Zelda has not left the building

And two more...

Reflections on a Treefrog 

I am moving beyond

The empty road

Looking to the empty sky

On either side are palms

The sidewalk stretches white and cold

Black lines segmenting my world

Into possible yards.

He is no longer part of the calculation

He is not part of the rhythm of my walk

Or my song

Only a one-note waltz

Interrupting the song of sorrow

Or Mozart

As I pass a familiar landmark

But soon after

After a tear or two

I am caught up in issues I can’t control

Or problems I can solve

I emerge into the world

I now inhabit

Without him

And the dream of something warmer cools.

****************************************************************

The Empty Wind

Listen, hear that?

What, Zelda?

The wind. It's sighing.

I cock an ear.

Sounds more like whistling.

No. It's the sad wind, the forlorn wind

The wind of dying dreams.

It sighs for never loves.

What rubbish. What are 'never loves' anyway?

You don't know? They're the people who

Long to love and never find it who

Pray for love, wish on stars for love, look into each face that passes

Thinking, "He's the one."

The one who wakes up each morning believing that today will be the day when

He'll meet her

Their eyes will lock and he will whisper, "She's the one."

They never give up.

Well, that's just stupid. At some point isn't it better to move on?

Fashion your own life?

Make your own way?

Zelda stubbed her cigar out. "Tell me something.

What's the first thing you think about when you wake?

Breakfast.

Liar.

Okay, the weather.

Tommy brings a fresh drink to Zelda. She tosses it in my lap.

Used to this treatment, I mop it up and order another.

A pregnant silence ensues.  I know

From experience

That Zelda cannot stand pregnant silences. I wait.

"Liar." She spits it out unwillingly.

"Yes. I think of him."

She leans forward, cheeks tense,

Chin wobbly.

"Him? Who?"

"Him who isn't afraid. Him whose eyes light up when challenged.

Who has a story to match every story, but remembers

All mine. The man with a mind that never sleeps

Except with me.

Zelda sips her martini.

The wind whips the curtains into dust devils.

Far out in the bay a water spout rises, rips the clouds apart,

and falls back exhausted into the deep.

Finally she says

Never love.

I know, Zelda. I know.

New Poem

Zelda strikes again--she takes on me and women who beg when they shouldn't. God help us all.
First on my poetry page.

NEW POEMS!

CHECK OUT POETRY LINK ABOVE.

A Christmas sort of poem

Those of you who are weird enough to appreciate my poetry check the latest out at the tag poetry. Work in progress of course.

Zelda re-re dux

It Gets Worse

I'd almost made it out the door.

Going somewhere?

Me?

You're skipping town again, aren't you?

Me?

Zelda grabbed my shirt tail and yanked.

I huff and puff and yank back.

You are out of line this time, sister

He wants no part of me

My cave is waiting

My muse is beckoning

Zelda is not amused

Your fucking muse is just bored.

Last night in Valhalla?

She spun the bottle and let it land on you. Ha!  You're it.

Lucky you

You get to write the play the gods are waiting for

And while you're writing it

He's gone.

Happy now?

Last Tango

I went to find Zelda

She had been off the screen for months

And we missed her.

I found her

Hunched over a martini

In a bar that revolved high above the City

Slowly, but with determination.

She did not look up.

Zelda!  I cried.

Come back to the dance

You left mid-tango.  He misses you.

She took a long pull on her drink and

Gazed out over the City.

My fingers touched her wet cheek.

Why, Zelda?

Because, Babe,

She smiled at me through her tears,

He ate my big fish. 

A short Zelda. More to come

Flowers

11/07

I go to the farmers’ market with Zelda.

She buys flowers

For her lover’s ex-lover

And sends them

Via UPS

Squashed into a nine-by-eleven manila envelope.

She agreed after considerable debate,  not

To include a note.

Zelda's Back

Sometimes I wish for the days of Nick and Nora, Fred and Irene, Miss Piggy and Miss Peel.

The Real thing  (6/28/14)

She arrives as usual in a fur coat

Sable I think

Tosses it to the hat check girl

Along with her Tiparillos, which are no longer acceptable

She stops

Pulls a lipstick from her tiny clutch

Presses it to her carmine lips

Pouts

And follows Germaine to her usual table.

At least this is how I remember it.

Zelda is no longer the center of attention. But

Only because the attention is on lesser things.

When did we wobble away from the diamond?

Why have we settled for the simulated topaz?

How could Georges not be there

Dancing in attendance?

Where is the music

The white tie

The tails

The rhythm?

Zelda settles gracefully at my table.

You're mouldering little one.

The world has not changed.

Elegance is in the mind.

The little people have never acquired the knack and will never

Be able to strip us of it.

