While I Waited, Life Happened

As fall approaches, this poem comes to mind. It is in my poetry book and was published on Your Daily Poem. 

While I Waited, Life Happened by Glenda Council Beall Next

In the waning days of fall vacation, leaves fly like goldfinches, poplars' jeweled showers rain upon the mountains of West Virginia. Temperatures plummet to freezing after dark, but mornings crisp as caramel apples draw us outside where cows seek sustenance burrowing beneath tall weeds bronzed by season's cold. Three horses clip remaining blades from pasture overgrazed in the drought. Smoke plumes from burning brush cut to make the raw road, drifts across the pond's mosaic surface. I find myself nostalgic for my own country roots; Soft sounds of mourning doves and lost calves calling for their mothers; riding horseback in the woods, quail flush and scare my pony; crows caw from stands of willows. Boundless days stretched before me; days of wasted youth; Hours of restless yearning, wanting always what I did not have, waiting to learn what I would become, waiting to live, oblivious to the riches I already possessed. Given a second chance, I'd hold that gift of time cupped tightly in my hands. I'd breathe, taste and savor every second I have squandered — not fritter it away, but hoard each precious minute, clutched firmly against my breast. From Now Might As Well Be Then (Finishing Line Press. 2009) Used with the author's permission.

My Poetry Book is reviewed

I was very pleased when Marcia Barnes wrote this review of my poetry book, Now Might as Well be Then. It is published in our hometown newspaper where Marcia reviews a local writer's book each month. We have many excellent writers in this area.

Read the review here.

In the Dark, a poem from Now Might as Well be Then

Recently  while reading some of my poetry at the tour of gardens in Hayesville, I was asked to read this poem from my book, Now Might as Well be Then, published by Finishing  Line Press in 2009.

In The Dark

by Glenda Beall

I lie here in bed, my cheek against your shoulder,

remembering a night, long ago, on your boat.

I was afraid.  I felt too much, too fast.

But you were tender, and love crept over us

like silver fog, silent on the lake.

We were never again the same.

We stepped like children through that door that led

to long passages unknown, holding hands, wide-eyed, but brave.

Here I am years later, listening to your soft breath

and feeling your warm smooth skin.

In the dark, now might as well be then.

The title of the book comes from the last line in this poem. Many poets stress out over trying to find the perfect title for their poetry books. I did. Every title I thought of was unmemorable. It was Nancy Simpson, well-known and highly published poet, who chose the title for me.

Recently in our weekly poetry class, we studied famous poet, Theodore Roethke. His  first book was called Open House and the title was suggested to him by another poet, Stanley Kunitz. This is  yet another reason to surround yourself with writers and poets if you are a writer or a poet. 

We often see something in another person's work that they don't see. Writing is done in isolation, but we need community and that is why I  urge my students to join writing groups, attend writing events and make friends with other writers. 

Visit our Writers Circle page at City Lights

I am so happy to be affiliated with City Lights Books in Sylva, NC. This is one of the best Independent book stores anywhere. Chris Wilcox and his staff can help you with anything you need and they carry many local authors, meaning North Carolina writers and poets. 

Chris gives me a page on his site for our Writers Circle classes.

  http://www.citylightsnc.com/writers-circle-around-table

Check it out and while you are there, look at the books - real books with pages you can turn and hard covers or soft covers. Look for my poetry book: Now Might as Well be Then, published by Finishing Line Press.  On the sidebar is a place to search for the title.

You can order from Chris just as well as that other big company. 

I was there last Sunday and met my friend, Rebecca, in the bookstore where I had been browsing.

We then went downstairs to the cafe and talked for three hours.

I recently heard that real books are not dead as was predicted. Those of us who love to hold a book in our hands, to mark on the margin of books we keep, to pick up that book many times and read parts of it after we have read it through, spoke loudly and independent book stores are not going to be obsolete after all.

But we need to support them if we want to keep them.
Visit City Lights either online or in person. You will be happy you did.

Poets and Poetry

We have a great time at Writers Night Out in Young Harris, GA on the second Friday of each month. Karen Holmes hosts this event and has been doing a great job of bringing excellent writers to our area for a number of years now.

If you live in the surrounding area - Cherokee, Clay, Towns, Union or Fannin Counties - be sure you drop in this Friday night to hear two poets from the Atlanta area.

Well, just click Here and read all about them.

Everyone is welcome. Come early and have dinner. Bring a poem or short prose piece to share. You will find a warm and friendly group. 

I am sharing a poem from my book, Now Might as Well be Then, published by Finishing Line Press. Hope you enjoy it. 

Listening for the Rain

The leaves lose their chlorophyll

slowly brown and curl,

then drift like flying birds

to nestle on the ground.

The grass that once was springy

underfoot, now crackles when I walk.

Blades break and lie in shattered shreds

on barren ground.

Last night brought rain.

I woke to hear it tapping

on parched leaves, gently at first,

then a steady pouring stream

rushing through the trees.

