My consistent readers,
I am a dreamer. What writer isn’t?
We dream of people reading our work, and enjoying it. Or maybe, finding something our effort says to them, and those of us that are bold dream of making a profit.
I also happen to be a dreamer at night with my imagination going full-bore. When I say this is based on a true dream, I am not joking.
THE DREAM CATCHER
Based on a true dream
Walt was a dreamer, but on occasion, there were consequences.
His wife, Joni, yelled, “Knock it off.” It was the dead of night, about 3 AM, and approaching winter. Thank God the windows were closed or the neighbors might have gotten the wrong idea.
Joni often shouted, “Knock it off,” or “Leave me alone,” no matter what the level of the windows. However, their two cats were usually the problem, either trying to sleep beside her or getting into a scuffle. But in the wee hours of the morning, Walt was usually the guilty party.
Walt had a most active imagination, both day and night, and night was the problem. Day was good; as a writer, when his imagination was working at full-steam-ahead, that was beneficial. At night, full-steam-ahead was a drawback, especially for Joni. His dreams were beyond vivid; they were an alternate life. He remembered them in great detail. Some he could recall clearly and think about them when awake. There were nights when he would revisit a location from past dreams to experience new adventures.
On one particular night, the basis of this story, in his dream Walt attended a baseball game. Sitting along the first base line, he hoped to snag a foul ball. The problem was that none came anywhere near him, and the game was half over. Then it began; they started coming his way. The balls, arching over the spectators, had a dream-like quality. (Wonder why?) Try as he might, Walt could not catch one. They sailed by just out of reach, or were caught by someone else before he had a chance. For some strange reason, every time he tried to catch a ball he would hit the head of a blond-headed man sitting in front of him. After this occurred a few times, he heard the cry, “Knock it off!”
Walt had constantly been rubbing Joni’s head.
He sheepishly said, “I’m sorry,” and went back to sleep.
The following morning, over breakfast, he related his dream. Joni more or less took it in stride for he’d been known to react to dreams with her on the receiving end. We won’t go into how many times he dreamt he was falling over a wall and wound up on the floor with a crash. Walt was not a small person. While they were eating, he joked, “Tonight I’m taking my softball glove to bed.”
Joni rolled her eyes, told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of the idea, and went to work.
That afternoon Walt rummaged through the garage until he found his old glove. When night came, he waited until Joni was in the bathroom and gently placed the glove between their pillows.
As she prepared to climb into bed, she saw the glove, shook her head and said, “You’re nuts.”
Lights out, Walt hoped to return to the game. Before long, he was once again seated near first base. Soon the foul balls began coming his way. One after another, his glove met them all. He was a catching machine. He couldn’t miss. That night Joni had a good night’s sleep. No mussing her hair.
Walt awoke refreshed with his glove on his hand. “Must have put it on during the night,” he said to himself. He got out of bed and immediately crashed to the floor, stumbling on the scattered baseballs.
Joni peered over the edge of the bed. “Not again,” she said. “This has got to stop.
“Remember the time you dreamed about trapping skunks? It took us a month to fumigate the house.”
That night, Joni had an idea. She waited until Walt began snoring, and then began quietly whispering over and over, “Electronics, money. Electronics, money.”
May 9, 2011 at 4:56 pm
My consistent readers,
I’ve given you a new title, constant readers is already taken.
Great news. I have a signing scheduled for my novel, New Moon Rising. It will be held at Chester County Book & Music Company on June 22 at 7:00 PM. I hope you local readers can meet me there. I also hope you support your local independent bookstores. They make an important contribution to their local communities.
Walt
May 2, 2011 at 6:35 pm
My readers,
It’s been many years since this image etched itself into my brain.
I finally wrote it out.
I’ve got to give you something to occupy your time since my accomplishments have not been numerous lately.
DRIVING TO THE EDGE ON INTERSTATE FIVE
As the tires hum I grip the wheel
Through miles of barren landscape,
My wife, daughters make the sound of sleep
As the emptiness rushes by,
I am alone in this desolate land
With only my thoughts for company,
The San Joaquin Valley stretches along
This ribbon of road,
On the CD player, Jonatha Brooke
Sings her sad, soulful songs,
I am so far away from home
As the sun lowers behind the distant mountains,
Wherever I travel, or choose to exist
I long for the home
I fear I may never find,
There is something inside
That I do not understand
That will not permit peace,
A happy family is mine
But conflict and emptiness still possess me,
Forever alone.
