What The Tree Remembers

 

Stumps  cut down in their youth

line the ditch. Roots full of life

 

with a reach wider

than their whacked-off crowns

 

cut off at the knees

now have nothing to feed.

 

The parked bulldozer

with its claws in the dirt

 

is poised to make smooth

the way of man.

 

But wait.

Saplings spring stubbornly

 

from stumps left alone.

The tree remembers.

Written for What's Going On Blog which challenges us this week to see both the dark and light in a world abounding with both and find a balance. Showing, somehow, the beauty and hope in a world that often feels dismal and divisive; with highlights to poems by Mary Oliver and Deena Metzger who do this all the time in their amazing poetry.

Flash Fiction - Cece Got Her Gun

On the first warm night of summer she wore the sarong she bought in Venice Beach where everyone is beautiful. The drape of fabric, soft as a sigh, brought back the surf that smelled like seaweed, the muscle volleyball game, and the blackest man in America who mimed on the boardwalk to a growing crowd. Candle wax from the last time she'd worn it had hardened in little droplets down the front. She could lift them out with an iron and a piece of paper towel. But that would have to wait.

The rain came across the fields like wind through corn, and with it rose the howl from the barn, and what she had to do because he was gone overtook the carefree evening. She hung the sarong back in the closet, changed into the jeans that fit and pulled on the tall rubber boots that didn't, then loaded the gun, raised the hood on her anorak, and entered the night.

Flash Fiction can be looked at as a half circle. But what if this was just the beginning. Would you turn the page?

 

The D.A.R. and Four Sacred Herbs

Not many things can beat sitting around a table with a group of like-minded people to discuss books.

I was recently invited to the monthly meeting of Town and Country, a local women’s group of lifelong friends. From historians to teachers to retired medical professionals, we gathered at a friend’s house over hors d’oeuvres, bourbon slush, and elder blossom liquor to discuss my novel, Let Evening Come. 

Some in the group have a direct relationship to Native Americans, and I learned of the four sacred herbs: sage, cedar, sweetgrass and tobacco, a discussion that led seamlessly into that of my novel with its Indigenous components.

Other members of the group are affialiated with the Daughters of theAmerican Revolution, the historic patriotic organization of forward thinking women established in 1918. There were bookmarks proclaiming The American Creed: I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it; to support its Constitution; to obey its laws; to respect its flag; and to defend it against all enemies. Penned by William Tyler Page in 1918, a creed that seems more urgent today.

While they don’t call themselves a “book club”, on this day it was.  

America - Love it Or Give It Back

I had one of my best readings right here at our local township library. This man, with the evocative message on his shirt, made an indelible impression on me. I was honored he asked me to sign a book for his daughter. 

My novel, Let Evening Come, is about the displacement of Indigenous peoples, love and loss, broken treaties and sundered promises. His shirt says it all and made me feel I had written something of worth. I'm sad that in the confusion of signings and surrounding conversation, I didn't get his name. That he had me sign it for his daughter, felt like the best tribute of all.

Regarding book signings, I'll be doing a Fourth of July giveaway. All you have to do is sign up for my newsletter here.  I promise to keep the content interesting and the mailings infrequent. 

The Price of an Ignorant Nation

In praise of libraries, my two local ones, the Goodland Township Library and Brown City District Library, have been amazing in their support and enthusiasm for this local author. They are involved and interested in their communities and support literary events, book sales, and summer reading programs. Like our public education system, libraries are part of the structural backbone of a democratic society. They are the literary center of small rural communities and encourage civil discourse. The public monies allocated to them are an investment in literacy and an educated citizenry.

The price of libraries is small compared to the price of an ignorant nation.

My self-arranged book tour has been a mini success to date, and I'll keep reaching out to libraries and independent bookstores far and wide to invite me to talk, read, and sign my debut novel Let Evening Come.  Who know, maybe someday I'll be at one near you. My publisher is small and they don't have the resources or personnel to organize book tours for their authors, so I have the reins in one hand and a sharp pencil in the other, searching for the sweet spot between promotion and creation. 