Elegance isn't a matter of giving but of receiving.

It is a generosity of spirit that embraces the outliers, the undertakers, the fishmongers

Even the plumbers

And knows them to be interesting because they are human.

Elegance even allows the poor blighters who wave the banner of elegance in defiance of the truth

To exist.

So said Zelda

Before her first sip.

You can imagine what she had to say after the second.

Zelda ReTurns

She arrives as usual in a fur coat

Sable I think

Tosses it to the hat check girl

Along with her Tiparillos, which are no longer acceptable

She stops

Pulls a lipstick from her tiny clutch

Presses it to her carmine lips

Pouts

And follows Germaine to her usual table.

At least this is how I remember it.

Zelda is no longer the center of attention. But

Only because the attention is on lesser things.

When did we wobble away from the diamond?

Why have we settled for the simulated topaz?

How could Georges not be there

Dancing in attendance?

Where is the music

The white tie

The tails

The rhythm?

Zelda settles gracefully at my table.

You're mouldering little one.

The world has not changed.

Elegance is in the mind.

The little people have never acquired the knack and will never

Be able to strip us of it.

Elegance isn't a matter of giving but of receiving.

It is a generosity of spirit that embraces the outliers, the undertakers, the fishmongers

Even the plumbers

And knows them to be interesting because they are human.

Elegance even allows the poor blighters who wave the banner of elegance in defiance of the truth

To exist.

So said Zelda

Before her first sip.

You can imagine what she had to say after the second.

What do you do with a life uninterrupted? A life filled with adventure but never broken up by love? A life full of events, awards, adventures, but no reason to appreciate them? No one waiting at the door after the last interview to say, I missed you.

Embarrassing Moments and How To Avoid Them

Today at Romance Books 4 Us I’ll be discussing how to use your personal memories wisely and effectively in your prose—without getting in major

trouble with a friend or relative. I even confess one of my most embarrassing moments! Check it out here:
http://www.romancebooks4us.blogspot.com/2013/10/guest-blog-ms-spencer-relax-memories.html

Notes from a writer's weird world

Does this ever happen to other writers? I'm working on my new work-in-progress set on Chincoteague, and my heroine decided to call herself Addison Steele. So, in the spirit of the thing, I began to name everyone else after 18th-century British writers. Thus the hero is Hugh Radcliffe, others are Smollett, Swift--well you get the picture. At that point I had to come up with a name for the hero's brother. I wanted the hero to have a tattoo signifying
brotherly love, which brought me to Elton John's Daniel My Brother. Yay--perfect, until I realized what the brother's name would be....

M. S. Spencer Tale Spinner: POETRY

M. S. Spencer Tale Spinner: POETRY: This is about my daughter. Emma Deep deep hazel eyes Thick thick auburn hair The innocent look of the newly reborn Of the believer i...

Lolita & Chocolate--Interviewed at Joyfully Reviewed--

Joyfully Reviewed interviewed me July 13.  In it I reveal my first encounter with Lolita and who I’d pick to play the lead in Artful Dodging: the Torpedo Factory Murders. Quick note: Mai Tais & Mayhem is now in production!

You can catch the interview at: http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/interviews/author-spotlight-m-s-spencer

Leap Year Blues

Welcome to the World’s First Leap Year Blog Hop (oh there are so many word play possibilities I can’t begin to count…). To the commenter who can name the origin of Sadie Hawkins Day I am giving away a pdf copy of your choice of my four romantic suspense novels. Please make sure you leave your email address in your comment so I can contact the lucky winner.  And now for the main attraction:

Leap Year Blues

There is a tradition in England that if a woman wears a red slip on Leap Year Day the man she proposes to will accept her, love and cherish her for the rest of her life. I’m not from the UK, but I am an anthropologist and therefore willing to play by Roman rules where it suits me.

You know where this is leading. Yes, Leap Year. And this little Wile E. Coyote light bulb  went off in my head.  Ooh, ooh. I’ll propose to him. He won’t be able to deny me—after all, it’s Leap year (this is known in psychiatric circles as Denial). But, how to do it? In the words of another equally successful romantic figure, the wicked witch of the west, “These things must be done delicately.”

So, I Googled. And discovered the above tradition about red slips.  I hauled myself to Victoria’s Secret. No dice. Red lingerie is sold only at Christmas and Valentine’s day. Today we have your black, your teal, your hot pink… No? Off to Nordstroms. “My dear, scarlet niceties? I don’t think so.”

And so it went.

Around about twilight on Leap Year Eve I sauntered…well crawled…into Sears.