April 28, 2011 at 4:39 pm
My novel, New Moon Rising, is now on sale at Chester County Book & Music Company located at 975 Paoli Pike.
April 16, 2011 at 7:19 pm
My readers,
Here is my latest publication, a horror eBook entitled, Unholy Ground. I hope you find it disturbing.
The story takes place in rural Pennsylvania and follows a piece of property through generations.
A warning, for those of my artistic readers that might make graffiti a hobby, this story may ruin your passtime.
http://bookstogonow.com/martianrebirth.html
April 6, 2011 at 3:58 pm
My readers,
Here is a story I wrote for a very special lady.
THE HIP HIP
Ella was a feisty eighty-eight year old line-dancer. Line-dancing kept her young and full of life, but things were about to change. If for better or worse, I’ll let you decide.
* * *
Ella limped into the Brickette Lounge on a Thursday night. She was immediately surrounded by the usual line-dancing crowd. Sitting down on the first available chair, Richard and Rainy made their way to her, followed by Joni, Amanda and Nancy. Joe, from across the dance floor, wandered over. Elizabeth joined the group.
Amanda was the first to ask, “Ella, what’s wrong?”
Ella answered, “I need another hip replacement.”
Now, Ella blew out hips like some people blow out tires. This would be her fourth redo.
Ella told her friends, “I’ll be back with a new hip. Then, try to keep up with me you children.
* * *
Ella’s surgeon told his colleague, “I have a patient, a spry old woman, who loves to line-dance. She suggested an unusual test. I figure, it can’t hurt, so here it goes. She gave me a CD to play to the hips.’
The doctor placed the CD in a portable player and turned it on. On the table lay a group of hips he could choose for the implant. He studied the hips and said to his colleague, “That’s the one.”
* * *
A month after Ella’s surgery, on a Thursday night she returned to the Brickette.
Amanda elbowed Joni when she saw Ella enter, “There’s Ella. She has a strut now. That hip must me a real blessing.”
Ella sat down with her friends. She appeared fidgety, and upon closer inspection, exhausted.
Joni said, “I’m so glad to see you’re back. You’re looking great, although a little tired.”
“Well, that’s my fault,” she replied.
The DJ began the music and Ella was the first one up. She danced to the first song playing and every other song the DJ offered. Not once did she sit down.
At ten o’clock the music stopped. Ella blew a sigh of relief and staggered over to the table to sit with her friends.
Nancy was the first to ask,” Ella, are you okay?”
Ella responded, “Actually, no. But it’s my fault.”
“How do you mean?” Bronwyn asked in her Australian accent.
“Well,” said Ella, “I insisted the surgeon test the possible hips he could implant.”
“What was the test?” asked Joni.
“I asked him to play a CD that I gave him. I told him to watch for the hip that began reacting, vibrating; that was the one I wanted.
“I made a huge mistake. I can’t turn on music at home without dancing. I can’t listen to the music I love, and at the same time, get anything done.
“If I’m walking down the street and some youngster is listening to music in one of those ear things, and I can hear it, by the way, they have it turned up far too loud, I start dancing in the middle of a street or a sidewalk.
“My surgeon said this hip should last about ten years, and then I’ll get one that will give me some peace.”
March 20, 2011 at 5:17 pm
Here is a comment by a reader of my story published by Books to Go now. She bought it on Amazon.com.
Maybe you would like to give it a read?
4.0 out of 5 stars Universal Questions, March 10, 2011
By Prisca – See all my reviewsThis review is from: Martian Rebirth (Kindle Edition)
The author takes on big questions in one short story, giving lots of food for thought. It will take you worlds away as the suffering Martians do what they must to survive. There’s an impressive amount of realistic science in it. It really hooked me, and the consequences will surprise even the most experienced reader of science fiction. I just wish it had been longer!
March 14, 2011 at 9:34 pm
My poetry readers,
I offer to you my last, and most recent published poem. The poem was published by Bewildering Stories in 2007.
Let me tell you its history.
