Now that the holiday season is wrapping up, Canadians will have more time to devote to one of their favorite pastimes - complaining about the weather. It seems that we are a nation of people with strong views on the subject, and we all have preferences as to what constitutes the ideal seasonal temperature. Surprisingly, many cling tenaciously to the opinion that winter is a season to be endured rather than enjoyed, and view snow as inherently evil. I disagree.
One of the things I love about living in Ontario is that it's a corner of the world that has four very distinct seasons. I enjoy them all, including winter. I love snow too - and yes, I have spent more than my share of hours with a shovel! (And I shoveled in northern Ontario, where the snow fall is much more impressive than it is in my current locale.) My peeve about the weather is the fact that our seasons get scrambled a lot more often than they used to. They refuse to behave in an orderly fashion. I hate seeing rain in winter, and an unseasonably mild day in December will inevitably put me into a tailspin. (I believe weather will always equalize somehow, and crazy warm winter days will likely result in snowstorms in May.)
I know that worrying about weather is a futile exercise. There's really nothing that any of us can do to change the course of the clouds or the direction of the winds. Snow will fall whether or not your back hurts and rain will fall regardless of whether you're carrying an umbrella. We all need to practice gracefully accepting those things about our climate that annoy us. There is so much more to life than the weather.
What would happen if we took all the energy that we put into griping about the cold and the snow and channeled it into warming hearts (including our own!)? What if we encouraged those flash frozen ideologies we have to defrost a bit? Could we generate enough heat to bring on our own "January Thaw"? I'm not talking about changing the weather - I've already ceded that we have no control over that, but there are things we can each do to improve our own internal climate. Maybe we could toss out a few of our freeze dried attitudes and habits and create more space for something fresher and more appetizing. (We all have them - those thoughts that require nothing more that a few watery drops of irritation to suddenly morph into instant, but rather unsavory, fare for the spirit.)
Most minds host unsubstantiated biases and prejudices that (like ill-mannered guests) crowd the facilities and make too much noise. Part of the process of attaining wisdom is learning to accept that we can be wrong sometimes. It's okay to not have all of the answers. We can't be taught if we never open our minds to new ideas or different opinions. Most of us are far too willing to share our own rhetoric without giving anyone else a chance to talk. This year I'll aim to improve my listening skills. I'm convinced that we'd all be a whole lot less ignorant if we took more time to listen - not only to others, but to our hearts, our consciences and the world around us.
If we could each keep our own emotional thermostat at a reasonable temperature, (warm enough to facilitate a genuine sunshiny smile, cool enough to let logic be the prevailing wind), then we might be able to initiate global warming of the best possible kind!
This new year I resolve to expend less energy worrying about things that I can't control, and a whole lot more effort on improving things that I can. I plan to concentrate on balancing my inner barometer with a cooler head and a warmer heart. I intend to freeze out ignorant, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors, and warm up to new friends, new experiences and a better outlook on life. I'm going to use all my inner "snow" to build complex fortresses that are guarded by fearsome snowball wielding snowman-guards who won't allow any negativity past them. My inner rain will nourish inspiration and happiness. Inner clouds will be fleeting; blue skies and sunshine will be probable in every forecast.
Happiness isn't dependent on weather, but on whether you are willing to accept what you can't change and improve your life in areas that lie within your control.
Mind Freeze:
As snow disguises frozen ground
beneath midwinter's gloom,
a man may hide from reason sound
and by this seal his doom.
Both thought and seed can still survive
although they dormant lie -
but winter is meant to arrive
and minds should ice decry.
Though it appears that many curse
a season that brings snow,
I somehow think that it's far worse
to bury what you know.
A foolish man will weed out thought
then freeze it o'er with frost -
refusing to be schooled or taught
until all reason's lost.
We have o'er seasons no control,
each passes in its turn -
but it's the purpose of each soul
to nourish thought and learn.
Therefore regret not winter days
and snow that comes to cleanse.
