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Jeanne Burrows-Johnson Author, Narrator, Speaker
Barnes & Noble
Category:
Essays
Publisher: Imaginings Wordpower
ISBN-10: B005DR4E2U
Type: Fiction
Pages: 249
Copyright: Feb. 1 2012
Price: $7.99 (eBook)
An anthology by six Tucson authors, Bill Black Jr. , Jeanne Burrows-Johnson, Susan Cosby-Patton Dr. Kay Lesh, the late Rev. Patricia Noble, and the late Larry Sakin.
The 240-page books offers fiction and non-fiction including short stories, historical and reflective essays, and poetry. Drawing on the authors’ diverse life experiences, the anthology spans education, engineering, ministry, law, and the performing arts, with a complementary tone, style, and rhythm. Each chapter begins with a short piece of poetry or prose that introduces the section’s theme. In addition to literary subjects like philosophy, personal relationships, war, animal companions, and phases of life, the authors also examine the environment, history, business, politics, and mythology. The eleven themed chapters allow readers to read the book sequentially, or select from a variety of topics: ~ Visioning the Craft ~ Places Far and Near ~ The Changing West ~ Of Men and Women ~ Family, Friends, and Other Loves ~ Health, Wealth, and Happiness ~ Seasons of Life ~ Choice and Change ~ Myth, Magic, and Inspiration ~ Business, Culture and Society ~ Crafting the Vision
Excerpt
The format of these samples from UNDER SONORAN SKIES have been altered to meet this website's requirements...
SKETCH OF A CREATIVE MIND
by Bill Black
A creative mind looks to a dark horizon
In a strange land and time
And determines if it is night deepening
Or dawn approaching
Or a gathering or departing storm.
With a pen as a sword,
And paper for a shield,
This strange world is faced alone.
Desired delights and dark demons
Can flash into the mind,
But in this darkness
It can never be known which it will be.
Delights and demons swirl
As figures on fate’s slot machine wheels
And while reeling, one never knows
What combination will come up.
Streets and darkness call the secret name
Of the creative mind.
Drinks and drugs can hide the darkness
And quiet the call
To those who are weary of the battle
Or, drained of the desire to see
What the next challenge will be.
The marks and scars on paper by pen
Make maps of the memories
And narratives of the battles
Fought in these shadow worlds
The maps and narratives may be shared
And cause both delight and despair.
Few realize that what they have seen
Are epitaphs and eulogies
Of creative dreams
A BRUSH OF MANY COLORS
by Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Traditionally, practitioners in arts and letters are taught to appeal to their audience members’ five basic senses − or to be more precise, to their sensory memories. Unlike a juggler, who may prefer perfect symmetry in the objects they balance, I believe weavers of word and design are drawn to work with the senses that call out to them personally.
In my own experience of life, there are three senses that predominate. The first is sight; and within the sense of vision, I find color to be more dominant than form. While activity and mood may affect my attraction to a color hue, subtlety of coloration, rather than vibrancy, keeps my attention. The second sense that beckons me, is hearing. In my audio perception, it is pitch that first catches my ear, but rhythm that engages my mind. The third sense I find meaningful is smell. When offered a new aroma, I am often impacted by its similarity or contrast to another already in the data bank of my sensory awareness. But occasionally, a scent comes softly, provoking a tantalizing, barely perceptible memory of another place and time.
As a writer, my canvas is paper, the electronic screen, or a voice-recording device. Like the brush of a painter, the stroke of my virtual or electronic pen draws its vigor from a rich palette. Through images that dance vividly before the mind’s eye, variations in rhythm, and an inner quality of things almost beneath perception, I seek to engage the emotions, as well as the mind, of my audience.
Although projects vary, I draw from the same rainbow of evocative words, regardless of whether I am writing fiction, educational non-fiction, or promotional materials. My goal as a writer is for my readers and listeners to relate positively to the colors, sounds and scents I employ − and to attune themselves to the degree of leisure or urgency I have created for them to move within. Therefore, I seek to become nominally familiar with the target audience to whom I speak, knowing the elements of the landscape and unfolding action I create will be filtered through each of their locales, cultures and stages of life. Whether they thoroughly understand what I am writing about, I hope they will perceive the essence of what I seek to share.
COOKIE TIME
by Kay Lesh
Eunice gazed out at her rose bushes. They were dormant now, but come summer, they would be heavy with the heady scent that you only got from that old English variety she had tracked down a couple of years ago. There was some manure in the car port just waiting to be worked into the soil. It would be good to get back to her garden. Not quite yet, though. The weather was still too cold.
The January sun streaming through the window warmed the rug where Mandy, her old calico cat, dozed. The scent of Eunice’s freshly baked Dainty Bars filled the air. Her cookies were such a big hit at the monthly church suppers. Folks were always excited to see what new treat she would bring each time.
