Still time to submit to Kakalak 2014 before April 30

I was honored when my poem Scene from Yellowstone's Valiant Wild  was published in Kakalak 2009. Richard Taylor and Beth Cagle, editors and judges who publish the work of some of the best Carolina poets in their anthology were present at Poetry Day in Hickory NC today. I traveled from the "far west" of the state to take part in the third annual Poetry Day at Catawba Valley College where Scott Owens teaches and holds this event. 

Scott and Pat Riviere-Seel, poet from Asheville, NC, held workshops on Invention and Revision. I'll write more later but want to let all the poets know that Main Street Rag, which will publish the next issue of Kakalak, requests you submit poems now. You will be proud to be among those who are chosen for this anthology. 



Scott Douglas says, "The flood gates for the KAKALAK 2014 contest opened March 1, 2014 and so far only a trickle of North and South Carolina writers and photographers have entered. Everyone at Main Street Rag and the editors of Kakalak 2013 were very pleased with last year's turn out as well as the quality of the work KAKALAK 2013 featured. We want very much to continue offering this opportunity and continue to maintain and increase the quality of the work featured there, but it relies heavily on the support of the poets and photographers in the region. With an April 30 deadline, there is about 5 weeks remaining (as of the time of this posting) to enter. Guidelines and a live entry link can be found on the KAKALAK 2014 page. We hope all of our eligible friends in North and South Carolina will join us this time around."

Writing from Photographs

In my memoir classes, I often ask my students to use photographs as prompts to jog their memories for stories about the past. I also use photos to write poems. In the following poem, I used a lovely picture of my mother. I hope that you see the picture as you read the poem.
Below is a different picture of Mother. 

A Very Old Photograph

Shy with the camera,

she stands in her white sailor dress

one arm behind her back.

Her dark eyes, so much like mine,

glance right. Her lips shyly smile.

I wish I had known her then.

We'd have been friends,

going to pound suppers, singing

alto in the church choir.

She was loved as I was loved,

sheltered by Mama, strengthened

by her Papa's expectations.

How could she have imagined ageing?

Certainly not at fourteen

and looking so lovely.

She never thought she'd grow old,

lose her memory, and depend on me,

her daughter, to care for her.

              -- Glenda C. Beall

Lois Robison age 14

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!

Call for Submissions

Unteachable: An Anthology of Poets Outside the Academy

For the last fifty years teaching has become the default profession of poets in the United States. This anthology is to present the work of poets who do not teach. It is for bankers, carpenters, lawyers, taxi drivers, machinists, clerks, waiters, flight attendants, surgeons, musicians and anyone else who reads, writes and publishes outside of the academy.

Please submit 1-3 poems and a biographical statement to Mike James at williamdijames@aol.com. In the subject line, please type Anthology Submission. Poems may be on any subject and in any style. All submissions should be included in the body of the email, not as an attachment. Previously published are acceptable if the poet retains copyright. 

Payment will be one copy of the anthology. 

A First Car is Special - and always remembered

In June of 1962, I graduated from the University of Georgia with a teaching degree. I was hired to teach fourth grade at a fairly new facility, Sylvester Road Elementary School in my home town. My jubilation soared. My salary reached the great level of around 3200 dollars, I believe.


I was finally an adult earning my own money. The first thing I did was buy myself a car. Having no idea how to go about it, I asked my brother, Hal, to help me. He knew all the car dealers in town. With his help, the car of my dreams was located in a nearby town. I signed the papers for a short little salesman named Mac who worked for the Oldsmobile dealer. Mac drove my sister, Gay, and me to Moultrie, Georgia where we picked up my brand new Cutlass Convertible.

I have never seen a prettier car in all my life. The pure white paint gleamed in the summer sun, and the plush front bucket seats covered in wine-colored fabric were fit for royalty. I’ll always remember that new car smell that lingered for many months. The same wine color set off the top of the car like a crown.

The first thing Mac showed me, before we drove out of the parking lot, was how to put the top back. Gay and I snapped the tonow cover on and could hardly contain our excitement as we pulled out into the street.

Smiles plastered across our faces, our long black hair gleaming like ravens’ wings, we must have made a pretty good looking site. Many glances, mostly from men, turned our way.

Looking back, I’m sure that was the penultimate moment of my life. Having always felt unworthy in my family, somehow owning a brand new hot convertible shot my self-image skyward. And by association, Gay got to enjoy the same thrill.

We had only traveled about ten miles when a typical South Georgia shower came up. We pulled over and ran around to unsnap the cover so I could let up the top. A few miles down the road, we ran out of the rain. I pulled over to the side of the road again, let the top down and we jumped out and ran around snapping the cover on. The image had to be perfect and we would not think of driving around with the top down with no cover.

No one saw us acting so silly but we were embarrassed and giggled at our behavior. We had no intention of depriving ourselves of one minute of convertible riding with the top down.

Everyone’s first car is memorable, but this car was completely out of character for me. No one who knew the timid, self-conscious young woman who walked around in my skin would ever imagine me driving a convertible.

When I met Barry Beall, he also sported a new convertible. Doesn’t that seem to say we were meant for each other? Or does it say that we were both trying to impress the world with our false confidence?

Having come to town to visit his brother, Barry decided to make it his home while he decided what he wanted to do with his life. The Chevy II ragtop enhanced his image with the girls. He came to meet me in this car, top down, on July 4, 1963. He impressed me with his car, but not his attention until much later that night.

We fell for each other and married, both paying on brand new cars. I would not consider giving up my beloved automobile, so Barry had to sell his car. He bought a used sports car, convertible, that he enjoyed just as much.

We kept my Cutlass for about six years before we sold it. By then my horse had bitten a hole in the top, the rain had begun to slip in at times, and the newness had faded. But it broke my heart when I saw some young teenage boys driving it around town flashing a distasteful sticker on the rear bumper.

Jewel
By Glenda Beall
In her prime she was as classy as Princess Grace,
young, sleek, flirtatious. With her top off
she created quite a stir ― red wine, warm and inviting.
I felt like a beauty queen driving her around.
Heads turned and people smiled. How sad to see
what she became six years later
with a young man behind the wheel,
a sticker on her bumper that read
"Sex Machine."
From, Now Might As Well Be Then, Finishing Line Press, 2009
http://www.amazon.com/, Phillips and Lloyd books, Hayesville, NC, City Lights Books, Sylva, NC or order from author: nightwriter0302@yahoo.com

FATHER'S DAY

My father, Coy Lee Council, must have been a handsome man in his youth with his dark hair and blue eyes. I've heard the stories of his sense of humor and his charm. He was born in 1900 on a farm in north Florida. He persevered during hard times with a strong work ethic learned from his Mother. Like many men of his generation, he provided for the family and left the nurturing to my mother. I've written a couple of poems about him. One is "My Father's Horse" and another is simply called "A Farmer and His dog."
He left an impact on my life and the lives of all his children. Daddy was a simple man in many ways but complex in his thinking.
I never enjoyed Father's Day and I don't think he did either. He didn't like to be fussed over, and I could never find an appropriate gift. I wrote a poem for him trying to express my feelings for this man who was distant, cold but kind. I heard from Mother that he read it, and he liked it, but he never mentioned it to me.