Mourn he who chooses senseless ways
and ignorance befriends.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (February '08)
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Small Change (Or Giving What Matters Most) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I have always loved Christmas, but I find that as I age the yuletide season becomes more bittersweet. With every passing year I become increasingly aware of how much more I have than many around me. Not too long ago a small donation or two to the Salvation Army's kettle was enough to assuage my pangs of social conscience. I was giving, right? Wasn't that enough?
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
The uncomfortable fact that my small cash donations are definitely not enough can no longer be denied. I need to step up to the plate and make some changes. I need to think less and do more. That doesn't mean I'll be offering the entire contents of my piggy bank to a worthwhile charity. I know that I need to give a whole lot more than money.
Christmas is a season of joy - a season of love and giving. Nothing satisfies me more than the feeling that I'm making the people I love happy. That's why I go into my annual baking frenzy. I love sharing my treats with any appreciative audience. A tin of goodies from my kitchen is a gift from my heart, and for my heart. A smile of genuine appreciation makes my day - a smack of the lips and I'm euphoric. Like far too many people in the world I'm a praise junkie in search of a fix.
As I've become more aware of my own need for positive feedback I've begun to look for opportunities to give compliments to others. I'm beginning to understand that giving praise is as rewarding as receiving it. It feels good to see people stand taller when their talents are acknowledged.
Like many I tend to think that giving means spending money, but the best gifts to give are those that have little (if any) monetary value. What does it cost me to share a plate of brownies? I can afford a few baking ingredients and the forty minutes it takes from the time I grab the recipe 'til the pan gets pulled from the oven. Compliments are free, so they fit nicely into my budget.
If I want to know what else to give, perhaps I should examine what things I really want.
My deepest desires can be fulfilled without any cash transactions occurring. (I think that's true for most of us.) I want acceptance. I want appreciation. I want to enjoy strong friendships and that feeling of connection that only comes from spending time with people I enjoy. I want to feel that I'm part of a supportive community - surrounded by people who will help if and when I need their assistance. I want to feel needed. I want smiles and hugs daily. I want to hear words like "thank you" and "I love you" and "I'm sorry". I want fun, and I want challenge. I want to feel the satisfaction that comes from making my best effort.
I want the very things that I've sometimes been reluctant to give. In one of my favorite Christmas carols, ("In the Bleak Midwinter"), a question is posed, and then answered.
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him: give my heart."
What we each need to do is concentrate on giving our heart. This requires true sacrifice as we refuse to skimp on gifts that cost more in terms of time and effort than money. I've struggled for days to come up with a poem on this theme, and here it is.
Small Change (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - December 18, 2013)
This season so joyful can also be bleak
for souls who are lonely or needy or weak.
Aware of the many whose lives are far worse,
I pause near a kettle and fish in my purse.
My coins clatter loudly, I wish I'd shared more -
the fact that pot's empty is hard to ignore.
'Neath din of the shoppers I know it seems strange
that my ears are filled with the sound of small change.
The bell-ringer thanks me - says, "Have a great day!"
And heavy in heart I start walking away.
My pondering mind is now vexed by this thought -
I ought to be filling mankind's empty pot.
I know that just giving my wallet's scant bills
cannot be sufficient to cure the world's ills.
My disordered thoughts I begin to arrange;
humanity needs so much more than spare change!
The homeless need shelter, the hungry need food,
and I, (so complacent!) need new attitude.
The lonely need friendship; a hug or a smile -
or someone to sit down and visit a while.
Small deeds make a difference in everyone's life.
It lies in my power to lessen some strife.
Through kindnesses daily there's much I can give
if I make a small change each day that I live.
This season of good will I vow that I'll start
to give more than small change in gifts from the heart.
May each one of you enjoy giving and receiving those gifts that cost little and mean most.
Merry Christmas!
Love, Sharon
Friday, 29 November 2013
The Rhyming Muse Reviews Derrick Shirley's book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper"
Thinking in Ink (for Derrick Shirley)
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
The good, the bad and ugly
in self I must embrace -
the extra pounds on body
and scars upon my face.
