "That's no excuse!
You have to keep your guilt at bay -
you really can't refuse.
This rhythmic habit you must nurse
if you don't have it yet.
I know you can write rhyming verse-
your style is not too set!
The urge to write...well, it's a curse
that I'm here to abet.
And writing nothing would be worse
than being in my debt!"
She takes a lot of harsh abuse,
this dedicated sprite -
as dictionaries I peruse
for words that sound just right.
And oft' my temper she'll defuse
when what I've penned sounds trite -
but when I am inspired by Muse,
we both bask in delight.
I've learned to trust her good advice
to try out something new.
Producing rhyme is rather nice -
it's kind of fun to do.
All the syllables I've counted
have disciplined my mind -
with writer's block surmounted,
I think my Muse most kind.
-Sharon Flood Kasenberg-March '06
That's how it all happened - really. One day I was a frustrated "wanna be" creative sort, who thought that maybe I had something to say - IF I could ever find the means and ambition to put pen to paper. The next minute I began spewing rhyme at breakneck speed.
In the beginning nobody was more shocked by my sudden burst of rhythm and rhyme than me. Sure, I'd always been good at impromptu ad-libs (things like finding new words to that annoying tune occupying your head space) - and without a doubt I had totally rocked at creative lullabies when my boys were babies, but I'd never considered that rhyme might be a means of actually expressing my own thoughts.
I discovered Ogden Nash and Robert Service when I was an adolescent, and loved the way their poems rolled off the tongue. ( I confess that I still have large portions of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" committed to memory.) Oddly, I never acquired a taste for Dr. Seuss as a child. (I mostly objected to the way his works were illustrated - too monochromatic to appeal to my discerning eye - LOL) When I was a teenager babysitting my eldest nephew I quickly revised my earlier opinion of the good doc, who I then decided was a literary genius. (For many MANY years I could recite "The Cat in the Hat" and "Dr. Seuss' ABC's " verbatim.)
I don't know why I didn't dabble in rhyme earlier, except for the fact that I was aware that rhyming poetry wasn't fashionable, and like most younger people I wanted to be "cool" - or at least to be seen as someone who could express herself in a "current" fashion. (Obviously trying to be a young Margaret Atwood didn't quite work for me.)
The "Rhyming Muse" began to visit me at a most opportune time. By middle age I no longer cared one iota about what was fashionable, and was just relieved to find my creative juices flowing again. If "the critics" wanted to write me off as a "trite rhyming poet" that was their problem. I was writing prolifically and enjoying my new creative surge. Besides - anyone who thinks that rhyme is trite has never read "The Lorax", or "How the Grinch Stole Christmas". Both books prove that deep thoughts and important messages can be memorably communicated in rhyme.
That's what I strive to do - with the help of my kind "Muse", who I thank daily.
an uninvited muse-
to give me words I had to say,
and rhymes I had to use.
I told her, "I don't write that way!"
She said, "That's no excuse!
You have to keep your guilt at bay -
you really can't refuse.
This rhythmic habit you must nurse
if you don't have it yet.
I know you can write rhyming verse-
your style is not too set!
The urge to write...well, it's a curse
that I'm here to abet.
And writing nothing would be worse
than being in my debt!"
She takes a lot of harsh abuse,
this dedicated sprite -
as dictionaries I peruse
for words that sound just right.
And oft' my temper she'll defuse
when what I've penned sounds trite -
but when I am inspired by Muse,
we both bask in delight.
I've learned to trust her good advice
to try out something new.
Producing rhyme is rather nice -
it's kind of fun to do.
All the syllables I've counted
have disciplined my mind -
with writer's block surmounted,
I think my Muse most kind.
-Sharon Flood Kasenberg-March '06
That's how it all happened - really. One day I was a frustrated "wanna be" creative sort, who thought that maybe I had something to say - IF I could ever find the means and ambition to put pen to paper. The next minute I began spewing rhyme at breakneck speed.
In the beginning nobody was more shocked by my sudden burst of rhythm and rhyme than me. Sure, I'd always been good at impromptu ad-libs (things like finding new words to that annoying tune occupying your head space) - and without a doubt I had totally rocked at creative lullabies when my boys were babies, but I'd never considered that rhyme might be a means of actually expressing my own thoughts.
I discovered Ogden Nash and Robert Service when I was an adolescent, and loved the way their poems rolled off the tongue. ( I confess that I still have large portions of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" committed to memory.) Oddly, I never acquired a taste for Dr. Seuss as a child. (I mostly objected to the way his works were illustrated - too monochromatic to appeal to my discerning eye - LOL) When I was a teenager babysitting my eldest nephew I quickly revised my earlier opinion of the good doc, who I then decided was a literary genius. (For many MANY years I could recite "The Cat in the Hat" and "Dr. Seuss' ABC's " verbatim.)
I don't know why I didn't dabble in rhyme earlier, except for the fact that I was aware that rhyming poetry wasn't fashionable, and like most younger people I wanted to be "cool" - or at least to be seen as someone who could express herself in a "current" fashion. (Obviously trying to be a young Margaret Atwood didn't quite work for me.)
The "Rhyming Muse" began to visit me at a most opportune time. By middle age I no longer cared one iota about what was fashionable, and was just relieved to find my creative juices flowing again. If "the critics" wanted to write me off as a "trite rhyming poet" that was their problem. I was writing prolifically and enjoying my new creative surge. Besides - anyone who thinks that rhyme is trite has never read "The Lorax", or "How the Grinch Stole Christmas". Both books prove that deep thoughts and important messages can be memorably communicated in rhyme.
That's what I strive to do - with the help of my kind "Muse", who I thank daily.
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