My hope now is that the first print run sells out and they have to do a second printing so the four (yes 4!!) typos a friend and sister found can be corrected.

IMPERMANENCE

The women gather at the riverbank
Musician, hunter, poet, mother.
Far from the withering gaze of the preacher
They bare their breasts to the sun.             
Sacred herbs for the midwife—
Sweetgrass and yarrow, sage, and cedar.

They gather and gaze

At the image of their mothers
In the mirror of the river.

Like snails in an aquarium
loosened from their shells,

In the reel of the river
They bare their breasts to the sun.

 

Bird’s plaintive cry o’er

purple nestling on the walk

Flees in silent flight.

 

 

May is a time of transience, and Frank Tassone, Monday’s host at dVerse, asked us to face the inevitable passing of it all with a Haibun, a literary form that blends prose and haiku.  

Bloodthirsty Nocturnals

A story about them is in the Flapper Press this month. 

After my mother died, I found a mink stole wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of the cedar chest . . . 

Yes, living where I do, we have rat stories, mink stories, weasel and skunk stories, the knock-in-the-night stories. Nocturnal stories. 

Fodder for a memoir. Would you pull up a chair?

Me and Tommy Orange

 In good company at Eras Bookstore

Thanks to the way bookshops and libraries organize books, I'm butting up against one of my favorite authors! I couldn't ask for a better position. We even happen to be color coordinated. 😃

To cap off my novel's birthday month I spent the afternoon at this new bookstore in Oxford, Michigan.

Tell me that checkered tablecloth isn't corny as all get-out?! Like I'm at a picnic. I meant to buy a plain black one but time got away from me.

Finally, I just want to say that because of the power of "local", independent bookstores are growing in number and popularity, helping their communities and the authors they support. Bookshop is the best way to access your own favorite local bookstore.

Onwards and upwards in this pursuit of the written word, doing what we all love best. 

Yvonne

Human

The Out-Of-Sorts Time For Novelists

If you are a writer, could you base a novel on a single solitary memory from your childhood? 

Sometimes that's all that's needed to jumpstart a story.

For me it was a barefoot boy beckoning from an adjacent dock on a Northern Michigan lake,  the boomerang that wouldn't come back, and the boy who lived with his family in a migrant's shack and one day stopped coming to school.

Writing is a solitary business (why writers love to write). Yet we eavesdrop and belly up to the bar where interesting people rub shoulders and words flow and ideas percolate to flow off our fingertips onto the white expanse of a screen or a notebook or a bar napkin.

Some of the reasons I'm passionate about writing and the natural world are explained here  (the scary out-of-the-way, desolate places our dad would park our pop-up camper on family vacations), along with some of my favorite immersive fiction from 2023 and the novels whose readers I felt would enjoy Let Evening Come.  But I wonder how accurate my assumptions are.

I've been asked, if I  had to do anything other than write, what would it be? I would like to hide in the upper branches of a tree. Drop raspberries in a basket tied at my waist and stomp grapes. Walk the fencerow to the rear of the farm to see the eagle's nest I've heard tell of, a mere hundred-acre walk away.

With one project complete and out of my hands while another is stalled and yet another still percolating like a an old coffee pot, I'm stuck in that out-of-sorts time for a writer. So, why not do some of those things? Why let a 20-mile-an-hour wind dissuade me, or a cold rain, or a mass of turbulent clouds skuttling across the sky to hide the sun as if another eclipse were underway? Why do I let the mundane eat away at the day, like the moon to the sun, or suddenly find myself daydreaming in front of the open refrigerator as if dinner will miraculously appear? Why let the out-of-sorts-time interfere with a walk along a fencerow to discover an eagle's nest rumored to be as big as a dining room table and maybe . . . maybe even catch sight of an adult in the act of remodeling or adding to last years structure.