The darkest depths of my soul
I try to hide from sight -
the very things my writing
has often brought to light.
My bleakest and most hopeless
were days to coincide
with those times my pen stayed capped -
words bottled up inside.
You see, I know when ink flows,
with every written line -
my past life is deciphered;
my future is designed.
Conversations with myself
emerge upon the page.
Thoughts I didn't want to think
must now my brain engage.
Through scratched out words and scribbles
I have found eloquence
when the needed words appeared
to make my world make sense.
My flaws seem less important
when thoughts translate to ink.
As pen glides over paper
more lofty thoughts I think.
And as pen gains momentum
I see myself anew -
embracing imperfections
and moving forward too.
(By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 25, 2013)
On the very first pages his book, "The 400 Pound Male Stripper", Derrick Shirley talks about the scripts we each live and how we can each reshape our own story by putting pen to paper and "thinking in ink". This was a central theme to the book, and it resonated with me because in one way or another, ink has played a big part in life. I've been keeping journals (or "diaries" as I referred to them in youth) since the age of eleven. Those first attempts to "write my life" were scribbled in the unused portions of old school notebooks, and filled with pages describing grade school crushes and hanging out with friends. At times I vented in them, complaining bitterly about some perceived injustice I'd experienced. The eighteen volumes on my shelf provide a running commentary on what my life was through all of its stages, but they don't tell the whole story very well.
I have always battled self-esteem issues. I grew up feeling that I was constantly falling short - I wasn't pretty enough or smart enough or good enough. I was the wallflower sitting on the bench, hoping someone would save me from the pack of desperate girls who went unasked. Derrick's book brought back a lot of those feelings. I have never felt any conflict about my race or heritage, but nevertheless I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and feel anger and distaste - to want to be someone other than who you are.
My "aha moment" as far using my pen to change the script my life had always followed came a few years ago when I decided to begin this poetry blog. Finding out that I was brave enough to "put myself out there" spurred me on to greater literary efforts. I put pen to paper and wrote the book I'd always threatened to write. (It has never been published, so don't go looking for it! I don't know if it ever will be.) The act of completing it was enough to begin to change the way I felt about myself. I could find the discipline to write for blocks of several hours four or five times a week. I could make sense out of the chaos in my brain to put a whole story down on paper. My "not good enough" mentality took a turn in the right direction, becoming first a hesitant "maybe?" and then an almost full-on "I can!".
So I understand the message that we can reshape our lives with pens and paper. Derrick's story proves that. Once he found an outlet for his thoughts and frustrations through writing he physically reshaped himself by "stripping off" almost half his body weight. He found peace with himself, got his degree, found love. He re-wrote his script and now plays a role that he loves. He loves the person he's become and the life he lives.
One story that he told in the book struck me particularly because of its profound circularity - he was hurt by someone and then years later turned around and hurt someone else exactly the same way. I could relate to that part too.
All of us, at times, find ourselves looking at life from varying perspectives. It's similar to the difference between standing outside peeking into windows, or being inside looking out. The landscape of life changes, depending on what side of the glass it's seen from. I was uncoordinated as child, and I had a dead zone in my brain when it came to understanding sports. I was the last kid picked for any team. You'd think that the ego crushing resulting from those experiences would have made me empathetic enough to not hurt others in a similar fashion. But I have mocked those who are not good at doing the things that come easily to me. I am capable of cruelty. We all are.
Sometimes we think that the perspective we're seeing is the right one. We believe that we have found the optimal spot from which to observe the world - we alone view it to its best advantage. We ardently believe that the particular window we're looking out of makes us impervious to the criticisms of others - like a bigot who thinks he can scream racial slurs at an innocent bystander through the safety of his car window...
Both Sides of the Window (For Derrick Shirley)
On one side of a pane of glass
a nasty, racist guy
observes a boy he cruises past
with hatred in his eye.
Through a swiftly unrolled window
words shoot out as though from gun -
astonished by the names he's called,
the youth stands silent - stunned.
