The write stuff

Our local writers have been busy. You continue to give us what we asked for, your verse, your rhymes, and prose. We like that.

Keep sending your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, mdolan@cdapress.com.

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, 83814.

And now, we present more poems, stories and essays written by you, our readers.

ACCESS DENIED

Although to experience you is rather sublime,

I regret the length of time

it took you to learn how to banter.

If ignorance is bliss,

I'll hold back my laughter

each time we kiss.

The truth, being long overdue

boils down to naught and suffocates me silently

much like your hollowed out

"I love you"

spoken daily

as you strum a tune

on your ukulele,

and now the world revolves around you,

spiked and floating in vain.

Revenge is not so sweet

but tastes more like paper cut pain-

confoundingly sharp and

completely inane.

- Shawna Anderson, Coeur d'Alene

THE CREATION OF POETRY

Earth became

And stones were created.

Pressure made fire

And fire was creative.

Water had collected

And poured upon the stones.

The stones became aware

That they were not alone.

Air became wind

And brought about change.

It too became aware

And modified the rains.

The water was carving

the stones' new lines

And earth became aware of

The beginning of its time.

After ages of rest,

Earth started new life.

Something between

The fire and ice.

With Sun's help

Earth had a new trade.

It worked with the elements

And plant life was made.

Growing in spirals

And turning out leaves,

Earth was proud of its

Bushes and trees.

Yet, time had passed

And earth became bored.

It had a longing

For something much more.

And from the heavens

A visitor came down.

And saw the potential

Of the world it had found.

With water and air

To drink and to breathe,

And fire and earth

To live comfortably,

Decided to create me.

You see.

And during all this,

Something watched from afar;

A being of light.

Some might call it a star.

Inspired by the earth

And the people and the trees,

It wanted to create

Its own poetry.

- Joe Neely, Coeur d'Alene

LOVING YOU

My little girl is growing, a fine young miss is she,

gold fleece upon her forehead, she's sleeping tenderly.

We've had fun times while playing, we've had some wrestling too,

we've had some moments shouting, we've had some moments blue.

We built a fort from cardboard, to keep the bad guys out,

we paddled down a river, and caught a couple trout.

We tossed a ball between us, and smacked a few beyond,

she changed me to a dragon, with just a magic wand.

She asked me for a favor, at least a time or two,

she gave me special presents, and ran off with my shoe.

She likes to make me happy, unless shes feeling down,

and then I try to fix it, by acting like a clown.

She started getting bigger, and then there came a phone,

her homework got confusing; she'd do it on her own.

She took a job and held it, I'm mighty proud to say,

but almost any moment, I know she'll drive away.

I guess I've gotten older, the time has gone so fast,

the forts and wands and dragons, are only in the past.

Remember this my daughter, as little ones arrive,

these very special moments, that keep us all alive.

- Jeff Simonson, Kellogg

SKIN DEEP

By Jan Sarchio,

Coeur d'Alene

The last of the night's moonbeams filtered through the kitchen window. A breeze ruffled the curtains. Rochester Crawley examined his reflection in the chrome toaster, a retro model that reminded him of a Volkswagen Beetle. There were crumbs on the counter and he absentmindedly nibbled a few as he pondered his reflection. He was particularly shiny and his whiskers, which he couldn't help but admire, were jutting at a rather rakish angle. He tried to muster a smile, but it was always hard for him. Having such thin, brittle lips made him look more serious than he felt. Inside he'd always had the heart of an explorer. He was like a kid in a candy shop wherever he went, nudging his way into this and that with what he felt was a playful spirit.

So it distressed him that the very sight of him brought screams of disgust when the lights came on. It never failed. And it always scared the muffins out of him, causing him to do one of the things he tried never to do. Scuttle.

Rochester loathed scuttling. He hated the feeling of fear in his armored chest. He couldn't help but scoff at the absurdity of armor when a well placed shoe could cause him to be squashed flat. He despised scuttling because of the clattering noise he made. Clattering, for Pete sake, from one who prided himself on quiet and stealth. No one could be stealthier than Rochester. He'd gotten awards. They were on his walls, framed and hung among pictures of his relatives, many who had been lost to the light. He'd heard the stories. He'd seen the slaughter. He understood his future. Rochester was a creature of the dark, not by choice, but by circumstance. One can't choose one's parents.

