Posts made in January, 2015

Friday From the Journal – Sneezing Trees

Today we are delighted to share the first place poem: Sneezing Trees Through my window, elms Sneeze showers of zealous leaves Swarming barren grounds  – Rose Gleisberg We asked Rose to share about her inspiration for this piece: My poem, “Sneezing Trees” was inspired by my husband’s work environment – working several floors underground for several years and having no window to view nature’s surprises. After several years of this, he was finally moved to a traditional office setting with a window view. One fall morning, he noticed the leaves falling from the trees. This was a pleasant sight, that until the move, he had little time to appreciate. With each new breeze, a shower of leaves could be seen. To him, it was as if the trees sneezed. Author Bio: Rose Gleisberg graduated in 1980 from the College of Saint Mary in Omaha, Nebraska, with a degree in Early Childhood Education. After a few years, she left full time teaching to travel with her husband during his military career. Rose received a Creative Writing certificate in 2003 from Creighton University, also in Omaha. She currently substitute teaches, is involved in local writing groups, and writes poetry in her spare time. She resides in Bellevue, NE with her husband, Bob, and has three children. Rose’s poem, “Holland’s the Place for Me,” was published in The Nebraska English Journal in 2001 and Bending Light in 2002. “Swish, Crackle, Crunch” appeared in Ideals in 2004. In more recent years, Rose’s poetry has been published in The Pen Women as well as Celebrate – A Collection of Writings by and about Women. Her poetry can also be found in Fine Lines, a literary journal published in Omaha. Much of Rose’s writing is inspired by her daily experiences with children – her own and her students. She also enjoys writing about nature and the many places around the world she has visited. Share...

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Friday From the Journal – The Wordsmith

Today we have a double treat for you! First, the poem the poem that placed second in the Fine Lines Poetry Contest: THE WORDSMITH With pen in hand I slide to the other side, Where fireflies shatter twilight’s veil, Pine needles crinkle on the path, Moonbeams whisper a melody, Chanting waves enthrall, Rushing winds caress, Stars glisten above, Blood tingles as I drink from the Fountain of Words   – Marion Young Now – join us in this interview with the author Marion Young “Hello, this is Zoe at KPSK Radio. Today we’re talking with Marion Young, a local poet who scooped up second prize.” Creek. Creek. The faux-leather chair cracked as I sat next to my talk show host. “Howdy.” “Congrats are in order for your poem, The Wordsmith,” she said. “I’m honored to receive this award,” I said. “Now that we’ve got the chit-chat done with.” Zoe’s ebony eyes looked through me. “Would you mind answering a question?” “Ask away.” “What’s the word on The Wordsmith?” asked Zoe. “It’s like when sewing machines keep on humming.” “You wrote about a factory making T-shirts?” “It’s like when a blue whale sings with all her heart.” “You wrote about how whales turn each other on?” “It’s looking into a mirror as it cracks from side to side.” “If I read your poem, I’ll get seven years bad luck?” “No, no, listen. It’s zip, zap, zoom.” “What?” “Zaps of lightning seize every molecule from your toes to your nose.” “Are you saying I’ll get electrified if I read it?” “You haven’t read it.” “Well.” I handed her my poem. “With pen in hand . . . caress . . . blood tingles . . . words.” “What do you feel?” I asked. “Nice.” Those black eyes zeroed into me. “Very nice.” “Any more questions?” “If you could sum up your style, what would you say?” “Droplets dripping from the light.” She whispered, “But where do they go?” “They splinter the darkness.” Slowly Zoe nodded. “Your words . . .” “My words?” “Could you,” she swallowed. “Come see me again?” “Anytime.” “How about greeting the morning sun with me?” I drew in a quick breath. “Before or after you’ve poured me a second cup?” “After.” “I’d love to.” To be continued . . . The End Author Bio:  Marion Young was raised in Michigan, has lived in Colorado and Nebraska. She resides in Texas. She married an amazing man at nineteen, raised a darling daughter, and looks forward to bringing color to their lives for years to come. Marion enjoyed teaching students with special needs for twenty years. She taught students with multiple impairments for seven, then students with blindness and...

