Photo: Wolf

  

C.A. MacConnell

Being True: Hit or Miss

 

Being True: Hit or Miss

The other day at this park, a tiny little girl practiced her batting skills. She couldn't have been more than four years old. Holding that bat, she pursed her lips in utter determination, and this kid was damn good. She only missed when her Dad threw a bad pitch, but even if it wasn't her fault, she still furiously dug her Velcro tennis shoe into the pale dirt when she thought she had "messed up." She didn't cry. Oh no, she grinned, stomped, planted her feet back into position, and waited for the next softball, which was almost as big as her little head.

Next came her older sister's turn at bat. Taller, lankier, and seemingly easily distracted, older sis missed almost every pitch. Air, whiff, foul, she didn't care at all. Her Dad laughed and told her to keep trying, and she did, but she kept right on missing. Big sis seemed much more concerned with fixing the tongue on her cool sneakers. When Dad threw another pitch, big sis reached to pet the dog. The obvious differences between the two girls was amusing.

But the scene was fascinating -- even when the older one repeatedly missed, they all cheered. And when the younger one killed that ball, they cheered her on too. There was no difference in the way that the parents reacted to the girls. Swing and hit, roar of applause. Swing and miss, roar of applause. Seemed that they were honestly thrilled to be hanging out together, enjoying the sun, and playing in the moment. What mattered to them was not the perfect pitch, the grand slam, the win, or even the game at all. What mattered was the support, the camaraderie, and the present time together.

To me, they showed a unique, rare display of true love; that is, they were encouraging each other to be their true selves, rather than putting "conditions" on love. Awesome. I wanted to join in and cheer for all of them. What it said to me: hit or miss, I love you. Animals love this way. Animals love us this way. They are speaking to us all.

C.A. MacConnell

Love Poem

I need a guitar,
and a new tattoo.
I need a dollar
to buy a lotto ticket.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
I need a woman
to show me how to heal.
I need a man
with a tattered jacket,
and a trick up his sleeve.
I need a black Camaro
with Kentucky plates,
and a rooster, a dog, and a glove.
I need a mailbox that leans,
and a doctor
who knows how to fuck.
If I could go back,
I'd take up the drums,
just for the muscle.
I need a mighty voice, a piano,
and a damn safe spork.
I need a shovel, a white room,
a backpack,
and some noise.
I need new employment
in the sky.
My eye is twitching.
My ears are ringing.
My ears are burning.
My eyes are burning.
There is one person
I'd like to mention.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo, and a Note to You.

 

Hey there. So how's about that film The King of Staten Island. I dug it...such a creative story, and I was enamored with Pete Davidson and Bel Powley, although everyone was great in it, for sure. Thank you for sharing your art! I really enjoyed it.

So I'm working on fine-tuning 335 pages...Book Four. It does have a title, but it's a secret! 

I'm loving it. 

I can't wait to release it. 

Pretty soon, I'll be hitting up agents, so we'll see. Wish me luck! It's an addictive story. :)

Hope you're well and happy. I've been trying to stay focused and not let my demons get the better of me, which can be a bear. I know I'm not alone here, ha. Sending love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: J.P.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Seat Belt

I never wear a seat belt.
Your voice. When I listen,

I imagine the throat of it,
the slide, the wishing well.

Some come from the gut.
Sound fills me, and I never

look both ways. Beyond
the words, I see myself

in a red, deserted place
where my figure is fine,

and my face is porcelain,
and I am barely twenty-two,

driving alone, tearing
across Wyoming, looking

for horse plates. I am
friendly with your dust.

Then the sunset road
stretches out before me

like a pale, lined tongue.
Let me follow the limit.

Let me sing on the end.
I am in love with the lip.

C.A. MacConnell

Book Four Update.

 

This is what I'm doing tonight! Total couch potato action. Whew.

Hey, I have 330 solid pages for Book Four, and it really looks like a book now, the real thing. I just finished another read-through, and I got to the end, and I had chills, which is always a good sign. 

It's good, really good.

Have to add a little touch to the mid section, but I'm more than on the way now.

:)

Can't wait for you to read it. I've been working so hard. Yes.

<3

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. My first three books are available on Amazon. Search:  C.A. MacConnell

Thank you!

 

C.A. MacConnell

ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF STRANGE SKIN!

  

TODAY IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF MY THIRD NOVEL, STRANGE SKIN. GET YOUR COPY ON AMAZON TODAY RIGHT HERE. 

ALL OF MY BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE ON AMAZON, PAPERBACK AND KINDLE.

JUST AMAZON SEARCH:  C.A. MACCONNELL

OR...CLICK ON THE PICS OF THE BOOKS ON THIS BLOG PAGE. 

LOVE TO YOU!

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Argo's Street

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Hollins University Graveyard

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Rabbit Hash, KY

  

C.A. MacConnell

From the Hawk

from the point of view of the hawk

Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day my Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos of the Day.

 

by C.A. MacConnell

 

Photo: ?

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Who's Next?

C.A. MacConnell

Photo of the Day.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Garden Walk

See me now – I am a tough, roaring
mother bear.

Some lost gardeners
are watching –

strange, lonesome ones
who don't see my wet eyes

or fatigue –
the green,

the black,
the darker green,

the limp,
the broken parachute,

the fat mirror,
and the wool.

Some macho man
will hook to me, skydiving tandem.

I’m not afraid of the ground,
the fall, the sky, or the wind;

it's everything else –
the no-named caterpillar,

all the weight
in the world,

my childhood home for sale.
I’m afraid of resting, the first

day of first days,
some new sound,

and all of the dirty dirt
on earth.

I am afraid to forever
miss you

like I miss myself.
I'm guessing that plant

is called
cat mint.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Migration

You, like a strange

Hawk,

Live on the wind;

You bring the glide.
You bring the climb,
The vision,
And the furious dive.

How I've always wanted
To be a flier,
To let the air and the sky

Keep me

Alive,

To swallow
Up

All distant

Shapes --
The crawlers, and the motionless --
Like a wild fire.

You are quick

And nearly

Silent,

but for the tree calls.

Perhaps, with weather,
Comes
A sudden, hidden message.

You are safe,
I imagine,
Nesting,
Looking backwards
In the pine.

Human now.

Secret.

Black licorice
and dark chocolate.

Here and there, I step
On the heels
Of your shoes.

Hurry,
Fall.

I look to you for

Wheat
Pancakes.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Private Drive

C.A. MacConnell