DOUBLE DOODY

People often say they don’t have time to read...

But aren’t we a multi-task culture now?

Can’t we find time to read and do something else?

But what else can we do while reading...

That won’t involve anything physical? 

How about reading in the loo?

Think about it...

You’re having a ‘nature call’...

And that involves some precious time...

So I’ve devised a way to use this time for reading:

Note: being seated is required. 
Here goes: 
A pee = a paragraph

A poop = a page

Constipation = a chapter

See?

It may take months...

But in the end...

(pun intended)

You can wipe that book

Off of your to-be-read pile.

So?

How and where do you find time to read?

Always,

Em-Musing

For whatever reason- that I think has something to do with Blogger's new settings - I cannot leave comments on some people's blog.

So please don’t think I’m rude. If you comment on my blog and you don’t see that I have commented back on yours its not because I didn’t try. I did. Several times. 

LANGUAGE: SPOKEN, WRITTEN. . .OR SPITTING

This post is part of the monthly blog hop/therapy session known as the

Insecure Writers Support Group, founded by the one and only, Alex J. Cavanaugh. If you're a writer, insecure, or just supportive of writers—insecure or not—please join us. It happens

the first Wednesday of each month.

It would be sweet of you to visit at least a dozen or so new blogs and leave a comment. Your words will be appreciated.

Co-Hosts:

The awesome co-hosts for the May 1 posting of the IWSG are Lee Lowery, Juneta Key, Yvonne Ventresca, and T. Powell Coltrin! 

*****OPTIONAL IWSG Day Question*****

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power

The first time I learned language had power...

I was ten — I had written a poem...

Specifically, a poem about my mother.

That’s sweet, you might be thinking.

But sadly, no...

I was mad at her. Very mad! And hurt!!!

But back in those times...

Backtalk and being sassy wasn’t an option...

Because quicker than a paddle smacking a ping pong ball...

Was my mother paddle-smacking my butt.

I also learned at a young age...

That sticking out my tongue and spitting...

Weren’t good ways to communicate either...

Only one **snap** across my calf with father’s belt...

And I never tried those tactics again.

So...

The only safe method to appease my feelings...

Was putting pencil to paper.

And so came this poem:

               UNTITLED

 Her hair is black, her face is white

 Her lips are red, her eyes like night

 The look of death is on her face

 When she is near we'll begin the race

 The race for life, the race for death...

 Breath deep, for it is your last breath. 

Not long after I wrote the poem...

My mother found it when she was cleaning my room.

Bringing it out to me she asked...

“Who is the woman you are referring to?”

That was the day I also learned... 

That there’s not only power in words...

But there’s power in a “look.” 
To this day...

I still write poetry...

Just not that much anymore...

Only during difficult or sad times.

So I guess that’s a good thing.

Not many poems anymore = not many sad or difficult times

What about you?

What early experiences have you had...

That taught you language had power?

Always,

Em-Musing