She was criticized for writing puff pieces
as light & airy as meringue,
but only those who knew her best
knew that she had many thoughts beyond
food & entertainment & all the little extras
that connected people of all kinds–
she just didn’t have the time
nor the energy
to deal with hate mail.
Blackie & Blondie had journalists for parents,
& so they grew up being asked
Who, What, Where, When, & so forth.
They learned how to remember
the important things,
so that they could tell the stories
that were true.
These stories they told of others
inspired them to live the kind of lives
worth writing about.
Because their parents had asked them questions,
they had learned to do the same
with everyone they met.
Though they’d been called inquisitive at best
& intrusive at worst,
they did learn something most valuable,
& that was how to take an interest
(& a very human one at that)
in other people.
She wrote the life she wanted,
only to realize that as she mirrored her life
after her own creations,
she was writing her future.
When the crime scene photographer
met the wedding photographer,
the former brought stark realism to her life,
& the latter brought whimsical idealism to his.
They were the bloodhounds of bloodlines,
for she used DNA databases to catch cold-case criminals,
he, to reconnect people with their long-lost relatives.
Her work brought justice, even as his brought joy;
they saw what they did not as a career,
but rather, as the fulfillment of a calling from a higher power.
He spent his life preserving old things;
she spent hers creating new ones.
When she found him in the archives
& he found her in the newsroom,
they realized they both had something
to offer the other:
From the fast-paced world of journalism
to the more dead than alive contributors
of the literary one,
she was constantly changing gears,
trying to balance these 2 different animals;
the latter she could put her whole self in,
the former, she had to learn to leave herself out.
Creative writing was in her blood,
journalism was in his bones.
When she donated a pint
& he donated some marrow,
they had gone beyond just
writing about life
to giving it back.
Her office was her day job’s breakroom,
her conference room.
Lunch hour was still an hour,
With her portable phone & computer,
she freelanced her way to another byline
for this junior reporter,
was a natural high.
Writers are like chemists–
the combination of words they choose
can either cause a person
(or group of like-minded persons)
to implode or explode–
& that’s before these readers even get
to the comments section.
Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 484
The Drive-By Media Whore
Constance Porter had coined Tunnelgate,
plus half a dozen others.
Con had never met a strawman she didn’t love
or a gotcha question left unasked,
for the exploitation of even the most useless information
feathered this goose’s nest egg
by getting people to care too much about things
that didn’t amount to a molehill of beans,
distracting them from the real, less interesting news.
Black, White, & Red Running All Over
When she became the Editor-in-Chief of the student newspaper,
she got the glory & everything that came with it—
the academic scholarship & the accusations of censorship,
the joy of a byline & the stresses of other people’s deadlines,
& the quandary of too many writers & not enough reporters.
But she learned to suppress her inner Captain Queeg,
though not her strong suit,
was a card she had learned to play.
No Voice But Her Own
Because she would not listen,
she did not learn.
Because she would not read what others had done,
she did not know how to do it.
Because she fancied herself a maverick a la Hemingway,
she could not see that she could become better.
Because she did not know the rules,
she did not know how or when to break them.
Because she wanted to tell her story,
she did not tell their stories.