In the Moment

From pastures wetted by recent rains,
     a mist rises into the chill
          of morning air
as if an earthly breath
     exhales condensing steam.

Beyond grazing horses, a wooded scene fades
     drawing me into a moment
          of eerie beauty
where the past no longer exists
     and the future has yet to be.

                               Polk Street Review, Vol. 3, 2013

Hippo in a Salad Bowl
Tanzania-2014
by Jeter Skeet

Dublin (haibun)

Dublin, the home of Trinity College and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, is our first stop on this whirlwind tour of the Emerald Isle with a group of students.

winds from the seas

send unending clouds—a mist

to eclipse the sun

How do Dubliners endure the gloom?

doors of townhouses

red, yellow, green, blue, and  more

make no mistake

This spot of color adds some cheer to the atmosphere—and makes it possible for Dubliners, who love their Guinness, to find the right home.

a Tart with a Cart

sells cockles and muscles

alive, alive—ooooh

I admire a bronze statue of a buxom broad with a teasing smile while a small man sits on its base and leans against the cart.  He’s a leprechaun who keeps a lively beat on a goatskin drum with a double-headed mallet. You can photograph him for a tip.  Dublin too has its starving artists.

violin, bass,

and harpsichord waltz with you

on cobblestones

I find myself at the pedestrian mall on Grafton Street trying to read a marker embedded in the cement beneath my feet to keep from making a fool of myself by dancing. The bronze sign marks one of the places Leopold Bloom visited one day thanks to James Joyce.  I’m reminded of W.B. Yeats, Samuel Beckett, Oscar Wilde, and many, many Irish storytellers.  They know how to endure gloom.  I’m learning their secret. Create your own sunshine.

a king with golden skin

will knight you with a feather

for a silver coin

It just so happens that I have a euro in my pocket.

Grafton St., Dublin, Ireland
by Jeter Skeet

My Brand

As my header for this blog implies, I want to explore my dreams--nocturnal dreams, daydreams, and dreams about the future of this world.  Composed of treks, these dreams merge into a lifetime's odyssey.

(No comments about that Brand--Humdrum has the most computer savvy and the least amount of artistic talent.)

The tools I use to record these adventures are pen and camera.  Sometimes a truth will appear in an instant. At other times it may take weeks, months, or even years to capture with words or pixels.  I'm not always successful, but I have fun trying thanks to Trixsay.

Because of my shortage of energy, I'm expecting to post only twice a week--Mondays and Fridays.  When my hubby and I leave for photo-shoots, I'll be out of contact for one to three weeks.  I promise to bring back new pictures and stories.

I hope you enjoy these rest stops along the roads I travel.

Sand with Ghost
Madagascar-2008
Jeter Skeet

My Wee Folk

Let me introduce the little people who live deep inside of me. One is the finicky Humdrum, another the fretful Mysery, and third the frisky Trixsay. I have no awareness of any others. Humdrum is a Leprechaun who can be a little difficult at times so I’ll let him have first say. 

Whatever you think, I’m not guarding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  I’m searching for one.  I’m not even sure what one looks like.  Yet, I’ll admit that I’m  driven by ambition. 

I’m not a cobbler by trade.  Instead of traditional shoe-making, I studied to be a chemist, but Jeter became a teacher instead.  As they say, ‘Them that can do; them that can’t teach.' 

I don’t much care what I look like.  Slouching comes from spending hours bent over books. Keeping up appearances wastes too much money and time that I could be spending on more interesting things.  Now Jeter’s husband has hooked her on photography—as if writing weren't bad enough.  Talk about distractions.

 If I have a fault, the others would say I am something of a control freak.  I don’t agree.  I’m just trying to help.

Humdrum has the knack of leading me into brick walls of discrimination mainly due to my sex, but that’s history.  Let me introduce the Banshee next.  Mysery is rather depressing to live with, and I don’t want to end this essay on her sour notes.

Woe be me.  

Jeter can’t ignore me all the time even if she want to. You see, I follow her around keeping tabs on health issues.  As if it wasn't bad enough raising three kids with nose bleeds, broken arms, and asthma, now it’s her own cancers, hypertension, osteoporosis, osteoarthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, and fibromyalgia.  I watch for flares and infections that are becoming more common as she struggles to find a balance between an under-active immune system created by drugs and a naturally over-active one.  She walks a chemical high-wire.

Enough said.  Where she sees woe, I see challenge.  Because of Mysery, Humdrum is applying his workaholic personality to seeing that I eat a healthy diet and exercise regularly.  It’s a team effort.
Let’s meet the third member on my interior trio, a Deenyshee who sees magic on the other side of my Looking Glasses.  I’ll let Trixsay explain.