This prejudice is crystal clear -
like glass in window panes;
the boy would like to hurl retort
but prudently refrains.
On both sides of my window pane
such scenes I've acted out.
I've been both insulted party
and the one to rudely shout.
I have been a perpetrator
without an alibi
and I've led interrogations
wanting only to know why.
I've stood behind a mirrored wall -
an unrepentant punk,
and been arresting officer -
a little power drunk.
In every role I'm visible
whether I'm wrong or right.
I hide behind transparent wall
where I am in plain sight.
(By Sharon Flood Keasenberg, November 26, 2013)
I never thought I would see myself in a book called "The 400 Pound Stripper", but I did. I loved Derrick's story because I could relate to it - I saw flashes of me while I read. When the book first arrived in my mailbox, I sat and read it straight through. Then I got up off my nice comfy couch and walked around for three days thinking lots of not-so-comfortable thoughts. He made me analyze, and stew and ruminate on my own life and how to continue that transformation - the one that ink (and computer keyboard) started. Finally I sat down and re-read it, pen in hand, making notes and underlining. (My volume is now filled with both "think" and "ink".)
So thank you, Derrick, for making me think. Thanks to your story I dreamed a few nights back about reams of paper and boxes of pens, and then got up and wrote. Thank you for reminding me that we all progress at our own pace, navigating according to the terrain we see on our current side of the glass. And thank you for reminding me that I can re-write, change, "strip" off the old tired scripts that weigh me down and emerge transformed - worthy of love. When I see that message in my own print I am empowered by an increased ability to love myself.
What greater message could there be in any book?
Thursday, 14 November 2013
The Ballad of Horace - (Or How Truth that's Stranger than Fiction Deserves to be Immortalized!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Today I'm going to share the poem that I had the most fun writing! I hope it at least brings a smile to my readers, because immodest as it may sound this is one I laughed out loud while writing. (Luckily the store was quiet that day - and yes - for those of you about to criticize me for slacking at work, the store was spotless, the shelves faced up and inventory had been taken and called in before I took pen in hand.)
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Inspiration for this ode came to me thus. About six years ago my sibs and I were gathered at my sister's house for a family get-together. (I'm guessing a visit from my Mother, who was still living in Sault Ste. Marie at the time prompted my sister to invite us all over.) Anyhow, there we were after supper hanging around the living room visiting when my mother asked me to share a poem or two. (Like most moms, mine is the biggest fan of my literary endeavors.) So I read and my siblings politely heard me out. After my reading my mother suddenly said:
"You girls get your poetic leanings from my side of the family, you know!"
She was referring to myself and my oldest sister, who is a poet of the non-rhyming variety. We must've both looked a bit surprised by this statement, because - well, my mothers siblings are nice people, but while several of them are musical, nary a soul in that connection could be suspected of being poetically inclined.
My mother went on to tell us the story of her cousin, a poet who established quite a reputation among his kin in the rural area of Dayton Ontario. As it turns out, he made a name for himself because he was known to rather unceremoniously arrive on his relatives' door steps expecting to stay for a few days to regale them with his rather horrific poetry!
She told us he hailed from some spot nearby known as Hungry Hollow, whose residents were notoriously inbred, and went on to say that when she was young a visit from this cousin was an event to be dreaded. However, none of his kin dared risk the social stigma that would accompany showing any lack of hospitality toward a visitor.
Now a poet with less faith in a mother's sincere admiration might have taken umbrage from the telling of this tale, but as it was I wasn't piqued in the slightest - nor was my sister. Instead we were intrigued by the tale of the roaming poet of the North Shore (that's the north shore of Lake Huron, by the way) who came from a place so small that even we, (with our mother who hailed from Dayton and Silverburg and our father who hailed from Cockburn Island), had never heard of it!