He ambled to the window sill, pressing against the screen to feel the cool air. With a touch of melancholy he listened to the music of his cousins. They were chirping particularly well, he noticed. It was a song about longing and cheese sandwiches. It was a story of picnics and watermelon rinds. It told of pickle relish and summer love. The cousins had all the luck. They were the romantics of the family and everyone admired their way with words, whether they understood cricket or not.

Life, Rochester noted, was not fair. What was the difference between him and them? His cricket cousins were respected while he, a roach, was reviled. He preened his antenna. Morning was just around the corner. He knew he had to get going, but it was so hard to pull away from the sound of music. He hummed a little, a tiny hum, inaudible to most ears. But the crickets heard and abruptly stopped their song. The absence of sound was like a sonic boom, only backwards. Rochester cleared his throat and swallowed. He thought about whistling, but reconsidered. He silently waited for the crickets to begin again, but they would not be roused. No one was allowed to enter their prized territory. "Prima donnas," he mumbled to himself as he turned toward home. As he passed the toaster, he grabbed some rye seeds and burnt crumbs. Squeezing under the baseboard behind the refrigerator, he trudged back to where he belonged.

Regina met him at the door, her antenna fretting in a way that told Rochester he was late and she was worried. She wasn't tapping her claws, but she may as well have been. The octuplets were huddled together over a game of Candyland and all but Rolly jumped up, shrieking with glee at the sight of their father's plump pockets.

"Ladies first," Rochester said to his excited offspring, proffering the most succulent seed to Regina.

"Thank you," she replied, noting with some pride that she had married a gentlebug.

"Now, now," Rochester said to the clamoring brood. "Where are your manners? You know the rules. Who has a trick to show me?"

Rippley raised his front leg, "I do, Poppy," he said, and promptly lifted himself until he was only standing on his hind legs.

"Bravo," Rochester clapped. He patted Rippley's head. "What do you choose then, seed or crumb?"

"What sort of crumb, Poppy?" Roxanne asked, because she wanted to be ready when her turn came.

"Several sorts, it would appear. I do believe we have whole wheat, rye and a few cinnamon roll."

Rippley rubbed his antenna together. "Whole wheat," he finally answered.

Next three brothers, Rex, Rob and Roy, performed a balancing act, with Roy on the bottom and Rex on top. They chose seeds.

Roxanne and Rayleen did a cha-cha and chose cinnamon crumbs.

Rupert, a studious fellow, read aloud the ingredients from a cookie label he had found.

"Rapturous, I'm fairly ravenous," Rochester, nodded affirmatively, once Rupert had finished taking a final bow.

"And what about you, Rolly?" Regina asked, crawling next to her most quiet son.

He shook his head.

"Tut, tut," Rochester said, fingering the remaining crumbs in his pocket. "Everyone has a talent. You could recite a poem."

Rolly blushed.

"How about showing your paintings?" his mother urged.

"I know what you can do," Roxanne said after licking her claws clean. "I've heard you, Rolly."

He covered his face with his wing.

"It's pretty, Rolly," Roxanne said. "Come on, don't be shy."

"What are you going on about?" Rochester asked.

"Don't tell," Rolly shouted at her, which got everyone's attention.

"I will if you don't," Roxanne sassed back.

"Come on," Rippley said. The others nodded. All eyes were on Rolly.

Rolly took a deep breath and a sweet sound, unlike any Rochester had ever heard, hummed from his son. Rolly closed his eyes and sang. He sang of sun warmed peaches fresh-fallen from the tree. He sang of butterflies zigzagging the sky. He crooned about the silver trails that snails draw. He out did the crickets. And, Rochester noticed, Rolly didn't stop singing when the rest of them joined in.

When Rolly finished, Rochester emptied his pockets for his son.