About Margaret

I am a computer software engineer, musician, author, and poet living in the suburbs west of Boston.

Dragon Meed

Here’s a Dragon poem to brighten up your day.reddino

And, Michele, I did add that stanza you suggested.

 

Dragon Meed

 

One dragon blue, one dragon red,

two beasts desiring to be fed.bluedino

One dragon red, one dragon blue,

so very hungry, thirsty, too.

 

One dragon left, one dragon right,

both slipped inside the inn that night

One came from near, one came from far.

Both tried to belly to the bar,

 

Red dragon said to dragon blue,

“I’m more in need of drink than you.

I therefore aim to be served first,

to feed and satisfy my thirst.”

 

Said dragon blue to dragon red,

I claim the right to first instead.

My need is just as great as yours.”

And with that, dropped onto all fours.

 

The barkeep said, “Please, sirs, depart,

before you tear this bar apart.

For you are large, this place is small.

I beg you, do not start a brawl.”

 

Alas, the dragons did not heed

this good advice, but did proceed

to roar and stomp with all their might

and get into an awful fight.

 

One swung a tail and hit the door,

a table, glasses, chairs galore.

The other flamed a fiery breath.

The patrons fled in fear of death.

 

The barkeep, overcome with fright,

abandoned dragons to their plight.

Alas, though dragons’ brawling waned

no single bite or sip remained.

 

“Oh, boys,” the owner’s voice rang out

“You will agree, without a doubt,

“You owe me money for this bar.

“You’ll pay me now, or not get far.”

 

Scratched and bruised, they broke apart,

left tired, poor, and sick at heart,

no nourishment to fill the void

of empty bellies, all destroyed.

 

Here is the moral of this tale:

good manners does not mean you fail,

for if each had been more polite,

they’d fed and drunk with much delight.

 

One dragon red, one dragon blue,

both beasts still hungry, thirsty, too

One dragon blue, one dragon red,

went hungry, thirsty into bed.

 

Beginnings

Greetings from the Poetic Muselings, and welcome to 2015. We have decided to blog once a week this month, and I have drawn the first week.sky

 

We Muselings met online in October of 2008 when we all signed up for a workshop at the Muse Online Writers Conference.  The four of us were signed up for Magdelena Ball’s Create a Chap Book workshop and Lisa Gentile’s Creative Block Busters. However, due to a power outage, Lisa was unable to connect for the final online chat session, so moderator Michele Graf (see, even then she was our leader), took over, and we all shared how our week had gone. Afterward, a group of us started to meet online and share our poetry. Lifelines, and the Poetic Muselings, came from that.

 

As to my own, creative beginnings,  I told myself stories as far back as I can remember, stories in my head. Somehow I wasn’t all that oriented in the real world, instead inhabiting the world of my imagination. A blue fairy would appear and comfort me. The back of my closet would open and become the entrance to a new world. The door into the hall would open into someplace new and strange. But it was years before it occurred to me to write anything down.

 

I started writing poetry early, but never took myself seriously as a poet. When I become involved with my spouse, I started writing some for her. I wrote poems into spiral notebooks which I stored in the attic. When things got tense between us, I wrote angst-filled poems, again in spiral notebooks. A few were published in a small newsletter.

 

At one point I wrote a poem I wanted to keep, and that’s when I tumbled into my life as a writer. Searching for a place to store my poem online, I found a couple of communities and started to participate. I became a finalist in a poetry contest. A couple of poems were published in a print journal, a few more in an online journal. I found the Muse Online Writers Conference and connected with others. In short, I got hooked.

Holiday Poetry Prompt

snow1Here’s a holiday poetry prompt. My response to this is below. Yes, it really is possible to construct a poem from this nonsense.

 

Ten Characters:
1. Old Saint Nick
2. Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
3. Frosty the Snowman
4. The Grynch
5. Good King Wencheslas
6. Little Red Riding Hood
7. The Big Bad Wolf
8. Sleeping Beauty
9. Glinda the Good Witch
10. The Wizard of Oz

Ten Locations:
1. The North Pole
2. An enchanted forest
3. A frozen lake
4. Antarctica
5. Rockefeller Center
6. Central Park
7. The Eiffel Tower
8. The Louvre
9. Tokyo
10. The New York Subway

Ten Objects:
1. A Candle
2. A Snow Shovel
3. An Ax
4. A red light bulb
5. Ice Melt
6. A sled
7. A wine glass
8. Needle and Thread
9. A dozen red roses
10. An Apple