Yes, my mother laid down fertile soil for my poetic mind that day. I would write a poem to commemorate this purveyor of bad verse!! I could just see my grandparents trying to issue a hearty welcome to the troubadour, while inwardly praying that he'd go off and pester someone else! (Obviously I tweaked names and fictionalized this visit, so as to spare my relatives any pain when the tale becomes famous!) The lines began to percolate as I sat there, and within 48 hours I had penned an epic!
So without further ado, here it is...
The Ballad of Horace (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November 2007)
Horace hailed from Hungry Hollow -
barely tall as he was wide;
a meandering route he'd follow
roaming o'er the countryside.
He believed he was poetic
(though of talent, he had none),
all his efforts were pathetic -
kin, on seeing him, would run.
Cousins would shout with insistence,
"To the barn we all must flee!",
as his girth, seen in the distance
bobbed along quite merrily.
"Oh my goodness, here comes Horace!",
moaned their frazzled mom inside,
"How I hoped he would ignore us,
but there's nowhere I can hide."
(This she said with resignation
as she braced to open door - )
"He reeks so of desperation
and his verse is such a bore!
It's a shame that he's related -
such a nephew must I own?"
At this thought she hesitated,
then repented with a groan.
"Hungry Hollow folk are inbred,
but to shun would be a sin,
so he must be welcomed and fed -
we can choose friends, but not kin.
I will smile while verse he's sharing
and try to attentive be -
I'll be blessed if I'm forbearing,
he is family to me."
Thus the door was quickly flung wide,
Horace beamed upon the stair
and he was invited inside
for she couldn't leave him there.
Soon her dear spouse from the fields came
hoping for five minutes rest
and espying Horace felt shame
at how much the sight distressed.
Horace sighed with great contentment
as he warmed before the fire,
quite immune to their resentment
and oblivious to ire.
"With which verse shall I reward them
for such hospitality?
They're deserving of my best gem - "
Ran his thoughts, jovially.
Aunt and uncle sat there waiting,
dreading their impending doom
'til his ode exasperating
filled the confines of the room.
He recited with expression -
spewed the passion of his soul...
while they held in check agression
and maintained shaky control.
Oh - it seemed he droned forever!
Minutes felt to them like years!
But to yawn - no no - not ever!
(Though they both were bored to tears.)
Horace saw their eyes a-glisten -
thrilled to note how each was moved.
With such rapture they did listen!
Surely this his talent proved!
After poem reached cresendo
he refused offer of meal
and insisted that he must go
with almost religious zeal.
His refusal was quite stunning -
they'd been granted a reprieve!
As he hastened away running,
gratefully they watched him leave.
"I don't suppose it's his fault
he's not quite right in the head,
I've heard this can be the result
when close relatives are wed.
His IQ probably should rise -
perhaps by more than dozens -
a crazy kid is no surprise
when parents are first cousins!"
'Twas this his aunt and uncle mused
as they watched the boy depart.
His inbred heritage excused
complete ignorance of art.
But Horace, joyful, walked on air.
He'd achieved his heart's desire!
He sped to others where he'd share
poetry to souls inspire!
He bounced along in portly glee
with his spectacles askew -
another mile, or two or three...
and he'd induce tears anew!
Tuesday, 29 October 2013
Leaving Las Vegas...(Literally and Figuratively) - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I just returned from my first trip to Vegas. The fact that I'm even writing that sentence still surprises me. Las Vegas isn't a place I ever felt a great urge to visit - I don't gamble, I don't drink and I couldn't care less about "night life". I'm usually in bed by 10:30 and asleep an hour later. But when my husband decided to attend a three day conference there he invited me to come along for the ride and I accepted. I like to see new places, and I like to spend time with my husband, and the trip gave me opportunity to do both.
I also knew that the trip would allow me to do some "people watching" in a completely new setting. I was engaging in a sociological study - observing the reactions others had to "The Strip" while monitoring my own.