Too late for the corn, my father says

across the bridge of time.

Maybe it will save the pasture,

give us one more haying

before summer ends. 

SIX YEARS OF BLOGGING - SIX YEARS OF MY LIFE ONLINE WITH YOU

May, 2007 - I began this blog. More than 50,000 page views later, I am still here. I learned about blogging for the first time at a North Carolina Writers' Network Conference. I decided at that time to make a blog for our writers group, NCWN West. For six years I kept two blogs going and later three. Now I am back to two.

It's been six years since I jumped into blogging knowing little to nothing about what I was doing. But I learned. What a lifetime has happened in those six years.

You, my readers, have been with me here through some of the most painful events of my life. You have encouraged me when times were the darkest. You have supported me when I needed you. 

You are strangers I have never met, some I will never meet, and some of you are my family and my friends. Many of my readers visit here from other countries - Australia, England, Canada, Germany, France and Indonesia. 

You have blogs that I visit and enjoy. Some of you are my students from over the years, and some are visitors who happened upon my poetry book one day or read one of my stories online. 

Some of my readers began their own blogs when I held a class at our local library, and they got the bug. Some of them have made blogging friends all over the world. 

One of you used my poems along with beautiful paintings to make a most spectacular post. I was touched. 

My readers include those who are researching their family, working on their genealogy and have some of the same lines I have. Some of you are family I've never met and don't even know. Some of you are family that I met through this blog. That is so, so special!

It is because of you that I appreciate the Internet instead of hating the time I spend online when I could be writing stories, poems or personal essays. I don't care for Facebook and Twitter, but blogging is an excellent way to communicate, and as a writer, that is what I want to do - speak to people through writing.

Thanks for your time which I know is the most valuable commodity any of us have. I hope you will stay with me, and if you are not a subscriber, please take a look at the sidebar and sign on. It is free and easy. You are the best!

Festivals, Pumpkins, and a Winter Day

I can’t decide what to call this – Pumpkin Season or Winter Surprise or Festival Fun.

This weekend the weather changed drastically from mild to windy and cold. I refused to turn on heat in my house. I love the coolness, but Tiger, my cat, having no warm hearth to curl up on, has taken to my bed. She is the first cat I’ve ever had that wants to sleep with me. I don’t like having a cat on my bed. I don’t like having a dog on my bed having had a poodle for 19 years that thought our king sized bed was all his. Tiger is looking for warmth and that is why she has moved in, and she is so cute curled up sleeping that I just don’t have the heart to chase her away. I know what being cold feels like.

At the 34th Indian Summer Festival in Suches, GA the wintry weather made manning the Netwest booth quite a challenge. I arrived there around 10:30 a.m. and found Netwest member, Joan Howard, had been there since 8:30. Her hands trembled from the cold. Robert King came shortly after Joan and he was bundled up with a warm jacket. The cold wind whipped through our little canopy tent, blowing books off the table, blowing brochures, framed book covers, sending everything on the table flying.

Some part of the canopy structure broke. We tied it back together with a plastic bag. The three of us sat in the sun and had a good time visiting and talking about writing. And – in spite of the cold wind, we sold some books, met some nice people and helped spread the word about Netwest.
Later driving home, I enjoyed big orange displays of pumpkins in yards, in front of stores, and remembered that I fell in love with these mountains a life time ago when we used to come here on vacation -- always in the fall. We loved the festivals, the music, and the friendly folk in the small towns.
The festivals have lost their luster for me, but autumn is glorious with the trees melding into mosaic patterns, brilliant in the sun. Life goes on.

Music from Now Might as Well be Then

Singing in My Memories

Music was born in me, in my mother,
in my sisters and my brothers.
We sang in the barn and on the farm,
and in the country church.

My sister and I blended childish
voices singing Down on My Knees.
We sang, as teens, with Elvis on the
radio, Diana and the Supremes.

Singing alto in the choir later brought
me peace. Our voices raised in praise
drowned my sorrow, dried the tears I shed
inside, until I thought of Mother’s damaged mind.

Let's talk - Thursday evening at JCCFS, 7:00 p.m.

If you are in the neighborhood, please come to John Campbell Folk School on Thursday, November, 18, the Keith House - where Jennifer McGaha and I will read and chat and sign books at Poets and Writers Reading Poems and Stories. The fun starts at 7:00 p.m. and lasts for one hour. You don't want to be late.

We will have copies of Echoes Across the Blue Ridge and I'll bring copies of Now Might as Well be Then, (if my order arrives in time).
Be sure to pick up a book for a Christmas gift. I'll discount my poetry book for that evening only.
I look forward to seeing you there.

Thanks, Pam

Pam, a reader who purchased Now Might As Well Be Then said:
I just want to let you know that I have read your book from cover to cover several times and everytime I read it, it seems to give me a calmness.....I don't know why, but it does. It is just beautiful.