Ten Incidents:
1. A Scream
2. An enchantment
3. A package delivery
4. A fire
5. A birthday party
6. A visit to a department store Santa
7. A visit to the post office
8. Raking leaves
9. Shoveling Snow
10. Loading Santa’s Sleigh

Ten first or last lines (or titles)
1. Thanks for all the Apples
2. Eat the whole thing
3. I’m allergic to fish
4. I’d rather be in Florida
5. I want a dog
6. I’d rather be ice skating
7. See you next year
8. A roll of stamps, please
9. This is impossible
10. You’ve got to try harder

Pick two characters and one from each of the other categories

 

Thanks for All the Apples

 

The cake has appeared

the candles are lit

the Tokyo skyline

is beautifully lit

 

The boy takes a breath

all ready to blow

all set with his wishes.

What? Soon we’ll all know.

 

With a whoosh and a swish

the candles are extinguished

then from down the chimney

who should we distinguish?

 

It’s Frosty the Snowman,

but oh, he is melting,

and behind him a Big Bad Wolf

is silently pelting

 

“My God, boy, my heavens,

oh, what were you thinking?

That wolf has a foul smell.

The whole room will be stinking.”

 

By this time poor Frosty

was reduced to a puddle

The wolf lapped him up.

Birthday boy’s in a muddle.

 

“Now look what you’ve done.

Frosty is gone for good.

And the wolf,” said his mom,

“is now loose in the Hood.”

 

What should you extract

from this terrible tale?

Better wish for some apples,

’cause the wolf’s sure to bail.

Character Revolt

NOTE: brokenbonds_200X300(1)

This post previously appeared on my blog, http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/

This month’s blog round robin is about character revolt: did you ever have a secondary character threaten to take over a novel?

Boy, did I ever. And what’s more, he succeeded.

It went like this: After I wrote Relocated I was haunted by a question that I asked myself during the writing of the book: what happened to  the partners of one of my characters, Ardaval, who is living alone in a large house in the novel. While contemplating this question, as well as the question about the future progress of my main character, Keth’s, romance with Orodi, I started another novel which I had taking place four years after the first one. I meant this novel to answer both questions.

Thus I was concerned with what would become two four-way relationships, the one between Keth, Orodi, Darus, and Jozi, and the one between Ardaval, Brad Reynolds, another character from the first novel, and Ardaval’s two remaining former partners, Nidrani and Imarin.  And I had to pick a main character and a romance to concentrate on.

I’d just finished writing a young adult novel, so I picked Keth as the main character and proceeded to write the novel in the first person, concentrating on his romance. Along the way, I signed up for a writing course that required me to write 1000 words a day for about five weeks, and produced a messy, multi-point-of-view incomplete draft concentrating on the romance between the adults. This consisted of a lot of the YA version rewritten into third person as well as some new material.

I completed the draft of the YA version, which  I called  New Aleyne Novel, revised it, and passed it by a beta reader. She pointed out some weaknesses in the novel structure and wondered if a version concentrating on the adults might result in a stronger story.

So what did I do? A short while contemplating her remarks convinced me she was right, and moreover, I needed to scrap BOTH version and start over. This time I made Brad Reynolds the main character and concentrated on the adult romance. I set out to pick my point-of-view characters and to lay out the arc of the revised story.

I’d never, outside of the messy draft for the online course, written a multi-pov novel,  but I had to pick my point of view characters. Although I loved both story lines, I needed to keep the number of point-of-view characters to a reasonable number.  I picked the four characters in the adult romance: Brad, Ardaval, Nidrani, and Imarin, and in addition, the antagonist, Senator Hank Manning. I rewrote the entire novel from scratch. It became Broken Bonds.

I also needed major help managing the multiple POV’s , but that’s another story.

Here’s to Character Revolt — long may it wave.

 

Blurb:

When Major Brad Reynolds is assigned to head the Terran Federation base on planet Aleyne, the last thing he expects to find is love, and certainly not with one of the alien Aleyni. How can he keep his lover, in the face of political maneuvering and of Ardaval’s feelings for his former partners— and theirs for him?

Facing Mortality

NOTE: This post previously appeared on my blog, http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/

sky

It happened many years ago. We had just learned  I was pregnant with our second son when I got a call from my mother, with the words no daughter wants to hear: It’s cancer. My mother had cancer of the colon.  She

had had a sigmoidoscopy instead of a colonoscopy. The lesion was fairly high up in the colon, and the procedure had missed it. Hthen-doctor, not the brilliant diagnostician his dead partner, my mother’s former doctor, had been, had been slow to put together the symptoms. By the time he did, the cancer had spread to the liver. It was October, and by June she was dead.