One of the very first things to strike me about the Vegas Strip is the sheer over-burdening of the senses that confronts the unsuspecting visitor. I knew there would be bright lights, but it never occurred to me that there would be so much noise and chaos. Music is piped in everywhere - the casinos, the shopping concourses and often on the streets. The casinos have a steady din of machines that make noise and people conversing and fuzzy music under all of it. People on the street call out to you constantly - wanting to know if you want tickets for a show or are willing to view time share opportunities or want "an escort". The casinos are smelly too - trying to disguise years of tobacco use in stale air with cloying scents of a floral or fruity nature. Vegas, my friends, engages in an unceasing assault on the senses, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave.
Places like Vegas are designed to put all of your senses on high alert so that you won't be tempted to engage your brain. (Who would be tempted to drop wads of cash on gambling and alcohol if they took the time to think about how much they were spending?) The message Vegas sends out is clear - don't trouble your mind with pesky thoughts, just eat, drink and gamble! Give your brain a rest, but keep that wallet-reaching hand well exercised!
I began to miss my quiet contemplative moments quickly. The bright lights and constant buzz of the place became jarring to me, and by the end of my fourth day I was anxious to get home. (By the end of my fifth day I was downright cranky and jaded to boot.)
I know that for the tired and stressed this brain switch off experience may be exactly what the doctor ordered up as a dream vacation. Honestly, I can understand the short-term appeal of such a getaway. What saddens me is that there seems to be a subset of our culture who thrive on this sort of atmosphere. They want to turn off consciousness as often as possible. "Peace and quiet" are not appealing concepts to this crowd, who don't want to be burdened with deep thoughts or contemplation. Instead they are constantly rushing off in search of another thrill, another drink, another sexual exploit to satisfy their cravings. These are the people who have what I'll dub "the Vegas mindset"- bring on the lights and the noise, I don't want to think. They live their lives as empty vessels, waiting for some exciting new gratification to momentary fill them up. Silence and solitude scare them.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
We've all heard that phrase, but it could just as easily be "Be still and know that life is good." Life is not meant to be lived at breakneck pace, under neon lights and among jostling hoards. Life is not meant to be one sensory overload experience after another, but a series of small, important and often, (but not always) gratifying sensations and moments. Life is meant to be filled with pondering and questioning and periods of boredom and frustration that make us yearn for something meaningful. God may not enter the equation at all, but I believe we can never really know ourselves without submitting to periods of solitude and sometimes uncomfortable inner scrutiny.
When we stifle our minds and refuse to give them opportunities to work out our conscious and subconscious concerns there are negative consequences. While our thoughts define us, those things we refuse to think about may define us more. Much of what we need most in our lives is found in those moments of quiet and stillness when we let our subconscious thoughts off leash and examine what we fill our minds and hearts with.
Subconscious: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November '07)
Feelings we'd prefer kept in -
born in sorrow, anger; sin,
unbeknownst to us sneak out
as resentment, fear and doubt.
Much that we would never say
manifests another way.
Untold secrets that we keep
haunt our dreams, if we find sleep.
Stirrings that we can't explain,
buried somewhere in the brain
unacknowledged, still compel -
motivating to excel
or perhaps abandon cause
as they magnify our flaws.
In our quest for self control
we ignore depths of the soul -
questions we have locked inside,
where our fears and wishes hide.
Answers that we haven't sought,
buried in subconscious thought
come to light from deepest shade,
when we ponder unafraid.
My urging to all is to not be afraid of those quiet, ponderous and even boring moments. Through those lulls we are invigorated and able to become attuned to the depths of our own souls, the answers to our questions and the GPS instructions that lead us on our individual quests. "Be still, and know..." Let your mind fill in the rest.
Still: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June '06)
Still learning what's important
with every passing year -
still striving to overcome
all my irrational fear.
Still looking for some answers
to demystify the heart;
still hoping to find wisdom
that I might in turn impart.
Still of belief that charity
should be compelling force -
still urging all to action
while adhering us on course.
Still following my conscience,
but struggling with my will -
still contemplating wonders
as I'm learning to be still.
I also knew that the trip would allow me to do some "people watching" in a completely new setting. I was engaging in a sociological study - observing the reactions others had to "The Strip" while monitoring my own.