Now that would be something to write about!

The Interview And the Robin

MIRACLES OF SPRING

 

While answering questions about my writing in an Interview with the publisher, two plump robins engage in a mating dance on snow-crusted grass outside my window. They fly their affair into the maple, bare as a February field, and find foothold in the crook of a branch for spring is coming and there's work to be done.

The miracle of the greening.  

The poets at What's Going On (the mighty foursome!) reminded me that all around there are miracles in our midst. We only have to stop and look to see the plump robin in a new light, how she fends off the blue jays through patience and perseverance. 

Then there's the first pop of green in the towering birch trees that seemed to happen overnight.

Speaking of miracles, my launch party at Inscribe Books went off without a hitch! Another miracle. A day I dedicated to my grandma who bolstered my fragile self-esteem through adolescence; to my father who collated copies of my early poems, bound them together with his stapler and titled the collection The Farmer’s Daughter; and to Mother who always wanted to know what I was doing if I hadn’t stopped in for a visit—immersed in a novel I regretfully never shared with her.

        I'm sorry Mom. 

        I wish you had been here. 

I reacquainted with some long lost friends tonight at our local library, coming together over a book. Now that's a miracle! It's a miracle that this book is out in the world. A miracle that someone wanted to interview little ol' me. Proof that (yes Mother) patience pays off and perseverance is a virtue.

Grandpa's Haymow (The Secret Place)

 We appreciate what we have after we no longer have it

 

I unhook the latch on the door and climb over the ancient
threshold of the haymow erected when grandpa was little.
The wind moans and groans through the cracks in the boards
and the door swings and bangs on its rusted hinge.
The smell of hay baled in summer and stacked for winter
from floor to rafters to a peekaboo window
the fun of seeing without being seen. But there—

A cache of eggs in a bowl of straw.

Brown and warm, chocolate and tan

Hens who like to sit, murmur, and coo

Beneath a watertight roof safe and secure.

Puffed-up doves preen in the rafters.

One flies overhead, east to west, the length of day.

Temperatures drop, wind rifts through the cracks

The sound of eaves dripping,

November come calling.

But the mow stays dry, a refuge from the farm on the farm.

I write in here. If I were a bird I’d nest in here.

If I were an owl, I’d sleep in here. 

If I were a architect I construct this here.

But they don't make barns like this anymore.

The resident cat from a long line of felines is on patrol.

When dad had dairy there were many of them.

Does she have a batch of newborns curled in a ball

In grandpa’s hay mow? 

A melodic song from high in the rafters

Stirs the hair on my arm.

No common sparrow this trilling song. Doves don’t mind

Our looking at them but somewhere up there—

Where no light can shine, nor eye can see

Perches an uncommon bird warbling a song.

My breath freezes in frame like a cat on the prowl

But this diminutive bird

Compelled to sing of the day 

Remains hidden from me.

 

For dVerse, a poem about a building that was more than a building to me.

 

What Happens After "The Call"

I have a guest post on Anne Allen's blog, What Happens After "The call". 

My novel releases one week from today.  I hope you'll add it to your bookcase.📚 I just got an advance blurb from  Dave Essinger, author and editor. I'm geeked about it.

Let Evening Come is a compelling contemporary Northern coming-of-age tale, gripping in its conflicts and transfixing in its prose. - Dave Essinger, author of Running Out, and Editor, Slippery Elm Literary Journal.

I'm so grateful to all of you who have been willing to shell out hard-earned dollars for this book. It's very humbling and I hope you'll find it worthwhile.
 

The Elevator Pitch 📚and Last Call

The hardest thing for an author to articulate is the one-sentence pitch. I've made a hundred adjustments and it still doesn't feel right. 😕

Let Evening Come  is the story of an Indigenous person displaced from his ancestral home in Canada and the motherless farm girl from Michigan who befriends him. 