At about the same time, I was offered some freelance work that would have brought in a significant amount of money, money we could have used. But I had a full-time job, a small son, a pregnancy, and a sick mother. I turned the work down, instead passing on the name of a friend — he later joked that I’d payed for the addition on his house. It was one of the best decisions I ever made. Instead of spending my weekends working, I spent them traveling back and forth from Boston to New York.

Here is a poem inspired by this experience:

 

Mother’s Day, Margaret Fieland

He died
the white-haired doctor
with smiling eyes,

leaving you
to the quick-voiced young one,
who called your cramps indigestion.

Your hair became
sparse as grass during a dry August,

your walk
creaky as the old pasture gate,

your frame as thin
and brittle as the bare branches
of the old oak.

until finally
you lay in bed, smelling
of old guts, too weak
to lift your head.

We named
the baby
after you

You cam find it and other poems in the collection Lifelines.

 

Another Step Down the Road

Yeah, I seem to be writing a story told in verse as a succession of poems about these two guys …

Another Step Down the Road  ColdSnow

 

One foot in front of the other,

under dark sky as I seek.

The cold is becoming my lover

and hunger an enemy to cheat.

 

I set out in search of adventure,

escape from the burden of land,

freedom from all expectations,

and work I could take in my hand.

 

Instead I’ve  been cold, wet and hungry.

I sleep under stars all  alone.

Yet still open road’s voice will call me

while her breath leaves me chilled to the bone.

Journey

Here’s a companion poem to the one I posted yesterday:

Journey

 

Wanderer, wanderer where do you go,

all alone on the road when the wild winds blow?

Where did you come from and why did you leave,

who are the loved ones you left home to grieve?

 

Hunched in your cloak with your pack on your back,

bent almost double by the weather’s attack,

you pass by my hovel. I stare out at you.  sky

When will I ever bid loved ones adieu?

 

Held to a life of hard labor and toil,

grubbing for greens as I turn over soil,

I dream of far shores and adventures galore,

yet never will I set a foot out my door.

Another poem: Cold Stone

Cold Stone

 

Dirt and stone beneath my feet,

clouds and mist above me,

in my ears, the sheep’s high bleat.

Dear, I know you love me.

 

As I wander down the road

I leave you behind me,783813785_2782529629_0

standing in the field I hoed.

Shafts of sunlight blind me.

 

My way is long and dark, alone.

I won’t be returning.

Will our child remember, grown,

a father’s love so burning?

 

Yet I must this journey make

else my soul be fettered.

Your love you gave and I did take,

but it left me tethered.

 

The Hidden Key

The Hidden Key

SideOfTheRoad

Ash and pine and elm and oak,

under sky like blowing smoke,

up a hill and under ground,

winding through a maze, is found

 

keys to mysteries unfold,

tales still needing to be told.

Find the answers in the logs

hidden in the swampy bogs.

Muselings Poetry Challenge number 2:

this one is for the fantasy novel I’ve started working on

A Token for the Train

I love writing in rhyme, and I have a large number of poems lying around that rhyme. I’m especially fond of this one, which I’ve worked over a number of times.

 

 A Token for the Train813235889_2877218121_0

 

I clatter down dim staircase

to seek shelter from the rain,

duck beneath a turnstile

as I’m kind of short of change.

Platform’s crowded with commuters

who all mutter and complain.

 

Lights first dim and flicker,

fade to black as rumbles sound,

faint at first, volume increasing.

Bodies crowded all around

push me one way, then another.

Cries and caterwauls abound.

 

Folks scurry for an exit.

but I forget which way is out.

I bumble, blind, in darkness

while folks wander round about.

There’s a thunk from on the train track.

Guys beside me scream and shout.

I hear a high-pitched whistle

then the echoing refrain

from the screech and scream of metal

as it protests from its pain,

squeals and squeaks of brakes engaging

while they work to stop the train.

 

The slap of footsteps echo.

A man’s jumped down to the track.

Listen to his grunts and groaning

as he pulls the jumper back,

heaves him on the platform.

My head’s spinning; things go black.

Someone hauls me upright,

electricity flicks on,

train doors close; it leaves the station.

Now the crowds of folks are gone.

I scamper up the stairway

to the street where I belong.