One of the very first things to strike me about the Vegas Strip is the sheer over-burdening of the senses that confronts the unsuspecting visitor. I knew there would be bright lights, but it never occurred to me that there would be so much noise and chaos. Music is piped in everywhere - the casinos, the shopping concourses and often on the streets. The casinos have a steady din of machines that make noise and people conversing and fuzzy music under all of it. People on the street call out to you constantly - wanting to know if you want tickets for a show or are willing to view time share opportunities or want "an escort". The casinos are smelly too - trying to disguise years of tobacco use in stale air with cloying scents of a floral or fruity nature. Vegas, my friends, engages in an unceasing assault on the senses, from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave.
Places like Vegas are designed to put all of your senses on high alert so that you won't be tempted to engage your brain. (Who would be tempted to drop wads of cash on gambling and alcohol if they took the time to think about how much they were spending?) The message Vegas sends out is clear - don't trouble your mind with pesky thoughts, just eat, drink and gamble! Give your brain a rest, but keep that wallet-reaching hand well exercised!
I began to miss my quiet contemplative moments quickly. The bright lights and constant buzz of the place became jarring to me, and by the end of my fourth day I was anxious to get home. (By the end of my fifth day I was downright cranky and jaded to boot.)
I know that for the tired and stressed this brain switch off experience may be exactly what the doctor ordered up as a dream vacation. Honestly, I can understand the short-term appeal of such a getaway. What saddens me is that there seems to be a subset of our culture who thrive on this sort of atmosphere. They want to turn off consciousness as often as possible. "Peace and quiet" are not appealing concepts to this crowd, who don't want to be burdened with deep thoughts or contemplation. Instead they are constantly rushing off in search of another thrill, another drink, another sexual exploit to satisfy their cravings. These are the people who have what I'll dub "the Vegas mindset"- bring on the lights and the noise, I don't want to think. They live their lives as empty vessels, waiting for some exciting new gratification to momentary fill them up. Silence and solitude scare them.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
We've all heard that phrase, but it could just as easily be "Be still and know that life is good." Life is not meant to be lived at breakneck pace, under neon lights and among jostling hoards. Life is not meant to be one sensory overload experience after another, but a series of small, important and often, (but not always) gratifying sensations and moments. Life is meant to be filled with pondering and questioning and periods of boredom and frustration that make us yearn for something meaningful. God may not enter the equation at all, but I believe we can never really know ourselves without submitting to periods of solitude and sometimes uncomfortable inner scrutiny.
When we stifle our minds and refuse to give them opportunities to work out our conscious and subconscious concerns there are negative consequences. While our thoughts define us, those things we refuse to think about may define us more. Much of what we need most in our lives is found in those moments of quiet and stillness when we let our subconscious thoughts off leash and examine what we fill our minds and hearts with.
Subconscious: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, November '07)
Feelings we'd prefer kept in -
born in sorrow, anger; sin,
unbeknownst to us sneak out
as resentment, fear and doubt.
Much that we would never say
manifests another way.
Untold secrets that we keep
haunt our dreams, if we find sleep.
Stirrings that we can't explain,
buried somewhere in the brain
unacknowledged, still compel -
motivating to excel
or perhaps abandon cause
as they magnify our flaws.
In our quest for self control
we ignore depths of the soul -
questions we have locked inside,
where our fears and wishes hide.
Answers that we haven't sought,
buried in subconscious thought
come to light from deepest shade,
when we ponder unafraid.
My urging to all is to not be afraid of those quiet, ponderous and even boring moments. Through those lulls we are invigorated and able to become attuned to the depths of our own souls, the answers to our questions and the GPS instructions that lead us on our individual quests. "Be still, and know..." Let your mind fill in the rest.
Still: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June '06)
Still learning what's important
with every passing year -
still striving to overcome
all my irrational fear.
Still looking for some answers
to demystify the heart;
still hoping to find wisdom
that I might in turn impart.
Still of belief that charity
should be compelling force -
still urging all to action
while adhering us on course.