I love Sears. After all, Sears gave me my very first credit card, with which I bought my very first TV (a little black and white number with snazzy push buttons and a real antenna). I renewed my vows when I found the one and only red slip in the entire Washington metropolitan area.   Lacy, carmine, slinky and it fit. Sold, to the desperate little lady in bunny slippers.

I wended my way back home and booted up the laptop. Since the love of my life only communicated via email (he did not insist on my actual presence at our R-rated exchanges—a clue perhaps?) I wrote him. “I have the requisite red slip.”

He wrote back, “Huh?”

Me: “Now it’s okay for me to propose.”

Him: “Huh?” (I said he was gorgeous, not quick).

Me: “So?”

Pause. “Wait a minute, are you proposing?”

I refrained from the non-articulate and possibly insulting “Duh,” and answered with simple clarity: “Yes.”

Wait for it.

A little longer.

Okay, one looooong minute.

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“…”

For a more cheerful romance, try my latest, Triptych, in which legend, history and romance intertwine in a triptych of suspense. Click on the cover to your left for more information.

Please visit the next great blog on our hop: Juliette Springs at www.darkersideofromance.com  for more Leap Year leaps of faith…

My first guest!

Just a heads up, I'll be hosting Toni Sweeney next day (date TBA) who'll talk about her TWO new books--one a fantasy/futuristic novel entitled Variation and the other a sci/fi romance called For the Love in Adler's Brain.

Variation, from Wild Rose Press: http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=177_139&products_id=4711

For the Love in Adler's Brain, from Class Act Books: : http://www.classactbooks.com/For-the-Love-in-Adlers-Brain-by-Toni-VSweeney-PDF_p_313.html

Shell keeping: Is there a motive in the madness?

           There are very few people (mostly men) who are immune to the seduction of shell seeking. Yesterday, as I walked the beach near my house in Florida I began to ponder why we yield to the urge to continuously scan the half-moon circles of shells carelessly left behind by the receding tide.

Why do I ignore the vast swath of turquoise sea to my right and the ghost crabs, royal terns, skimmers, and ibises to my left, concentrating instead on a heap of the empty houses of long-dead sea life? Over the years the craving has diminished, but it unfortunately it only lies dormant. The second my eye is caught by corrugated ribs, a distinctive color, an oblong shine, sticking out the sand, I’m hooked again. I pause, I nudge the potential find with a tentative toe, I bend at the waist, I snatch. “Ooh woo, an olive!” I cry aloud, then look around guiltily.  (I don’t know about you but I always talk aloud (and sing) while walking the beach).  Holding the treasure between thumb and middle finger I admire it, waiting, hoping that another walker will stop and say, “Hey, whatcha got there?” If no one’s around I continue on, still holding the shell out, ready to brandish my trophy at the next hapless stroller.

Note: seasoned beach walkers know to keep walking, eyes averted, when they see a creature lugging shells.  So it’s important to frequent an area that attracts foreigners—a Canadian, or even an Ohioan, can be counted on to admire your loot.

            My beach is ever changing and little frequented by man. On one visit I picked up thirty-two intact sand dollars. I had so many I tried to give them away to other collectors—who would silently hold out their bag of dollars and mournfully shake their heads. On another trek gorgeous orange conchs could be had simply by stooping.

            No matter how many of the little treasures you find, the rule is, you MUST pick them up. Dozens of perfect sand dollars littering the beach and I could not leave a single one in situ. When I met up with other addicts we would try to barter them, or give them to other humans, anything rather than return them to the sand. Why is that? What is so special about the shells you’ve found? Why is it so hard to discard them? Why, when you’re packing for home, do you carefully wrap every whelk and coquina in bubble wrap and place them in your suitcase, if necessary leaving behind your laptop or a child, whichever frees up enough room? It’s not as though you’re going to display them back in Albany, or Alexandria or Akron. You know they’ll sit, cozened in paper towels, locked in a Tupperware container. Forever.

            I pondered these questions as I walked the beach, holding in my outstretched, rapidly tiring hand a large clam shell filled with my treasures. This is what I surmise.

            It’s not the shells per se; it’s the finding of them. To find a perfect olive on the sand means you’re the first to discover it—no one else has touched it. A true first, like an invention or a new galaxy. You have discovered something with no help from parents, spouse, government, or map. You have recognized something special and unique, all by yourself.  You have found treasure and it belongs to you. How could you possibly give it up? It’s the proof that you’re good at something, worth something, have something worthwhile, and are lucky. The world is now your oyster shell.

Plus, it is both free, and very precious.  Like love.

Flood Update

Still mucking out, but at last I have hot water so I can wash the three tons of muddy clothes, bags of food, dishes etc. A pinprick of light at the end of the looooong tunnel. Cheers!

George House