Since I'm within ten days of my book launch (shiver, shake, commiserate) I thought I'd give last call for my newsletter signup. Sign up by April 2nd and your name will be included in the drawing for an autographed copy with some other goodies. Signed first printings are worth a lot!! 😀 My heartfelt thanks if you have already done so. 

The Worm Moon is shining in my window like a headlamp, illuminating the snow-covered landscape such as you wouldn't need one. A beacon in the darkling night while the world sleeps.

A Dead Man’s Pockets

As sand falls from a sand dollar
on a windowsill miles from the seashore,
so do you at day’s end empty your pockets
of where you’ve been.

The seasons of the year left their trace

on you

til there was nothing

to drop on the dresser but lint in the folds of your hanky.

 

Leaves weighted by rain drop from a gunmetal sky,

swirl and land on the freshly dug grave,

the mound of dirt unsettled and coarse,

 

unlike your face clean-shaven on the blade of the mortician.

Lids drawn over the sterling blue eyes,

tie straightened and mouth closed,

tight-lipped, as our father never was.

 

The mouth isn’t right, my sister whispered

as the kneeler wobbled under our connected sorrow.

I checked his pockets, like a child for a coin,

climbing on a lap, cool, deep, and empty.

For Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings: In Memoriam 

Publishing Note:

A Dead Man's Pockets appeared in the 2021 Slippery Elm Literary Journal

I GOT BOOKS!

What the UPS guy brought me yesterday!

Now that I have my advance copies,  I'm counting down the days to the release of my novel on April 2nd. I'm extremely nervous about how the public will receive it. I practically have the darn thing memorized, but what you think is what matters.

"Let Evening Come is penned by author Yvonne Osborne in the literary style and the interpersonal drama and coming-of-age subgenres. Author Yvonne Osborne has crafted a truly emotionally resonant novel that delves into themes of loss, displacement, and cultural conflict. The up-close and detailed portrayal of Sadie and Stefan's budding romance against the backdrop of their respective struggles was both captivating and poignant. 

I loved the way their unique dialogue was presented and readers will feel the dynamics between the lines. The exploration of cultural misunderstanding and the challenges faced by Indigenous communities was an incredibly poignant touch that is really focused on and never used as a gimmick, fostering genuine empathy and understanding. As the characters navigated adversity and sought connection across borders, I found myself deeply invested in their journey, rooting for their love to transcend the obstacles in their path. Overall, Let Evening Come is a recommended read and a compelling tale of love, resilience, and the human capacity to overcome adversity amidst cultural divides."  

--Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

I understand it can be intimidating to leave a review. Even if you enjoy a book, it puts you on the spot. But honestly, it doesn't have to be long. It can be one sentence, or even one word!  They mean so much, especially for a new, unknown author.  Editorial reviews might carry more weight but reviews from readers are more personal and meaningful to the author.

This Daylight Savings Times gives us late morning darkness but my inner clock tells me it's time for a cup of coffee! 

Graveyard Hierarchy

My son asked how much a tombstone costs
as we trace ancestry through the graveyard
and calculate dates—how common it was to bury babies.
 
Some lucky souls merit saintly companions
who guard their tombs with outstretched arms
or a wrought iron fence to ward off vagrants.
But look how the monied died just as young.
 

At the rear of the yard are the stones we can’t read—

all the names swallowed up by the cold.

Bare of epitaph, they lean against each other,

even their stones are tired.

 

Then there are the markers that only bear a number,

like the tattooed at Auschwitz.

One straggler is off alone and we wonder

if he wanted it so.

The rounded stone juts white from Earth like a tooth.

And what of those who couldn’t even get inside the fence—

separated from the gilded, even here.

To celebrate Swedish Nobel Laureate Tomas Transtromer, dVerse's Bjorn Rudberg asked us to write a poem of exactly 144 words, including a line taken from one of the Nobel writer's poems. In case you can't guess, it's all the names swallowed up by the cold.

More at dVerse on this renowned poet and how he captured the long winters of Scandinavia in his writing.