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Friday From the Journal – Frozen Like a Statue

Today we bring you the Third Place Winner in the Fine Fines Poetry Contest   Frozen like a Statue   My teeth chatter against each other, like a beaver gnaws on wood. I’m frozen from my toes to the tips of my auburn hair, frostbitten to the very depths of my soul battered by icy, bitter wind, as Christ of the Deep withstands currents and growth of marine life within its matter. Icicles have formed on my eyelashes, the only part of me not swaddled like a babe, unshielded from the ruthless air, as statues in open-air bear the brutal weather that sears their foundations, and cracks the stone.   My scarf whisks away from my neck, yearning to break free, to soar o’er the jagged, snowy mountain, like Christ, held captive by shifting sands and anchored by barnacles. Tugging on my scarf, protecting my face, I choke on the arctic bite of the air, the bitterness cuts through my cracked lips like saltwater on a wound, then dig my poles into the freshly packed snow.   For a moment they are trapped; and I am frozen like a statue, Christ of the Deep trapped in the murky depths of silt, yet instead of awaiting my doom, I grasp the poles like Christ reaching for the heavens, I extinguish the cold soaked marble of my snow-sculptured figure. Launching my gelid skis towards the distant lodge, I carve ribbons into the icy snow, like Michelangelo, setting free the angel in the marble. By Anne James Author Bio: Anne James works as a research lab technician in the department of Medical Microbiology and Immunology at Creighton University. She completed her B.S. in biology and French at Creighton. In her free time, Anne enjoys writing poetry, playing the trombone, knitting, and scuba diving.   Share...

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What Do You Write?

What Do You Write?

As a writer, the subject of writing tends to find its way into introductory conversations. Even if not your full time profession, even if you consider writing a hobby, or an uneconomical passion, you are still a writer and when the subject comes up, as it often does, the inevitable question that follows is: “What do you write?” Uh, oh. If you’re like me, suddenly every genre I’ve touched on dances around in my head waiting to be mentioned, my current projects and old projects clamor for status and then, worst of all, suddenly nothing feels worthy to mention. The impulses to justify and yet downplay my passion begin duking it out while the innocent inquisitor stares politely at me waiting for an answer. Market-Write Tip – When asked, “What do you write?” Have your answer ready. Perhaps you’ve heard the term elevator speech. This is the idea that a short 3 minute “pitch” is ready and prepared for any occasion, but especially for the opportunity to sell to a new prospect. In publishing there is also the logline. A logline is a one or two sentence summary of your written work primarily used to sell to an agent or publisher. Both of these examples are important for when you’re selling your work.   Today we’re not talking about selling, we’re talking about answering a question in a conversation. Why is this important if you’re not selling? Because, as writers, we should always be connecting: connecting to readers, connecting to writers and connecting to community. This question is the most commonly asked and the best starting point for making connections.   Also, it’s a hard question to answer. That is why the answer is important to think about ahead of time and even practice. To make it easier, put your answer into 3 short parts. Choose one or two descriptors that people can understand and relate to. For example: Genre, length, or medium. Who for? About? Why? Similar to… What I’m working on right now is… or I just finished… What do you like to read? Or other question that facilitates conversation.   One reason it is difficult for an artist to articulate, What do you write? is because most people work in several different genres and mediums and resist the inclination to put all of their work into a box, so to speak. However, being too generic with an answer like, “Everything,” or “All kinds of stuff,” closes the conversation instead of opens it.   An author friend of mine, and Fine Lines Senior Editor, Marcia Forecki, really does write all over the board of genre, length and medium, with a published memoir, a book of short stories, a...

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Friday From the Journal – Concert

Friday From the Journal – Concert

Dear Friends, In the month of January we will bring you poets and poetry from the Fine Lines Journal. This piece was created by a student who enjoys reading and writing in her spare time. We hope you enjoy her art: Concert i am the pulsing at a concert when everyone screams and the noise rises into the ceiling and the vibrations thrum in the clouds i am the crowd clapping and jumping in unison to the song that plays every night on the radio three or four times that everyone says they hate i am the soft moment of silence in between songs when the crowd is holding their breath and no one cares about: work, school, parents, pain, blood i am the moment of fear before the encore when each soul worries that maybe there won’t be an encore this time and i am the sigh of relief and excited shriek a moment later when the bassline to one of their oldies thrums through the stadium i am the rush in the car when you roll the windows down and your mom snaps at you for not hearing her remind you of the “real world” i am the slow downslide of remembering all the things you forgot when they were right there and i am the push of adrenaline when you hear one of their songs and you feel it all over again and your throat feels newly raw from screaming  – Selena Dobles-Kunkel   Share...

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