Still following my conscience,
but struggling with my will -
still contemplating wonders
as I'm learning to be still.
Monday, 7 October 2013
Finding My Voice! (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My last post does have a title, and this post exists for the sole purpose of directing you to that post, which is in fact called "Finding My Voice". And because I'm not afraid to use my voice I'll complain once more about how blogspot never lets you change anything in the title line once you've hit "Post". If (like me) you make the mistake of prematurely hitting that button before you've titled your post, your post is destined to go untitled unless you get creative. So scroll down and enjoy reading!
Finding My Voice (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg)
My Voice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - January '07)
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
Somewhere between my head and heart
it seems I've found my voice -
a way to express love and fear,
share sorrows and rejoice.
I'm attempting to find balance
between feelings and thought
as cool logic tempers passions
that tend to run too hot,
my heart softens the sharp edges
of reasonableness;
with efficacious empathy
I might find words to bless.
Can I use love and intellect -
avail myself of each;
use words to stir both heart and mind -
to nourish and to teach?
The same voice that always whispered
is dictating in rhyme
attempts to meld my brain and soul
in strictly metered time.
Though the cadence must be measured
I'll generously share
the contents of my head and heart
for readers to compare.
Can you discern where my thoughts end
and where my heart begins?
As each attempts to rule the day
my voice decides who wins.
When I first began to share these poetic musings I was afraid that nobody would care enough to read them. I felt exposed - tossing my thoughts and feelings off like sweaty laundry to stand naked. I worried that I was throwing the contents of my mind and heart into some void in cyberspace, to a faceless anonymous alien audience who might not ever respond.
I wondered whether this blogging experience would be encouraging or demoralizing. Initially it often felt like an exercise in futility, especially when my husband admitted that he didn't read my posts! I persevered, becoming more assertive by putting each new post on his Facebook wall where he was bound to see it (eventually). I also began to send out posts to friends, thinking that some of them might be curious enough about what I had to say to click on the link. I want to thank each of you who have taken a few moments here and there to read and offer comments and encouragement. (You'll never know how much it thrills me when you tell me you enjoy what I write, much less tell me I should post more often!)
Blogspot allows me to see how many people have viewed each post, and while my ego isn't healthy enough to allow me to credit every person who stumbles upon this blog with actually reading it, I am gratified to know my posts are at least seen. But I'm grounded enough to know that the numbers will never be true indicators of how well I "vocalize".
I've always written, but until seven years ago almost every word I wrote was for my eyes only. (Except for the play I wrote and directed in grade two, and any diary entries that I thought had enough comedic value to read to friends.) My "Rhyming Muse" has made me more confident about sharing verse and prose. Rhyme snobs still exist (they always will), but I think I've been able to show a few people that complicated ideas can be conveyed in simple rhyming couplets. I believe that demonstrating literary acumen shouldn't require complicated sentence structures and a dictionary for translation. In my opinion, good writing is easy enough to understand, but sufficiently complex to make you ponder.
It took many years of searching before I found a voice and the courage to speak up. Some will listen, others will ignore what I have to say. What is important to me is that I continue to speak regardless of who hears, and that some who hear will respond.
If what I write ever makes you smile - if it makes you think or want to exercise your own creativity then I have succeeded. My satisfaction doesn't depend on how much my poems are seen. I care more about whether my efforts have affected those who have read them. When you turn my "vocalizing" into a conversation or a thought to ponder I have no doubt that my voice is being heard.
Poetic Justice: (Sharon Flood Kasenberg - September '07)
If chaos in my mind intrudes,
corrupting calm and peaceful moods
I find a haven writing verse -
it helps the threatening clouds disperse.
Perhaps it is my therapy -
for through combining words I see
solutions in what I create
and weakness when I hesitate.
When my fragmented thoughts cohere
so that on paper words appear
it seems forces beyond this earth
took fetal thoughts and gave them birth.
Completed lines leave me consoled -
but only rarely I behold
poetic justice meted out
when in my verse I have no doubt.
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