Note: All the photographs herein on my own. No peeping AI on my shoulder with his shudder eye.

She Took Venice

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful
though the surf smells and seagulls scour the tideline.

All along the shore the ocean unfurls its soul.

Beer with salty clams to peel, dip, and swallow.

The bar faces the ocean with a poolroom where poets rhyme.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

One size fits all with three ways to fold, wrap, and tie.

In Venice, where guitarists skate the boulevard

all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Sea birds ply ocean weed, piles of shell, and salty form.

Bougainvillea drapes the cafes. She collects all she finds.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

She took the ocean home - salt, shells and sun coils.

Maybe he'll come over with a hank of garden lettuce or another sign.

Because all along the shoreline the ocean uncurled its soul.

On the whisper of her sarong she crosses the wooden floor

and watches him cut grass, sun on his shoulders, tasting salty brine.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful

and all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Tasked with the challenge from Poets & Storytellers to write a poem about a sensual piece of clothing, I immediately thought of a  trip to Venice Beach where the beach was littered with what the ocean didn't need, where sarongs were as popular as sun hats and, yes, where everyone was beautiful.

The Uprooting

The fate of a rose planted by my grandmother a hundred years ago released by Flapper Press

The Flapper Press is a literary magazine of Useful Words, Inspiring Stories, and Eclectic Perspectives and I'm very happy to be a part of it.

Also shared with Poets and Storytellers's "Lasting Impressions". No one makes more lasting ones than mothers and grandmothers.  

The Boomerang That Came Back

As with writing, learning to throw a boomerang requires perseverance and discipline, the subject brought up this week at Poets and Storytellers, the power of discipline.  As it has an important, if symbolic, place in my novel, and in anticipation of my April 2nd release date, I thought I'd repost the poem I wrote back when I was first throwing the idea for a novel around in my head. (No pun intended.) 

Some of you may remember the G-Man and his Friday Flash 55 challenge to write fiction with a plot in 55 words. He inspired me to write flash poetry.  You could say, in a convoluted way, that he inspired me to write Let Evening Come.

The birth of a novel in 55 words.

Even as a child, she was drawn to the night
when the air was soft and fraught with life.
He, too, a child of twilight—
mysterious boy boomerang in his belt
Was my father’s he said,
dog circling, divining the night air.
Fingers entwined, he taught her to throw
so it would always come back.

The Newspaper City

We walk to mass along sidewalks
slick with mist from the ocean bay.
Hulking shapes huddle in doorways
where the sun won’t ever shine
to shiver the whole night through
under newspaper blankets.
 
We hasten into church to kneel and pray
with Asian, Latin, and Creole speakers
as incense wafts over the pews and candles twinkle
like the flickering of the holy spirit
descending on the fortunate.

 

With the transubstantiation of altar bread and wine

there’s a rush from the back for the body and blood.

Confused at the lack of decorum

  (do they fear the chalice will spring a leak?)

we ease our way into the jostling line of supplicants

like automobiles jockeying for an off ramp.

 

With a finger dipped in the font at the door

we exit into the misty morn of a cash-strapped city.

Beggars await us on the steps with their outstretched cups.

Father always dropped a five in the tin can of the gaunt man

who sat wrapped in wool at the top of the exit ramp

on trips into a different city.

 

We walk back to the hotel

past darkened storefronts and empty streets.

Silent except for the rustle of newspapers. 

Written for dVerse in memory of Kurt Cobain, the legendary alternative rock musician whose birthday was this past Tuesday. Nirvana's lyrics were known for metaphor and emotional depth. Challenged to use lines from one of the songs posted in the prompt, I chose a couple that would fit this poem.  Check out Melissa's post at dVerse for more on the enigmatic Cobain, photos and lyrics. And the poets at What's Going On who've asked us  to write about "Color" so taking liberty, as this is more about the absence of color.  There are other more beautiful poems about color passing through so head over.