Spooning (A Primary Attempt at Poetry}

Someone asked me to enter a MWC poetry competition. I did. And this is what they received as my submission. By no means a winner. It was fun to write, nonetheless.

Spooning 


Spooning, swooning, trust
Sweetness, completeness, lust

Adventure, laughter, going
Loving, sharing, knowing

True, blue, skies
Pining, shining, eyes

Giving, living, heart
Measure, pleasure, art

Learning, yearning, years
Choosing, losing, tears

Breaking, aching, hope
Handing, expanding scope

Moving, grooving, bed
Gliding, sliding, head

Cooking, looking, lens
Being, seeing, friends

Spacious, gracious, lands
Molding, holding, hands

Aging, gauging, time
Older, bolder, mine

The Day the Music Died

The following was a quickly penned write up for a 500 word short story competition at MWC with the prompt of using the name, Jessie and probably two other words I no longer recall. It didn't win anything and the story could still use some work but for now, a quick read if you're so inclined. Enjoy.

The Day the Music Died


Two sisters couldn't be closer than me and Emma, two years my junior. Dad called us peas-in-a-pod to irk me. I hated peas. Emma loved them.


We harvested a garden every summer on our Kentucky farm. The payoff? Good eating. Better yet… the afternoons Dad let us take the quad-runner to the pasture, by the river.


A transistor radio, towels, and we were set to swim and sing.  We knew the words to every song, words we changed to suit current dramas. Uncle Ty said he could hear our crooning plum up to his house, echoing off the mountains.


By 1981 we were boy crazy, teeny-boppers. An Australian singer became a heartthrob with his song, "Jessie's Girl." After that, every boy was Jessie and we were, of course, Jessie's Girl.  Armed with hairbrush microphones, we drove Mom nuts singing that song.


Full-bloom by the following summer, I had my license and a steady boyfriend, James - inherently nicknamed, Jessie James.


My high school senior year flew. I earned a full ride to Stanford University. James joined the US Air Force.


Mom died that summer and Dad lost interest in living. Emma, nevertheless, needed two years of high school, so I settled for a nearby junior college. Responsibilities fell on me.


Emma graduated high school, and then Dad died in August, leaving us the farm. Emma and I sang together to chase the blues away. We sold chunks of acreage to pay for Emma's college, or partying, as it were. I finished my bachelor's degree and landed a managerial job with the telephone company where I racked up frequent flyer miles.


James returned from service, opened his own automotive repair shop, and then asked me to marry him. Emma, my maid of honor, decided to sing, "Jessie's Girl" instead of, "Annie's Song" during the ceremony. Guests loved it. I was perturbed.


Emma was fickle, bouncing from one man to another. She insisted on being escorted to our homemade Sunday suppers, for approval, I supposed.  A tad bizarre, but, life was good.


One winter, the telephone company sent me to Minneapolis to investigate missing supplies. James was behind schedule with promised repairs so he dropped me off at the train station to hitch a ride to the airport, saving James a four hour drive.


In Louisville, I'm advised a blizzard, now headed our way, hit Minnesota, bringing air travel to a standstill. Thousands of flights cancelled, I wasn't getting out of Kentucky for three days. Determined I wouldn't spend that time at the airport, I took the first train out to beat the storm.


Four hours later, back at the station, it started snowing. Called home, no answer. Take a cab or risk being stranded?


Greeted by lipstick stained cigarette butts, two wine glasses, empty bottle, two wet bath towels, and sex paraphernalia… dark, I waited.


They entered kissing. 


Without a word, I walked past gaping jaws, grasped my suitcase, never looking back at Emma and James.


I still hate peas.

Deborah Galarza, About Me, The Artist

                    

                              

                        

                        Born in California, I grew up as an Air Force Brat. Uprooted often during grade school, I learned early on to adapt and be flexible. I traveled between grandparents and extended families in California and West Virginia. Both sets of grandparents had country acreage where I picked up my love of nature, travel, and appreciation of different environmental, artistic styles. 

I've always been an adventure  seeker and yearn for travel. When I was 11-years-old, I was on a life altering flight away from my family in West Virginia to go live with my grandparents in California, I decided I wanted to be a flight attendant and would forego traditional family life for travel.  I was reacquainted with a high school friend while he was home on leave.  He was an Army Ranger Paratrooper whose job was jumping out of airplanes. Working as a flight attendant, it was my job to keep people in them. We married five years later in ’92 and settled in the small town of Fillmore to raise our two sons.

I have a deep appreciation for nature and when everything in Southern California has turned midsummer brown, I long for green mountains where I feel centered and at peace. Forest hikes and strolls on deserted driftwood beaches are inspirational and soothing. Family camping road trips with lodging away from crowds near a National Park is my idea of a perfect vacation.

My watercolor paintings are primarily landscapes and still life. My landscapes reflect places I’ve been and those I create or combinations thereof. I try to imagine myself in my paintings and often find that without planning to, I’ve included a path or roadway beckoning exploration. I hope the viewer is drawn to explore as well. I prefer using natural elements, antiques, rustic advertisements, and art deco architecture in my still life paintings.

                           I enjoy varied forms of arts and crafts while my other love is writing. Next to being out in nature, painting and writing feed my soul. I’m in continuous pursuit of learning new techniques, exploring new genres, and perfecting my skills with favorite mediums. I love painting and writing equally and hope to effectively tell stories without words and paint pictures with them.

I’ve heard great pain and loss make great writers and artists. While I’m sure there are greats who haven’t suffered greatly, I do believe that we all create with our hearts. After all, no vision or idea a mind will produce can get to paper without first passing by the heart.

                          

 In everything I create, there is a little piece of my heart.

                                                                                                ~Deb