Back in the mid 1970s, I was working in New York. You already know this if you read the background for The Camera’s Eye. I would sometimes spend weekends with a coworker and her husband. They lived in Queens, but knew Manhattan which I often visited with them.
One cold winter night, I was sitting in the backseat while they drove. I happened to look out the window at a landscape of tenements, high-rises that packaged the less fortunate.
I will never forget this. Most of the windows were dark, yet one had a glaring light that drew my attention. I was mystified by this and thought about it for many years; then I finally wrote this poem.
NEW YORK BEACON
Driving along in New York City
One cold stark Saturday night,
The city alive, the tenements dark
Save a harsh fluorescent light.
What were you doing that Saturday night?
Making love, planning your life
That dark Saturday night,
That cold Saturday night.
I saw your light, that lonely light
That cold dark Saturday night.
In the distance a beacon calling us home
As we wandered through darkness that night.
The city was dark, the hope departed
That cold stark Saturday night.
But work was done and dreams were dreamed
In the shadows that journey towards light.
That time is gone, that time is past
Yet my mind recalls the sight
Of you alone amidst the sea,
That fluorescent beacon of light.
You planned, you dreamed, you lived your life,
That cold dark Saturday night.
Where are you now, what have you become?
A demon, a memory, a light.
Did you succeed, did you escape?
Did you survive your plight?
Does your beacon still shine showing the way
As we journey this lonely night?
Recently, I have been working on other poems. When I feel they are right, I will share them with you.
To all who read my blog, thank you. I hope you enjoy what I write, and more importantly, has some meaning for your life.
Walt Trizna
March 10, 2011 at 7:35 pm
My poetry readers,
In my last PUBLISHED POEM article I indicated that that was going to be it. But I found another old poem, and there is a more recently published poem which I shall share at a later date.
The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.
I distinctly remember the birth of this poem. I once had a job in The Bronx while living in Newark. I would drive the New Jersey Turnpike every day, through the meadowlands and onward to New York. The meadowlands are not a particularly beautiful area. However, during my journey, I would pass a small dock with a moored sailboat. I began to realize that if I focused on only that gentle area, surrounded by saw grass, I could block out the rest of the world surrounding the scene. I could pick out points of beauty from a world of corruption. This is the poem that resulted.
CAMERA’S EYE
Camera’s eye catches delicate flowers,
Views the graceful of bee in pollination flight,
Spies the brushing of pollen – laden stamens,
Holds in time a scene most tranquil;
Yet does not discover the roadside trash,
The flower’s home amid mud and mire;
Does not smell the exhaust raining acid
On delicate flowers.
Camera’s eye gazes upon a child framed in a window,
Beholds the easy lean of chin in palm, elbow on windowsill,
Wide eyes looking out at the world in wonder,
Knows the innocent child – wisdom;
Yet ignores the window’s building,
Screens out the ghetto of rotted houses and dreams;
Undetected is the garbage – urine hallway
As the child sits framed in a window.
Camera’s eye seeks the tall dignified pine,
Witnesses early – morning dew set needles sparkling,
Inspects wildlife in arbor home,
Beholds sunlight filtering to needle – soft ground;
Yet neglects the smell and diesel smoke machines
Sumping and gouging the earth of its riches;
Does not display the bulldozer’s approach,
Turns away as the stately pine topples.
I am the camera’s eye
Seeing what pains me not,
Grasping flowers from mud and mire,
Rescuing the child from a rotted tenement,
Preserving the pine in dignified splendor;
All safe and secure in a scrapbook world
As the real world lays waste.
I was so tempted to change this poem, but all these published poems are presented exactly as they were published.
Once a work is published, the writer must step back and hope his work is appreciated for what it is, not what it might have been.
March 4, 2011 at 4:11 pm
My poetry friends,
This is the last of my oldies but, you decide what comes next.
Although I now live in a small town, I have lived in many large cities. I have witnessed the subject of this poem time and time again. I’m sure you have too.
This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.
The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.
SUNDAY PARK BENCH
Alone,
Rumpled newspaper in hand
Sits the old man,
Cold morning air sends a chill
Through a heavy overcoat,
Sunday morning light filtering
Through burnished leaves of autumn
Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,
Waking next to his wife,
The sound of children filling the house;
Now children grown – wife gone,
Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers
On a park bench,
Alone.
March 1, 2011 at 6:40 pm
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