They say I’m a fallen angel.  I’m not good enough to be saved or bad enough to be lost. Instead I’m one of the gods of the earth.  If I am, so is everyone else, little people and big ones.

I’m a poet and writer inspiring this attempt at creative nonfiction.  I’m driven by fun and curiosity, and I dream of turning photographs into photo-art and writing a blog.  

They say I’m capricious.  The problem is just that I have to depend upon Humdrum to learn how to give form to my creations.  He has a patience I can’t seem to find.   But I have to watch him.  He likes to take things over, and his writing smells like a spoiled fish. He is a decent editor.  Where do you think words like capricious come from?  I can just image what his photo-art might look like.  Oh well, what choice do I have.  We’re all stuck to this flypaper.

Flypaper?  There will be no ice cream for you tonight.

A version of My Wee Folk appeared in The Polk Street Review, Vol. 4, 2014

Western Washington University, Bellingham, WA

At the Helm-2

My Sea of Depression reflects gray skies. It has been this way for decades. I have long been searching for a way to cross that sea, but now Rivers of Infirmity flow into this briny deep.

Like a trawler caught in heavy waves, I'm rocking and rolling to ride out the pain. But Rheumatoid Arthritis and Fibromyalgia have tangled me in their nets, robbing me of both the energy and mobility I need to stay afloat.

Can you see me writing—

Today is dreary. Rain is falling. I soaked my knees in pain patches last night. My sleep was interrupted once by a thunderstorm and twice by cats licking my fingers.  I woke into a fibro-fog from loss of sleep.  I don’t expect to get much done today.

But I’m sitting in the café at Barnes and Noble’s writing this piece.  I’m wondering if I may have discovered my Bridge over Troubled Waters.  It is not a passageway. No passageway could stretch across this vast sea.

It is a bridge where Captain Kirk might have stood, where I can steer my body across the sea and up the rivers guided by suns and moons and the planet Earth (even though I’m often asleep when these stars are out).

Instead, see me writing—

Ghosts are out this morning.  I watched them walk about in a gray cloud.  I wonder if I should take my camera with me to photograph those ghosts—skeletal trees wearing tiny leaf buds, light poles fading into silhouettes, an SUV disappearing into a time-warp.  Fog is a natural filter.

If I navigate the world along the coast and beaches of my sea, my observations sometimes lead to words--and at other times, to pixels.  Like a ship’s pilot, I will learn to steer around the reefs or icebergs or other ships that inhabit the coastline.

I have learned that when my mind is focused outside myself, I’m unaware of aches and pains, of a future in which I can no longer control a pen or press a shutter button or walk through the woods in springtime.

Spotted Hyena spying on photographers
Kenya, 2007, by Jeter Skeet

PS.  I have had some problems with this post because of Trixsay’s inconsistent metaphors.  When I tried to revise it, Humdrum took over.  I hope this version is an intelligible compromise.

At the Helm

The Sea of Depression reflects gray skies. I’m searching for a way to cross that sea while Rivers of Infirmity fill this briny deep.

Like dolphins I jump waves, but mine are waves of pain.  Medical treatments keep the waves subdued, but Rheumatoid Arthritis and Fibromyalgia and aging are robbing me of both energy and mobility.  I have enough excuses to watch TV all day—except I have a Type A personality.  Instead of a full-time couch potato, I could become a wheelchair blogger.

Can you see me writing—

Today is dreary.  Rain is falling.  I soaked my knees in pain patches last night.  My sleep was interrupted by a thunderstorm and twice by cats licking my fingers.  I forgot to fill the kibble bowl.  

No fibro-freak can cope with the loss of sleep.  I don’t expect to get much done today? 

Do you see me swimming in the Sea of Depression from those words?

But I’m sitting in the café at Barnes and Noble’s writing this piece.  I'm wondering if I may have made my Bridge over Troubled Waters already.  It is not a passageway.  It is bridge where Captain Kirk might have stood, where I can steer my small ship across seas of space guided by suns and moons and the planet Earth even though I’m usually asleep when the stars are out.

My post for today might be—

Ghosts were about this morning.  I watched them walk through a gray cloud.  Should I take my camera with me to photograph those ghosts—skeletal trees wearing tiny leaf buds, light poles fading into silhouettes, an SUV disappearing into a time-warp.  Fog is a natural filter.  

Can you see me navigating my ship?

I'm observing the world along the coasts and beaches of the Sea of Depression.  My observations sometimes lead to words and at other times to pixels.  Like a ship’s pilot, I try to avoid colliding with a reef or iceberg or another ship.  While my mind is focused outside myself, I’m unaware of aches and pains, of a future when I can’t control a pen or press a shutter button or walk through a woods in springtime.

Vervet Monkey, a Master of Mischief
Tanzania, 2014, by Jeter Skeet