Baking was a meditative experience for her. She could just get lost in the act of stirring up the batter, putting it in the pan, and watching it turn into something marvelous. And cookies tasted so good, warm from the oven. Of course, tomorrow was weigh-in at Weight Watchers, but what difference would a few treats make, anyway? She would never have the figure of a young girl again, and had come to terms with that.
Eunice sighed with contentment. How she loved this house, and especially this big, old kitchen. The memories of her family gathered around the table gave her a warm glow. She missed the kids, but she was happy they were off doing what was important to them. And she didn’t regret giving up her career to be a stay-at-home mother. Look how well those kids had turned out. Eunice delighted in their occasional visits, and wished they would come more often. Still, it was good that they could come as often as they did. She would focus on what she had, not on what she wished she had.
She and Charlie were doing better now, too. After a rocky start, he had adjusted to retirement. He seemed happy with his regular golf games.
The men’s prayer group took up many hours of his time, but how could she complain about something like that? She was happy to have him occupied. A prayer group seemed like a good activity for him, and wasn’t it lucky it met at the little coffee shop right next to Wal-Mart? The group gave Charlie a chance to be out with other men and to work on becoming a better person.
Not that Charlie wasn’t a good man. He was, for the most part, anyway. Oh, he had his little ways, and they had some bad spells, like any other couple. There had been that awful time five years ago when he got tangled up with that woman from work. Ugh! The big scene with the woman’s angry husband was so humiliating.
And there were other times too. Eunice shook her head, remembering the embarrassing time when Charlie...but, no. She wouldn’t dwell on that. It’s best to just focus on the present and think about how good their marriage is now. They had worked it all out. Everything was just fine. They would celebrate forty-five years of marriage in June. Imagine that!
Turning away from the window, Eunice finished packing the last of the cookies into the carrying tin. She would make a different batch for Charlie after she had a cup of tea. He couldn’t eat these, that’s for sure. One bite could send him into that anaphylactic shock thing, and what a mess that would be.
“Charlie and his allergies. What would he do if he didn’t have me to keep watch over what he puts into that hungry mouth of his?”
Eunice grimaced, remembering a party where Charlie had eaten something that triggered his allergies. Thank goodness that doctor was there and knew what to do. Charlie would have been a goner for sure. Well, after that incident, she vowed to take care of him and watch his food intake. And she had.
Her friend Maggie said she spoiled Charlie. “Let the old goat take care of himself,” Maggie was always saying. But taking care of Charlie made Eunice happy. Besides, it was nice to have someone who depended on her, now that the kids were grown and gone. Eunice heard Charlie’s car pulling into the carport, whacking into the wall like he always did. There was a permanent dent on the side where he parked.
She felt a familiar rush of affection as she watched him stride into the kitchen. His face was flushed and his grey hair was tousled. He was still a handsome man, even now. And he was home early. How nice.
Charlie tossed his jacket onto a chair. It skidded off the back and landed on the floor. Eunice started to remind him about hanging up his clothes, but he cut her off.
“Eunice, I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving you. Jessica loves me and I want to be with her.”
Eunice caught her breath. “Jessica? Jessica from Wal-Mart? Why, Charlie, she’s young enough to be your daughter. In fact, she is the same age as our Molly. You can’t be serious!”
“I’m as serious as I can get,” Charlie responded. “I love her and she loves me.”
“Loves your money, more like,” Eunice snorted. “She works as a greeter at Wal-Mart just because she’s so darn pretty and the manager owes her dad a favor. Everyone knows she’s dumb as a box of rocks. Smiling and wishing folks a good day is all she can manage to do. She’s like one of those bobble-head dolls, but with a lot less sense. ”
“I knew you’d find fault with her,” Charlie snapped back. “You’re just jealous. That’s why I didn’t tell you before. Why can’t you accept that our marriage is over?”
Abruptly, his tone softened. “Come on, old girl, don’t make a fuss and I’ll make it worth your while financially.”
Eunice calmed her thudding heart and willed her tears not to fall. Could this really be happening again?
As she turned away from Charlie, her eyes fell on the tin of cookies ready to go to the church supper.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and turned to face him.
“Let’s both just calm down so we can discuss this rationally,” she said. “I’ll pour us a nice glass of milk and we can have some of my fresh baked cookies. I always say there is nothing like a cookie to soothe the troubles away.”
YESTERDAY
by Susan Cosby-Patton
Four poems poured from my brain
like flies on a feeding frenzy
swarming around a summer salad.
Today
my mind
is a barren womb
void of life
dormant
a waste land
of despair.
Why are words so capricious?
Sometimes they crowd my head
‘til I feel my brain will burst
like fireworks on the Fourth of July
filling the sky with glorious color.
Other times
I am
empty
a
dried-up leaf
drifting
in
the wind
|