SNOW DID NOT STOP OUR BOOK SIGNING

Phillips and Lloyd books on the square in Hayesville, NC hosted a book signing last Saturday. The light snow in the morning did not deter the customers looking for Christmas gifts in this delightful store. My friends and  family enjoyed shopping. Elizabeth and Joe filled a table with holiday cookies and we drank a pot of their good coffee.

Don K., Barry's good friend, came by to pick up a copy of Now Might as Well be Then. Don and Barry sang together in the Methodist Church Choir and also in the men's chorus, Singing Disciples. Don has inherited Barry's favorite hand carved wooden cane that he used for a short while.

From left: Janice Moore, author of Teaching the Robins, Karen Holmes, editor and publisher of the Netwest Newsletter, Award winning poet, Brenda Kay Ledford, Jo Carolyn Beebe, geneologist and writer, and Carole Thompson, poet and fiction writer all have work in the new anthology, CLOTHES LINES, edited by Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham. They had fun and enjoyed signing both Christmas Presence, published last year by Catawba Publishing and Clothes Lines at Phillips and Lloyd books on Saturday, December 7.

a BOOK ON FASHION FROM WOMEN WHO WORE IT

Recently I acquired a copy of Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham's new anthology, Clothes Lines, a book filled with stories and poems about, what else, clothes.
Among the writers I know in this book are Nancy Sales Cash, author of three novels and she is working on number four. Nancy is a native of Murphy, NC and spends much time in the Cherokee and Clay county areas. We met at the Daily Grind and Curiosity Shop Bookstore, had a cup of coffee and discussed readings of Clothes Lines and my poetry book Now Might As Well Be Then.
Some of the writers in the far southwest area of North Carolina and north Georgia who have work in Clothes Lines are Kathryn Stripling Byer, Joyce Foster, Nancy Sales Cash, Karen Paul Holmes, Carole R. Thompson, Glenda Barrett, Jo Carolyn Beebe, Janice Townley Moore, Blanche Ledford and Brenda Kay Ledford, and Peg Russell.
A number of our Netwest members throughout the region also appear in this interesting book by 75 western North Carolina Women.

Celia and Nancy published Christmas Presence last year through Catawba Press and used the same press for Clothes Lines. The book is made more interesting by the use of a few black and white pictures all done by Mary Alice Ramsey.

 Be on the lookout for readings from this anthology in your town.

My Love for Horses started early

My Father's Horse 

by Glenda Council Beall

Stickers tear my legs, bare and tan 

from summer sun. Long black braids 

fly behind me as I sprint like a Derby winner 

down the path. 

Harnessed with hames, bridle and blinders, 

Charlie plods along the farm road. 

Tired and wet with sweat, he is perfume 

to my nostrils. My father swings me up. 

I bury my hands in tangled mane. 

My thighs stick to leather 

and damp white hair 

high above the ground.

I want to sing in glorious joy, 

but only croon a child's nonsensical 

tune, grinning for a hundred yards 

between field and barn. 

 My father's arms are strong.

His hands are gentle. 

The horse is all we ever share. 

For he has sons, and I am just a daughter.

A Poem from Now Might as Well be Then

Ballet in the Piney Woods

Little girl sunsuits littered the wiregrass.
Summer warmed small bronze bodies
that danced on the stage of a fallen oak,
to songbirds’ music from the mayhaw.

They felt, at five, the kiss of butterflies
upon their eyes, breathed honeysuckle air.
Like sylphs set free they twirled, arms open,
gathering the breeze against their bareness.

Chastised for their boldness by older girls
who barged into their glade,
the innocents saw themselves
and were ashamed.

By Glenda C. Beall

Published first by Silver Boomer Books in the anthology "Freckles to Wrinkles."

A new blog??

This photo taken in Blowing Rock NC

I have set up another blog about my writing and will keep this one for family history and genealogy. The address for the new site is http://www.glendacbeall.blogspot.com/

While I enjoy writing on whatever subject hits me at the moment, I will soon have a poetry book published, Now Might as Well be Then. The Way I see It, is the title of my new site. Here I will only comment on writing and my opinions regarding the subject. Come and visit.

On page 28 in my poetry chapbook, Now Might as Well Be Then

Blue Moon Every Twenty Years
for Barry

Blue Moon was not my favorite song
until the night you sang to me,
the night before our wedding day in 1964.

You were a student of the forties music,
played it with your band when you were
just a high school lad in nineteen fifty-five.

On the Love Boat with orchestra in eighty-four,
microphone in hand, you owned the stage,
like you were born to be the rage. Like Frank,
you melted hearts when you sang for me.

Aboard a river boat in Ottawa, in two thousand six,
silver-haired peers applauded when you sang
Blue Moon in October, on my birthday.

Suddenly, I was twenty-four once more,
adoring you and longing to spend my life

with you. Years flew past on wings so soft

I hardly noticed.

As you returned to sit beside me, smiling at your new
found fame in Canada, you whispered a promise.
I’ll sing your song for you again in twenty years.