NaPoWriMo: Day Three

Spring break. A day at the beach. Loved ones. How much better can it get?

Digging utensil

Ocean sand, explore, play, taste

Perennial fun

One Deep Breath: Spring/Fall Songs

In my part of the world, srping has sprung and yet others are feeling autumnal. This evening the full moon is shining on me. It is the "pink" moon. Is it the "harvest" moon elsewhere in the world?

One Deep Breath suggested songs of the season...Poetry Thursday's prompt for Day Two of NaPoWriMo is "spiral". Jone says, "let's combine the two."

My offering:

Twilight lullaby
Zhweee*, zhweee*ethereal trills
Spirals towards dusk

(*from Birds of the Willamette Valley Region by Harry Nehls,Tom Aversa, and Hal Opperman)

For other songs, click here.

NaPoWriMo

It is my intention to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. Thanks to the women at Poetry Thursday, daily prompts will be given. Today's prompt "absolve". I found out quickly the intensity and pressure to write a poem per day.

Here is today's offering:

Sacred holy week
Washing of feet, breaking bread
in tincture of wine
Who washes the feet of the souls
fallen while fighting?

There is a list of those particiating in NaPoWriMo at Poetry Thursday under participants.

Sunday Scribblings: Deepest, Darkest

Maybe it is due to the start of spring break or a deep dark fear or the yummy, rich mac n' cheese from Le Bistro Montage but I cannot think today.

The prompt, "deepest, darkest" makes me want to write a fairy tale but the words must be under a deep, dark spell.

So here's my offering.

Deepest Darkest Fears
**Having anyone touch, come near, or even talk about belly buttons (Okay, weird, I know, but my mother the nurse, made sure our BB's were squeaky clean).
**The dentist
**Tattoo needles (no tattoos for me)
**Silverfish

Deepest, Darkest Decadent Treats
**Bittersweet chocolate (I treat myself to a small piece of either Rapunzel or Dagoba bittersweet chocolate every day)
**French pressed Ethiopian Harrar coffee (or any quality coffee, Stumptown, for example)
**Creamy tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches (sensitivity to diary makes me limit my helpings)
**Allowing myself a day to be lazy and do nothing.

To read more about "deepest, darkest, visit here.

From This Window

The ladies at PT are taking the "imaged defined" a step further this week. Find a piece of art that you really enjoy, be in that art, and write, you know experience "ekphrasis"(verbal description of a work of art).

Georgia O'Keefe is mostly likely onr of my favorite artists. I love her work, stayed at Ghost Ranch(where she once lived) and walked the hills behind the ranch.

Okay, I hope this is okay to do. I got the image from http://www.artst.org/. I hope I am not violating copyright laws. Here's my poem:

1940 - The Patio - No. 1
painting by Georgia O'Keefe

From this window
Witness
Hills turning tangerine red
Each evening

From this window
Witness
Amaranth tumbling across the desert
Each evening

From this window
Witness
Wind and coyote howling at the new moon
Each evening

From this window
Witness
I wait for your return
Each evening

To see who landed in which painting, click here.

The Pantoum Poetry Form

Joyce Sidman has a wonderful pantoum poem in Butterfly Eyes and Other Secrets of the Meadow. A source of inspiration to me, I have written three poems since discovering the form.

One thing I discovered about the pantoum form is that they create a mood of a slower, enchanting time.
Here are some places you might want to investigate to learn more about the form:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5786

http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/pantoum.htm

http://anitraweb.org/kalliope/pantoum.html

I have an earlier post from Sunday Scribblings that I may try and revise as a pantoum.

Happy Writing.

One Liners: Haiku

The prompt for this week is to write a haiku in one line. One liners ask for more to be written.

Crocus stars fall to earth, await moonbeams

++++++++++++++++++++++

Frogs' night music, shall we dance?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Pollen delivery waits for the bee carriers
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Yellow kites tethered to the ground

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Pink and white snow petals, spring blizzard today

For more haiku, please visit here.

Sunday Scribblings

In the kitchen
Family gathers round the table
“School was fine today,
Please pass the potatoes.”

Family gathers round the table
Anticipating a meal properly prepared
“Please pass the potatoes.”
A child sits in silence.

Anticipating a meal properly prepared,
Laughter erupts as the dad tells a story
A child sits in silence
Awaits retreat to her fairy tale room.

Laughter erupts as the dad tells a story
She forgets, giggles, then remembers
Her fairy tale room retreat
No one sees her depart as the moon rises.

She forgets, giggles, then remembers
“School was fine today”
No one sees her depart as the moon rises
In the kitchen.

I have been on a pantoum kick. I am not sure I followed the suggestion totally. For other kitchen tales, click here.

Poetry Thursday: Image Inspired

Dragonfly @ Glen Echo, 2005

Momentary rest
Dragonfly tranquility
Blink - vanishes

Just this week, the photo cd which contained this image surfaced. I am so happy to have found it once again. It's one of my favorite photos as I love dragonflies.

There are more lovely images and poetry here.

P.S. I have been asked some questions about the community of blogging, would love your input. The questions are at this recent post. Thanks.

Questions About the Blogging Community

I gave a presentation about blogging at my church this past Sunday. Some questions arose so am throwing them out to the blogging community to respond. Thanks.

How does the blogging community (responders, etc.) compare to other forms of community you experience?

Is your sense of electronic connectedness deeper and more fulfilling?

How does it compare to generating connectedness at church or "going out with friends?"

Could it be that serious bloggers are truly redefining "community?"

One Deep Breath: Breath/ Breathing

California coast, near Cambria, 2005

Summer morning breath
Fog exhales to the foothills
Retreats to the sea

Take a moment to read and breath by clicking here.

Sunday Scribblings: Inspiration

The prompt for this week is "inspiration". Sunday Scribblings is almost a year old. Happy Blogiversary!!


Inspiration comes
Whispers songs in your ear
Follow the breadcrumbs


Been thinking about this prompt for a couple of days. The above haiku came to me as I was driving this morning. Driving, for me, is a place where ideas and thoughts come. Yes, I have mastered the art of scribbling the thought on any scrap of paper nearby.


William Stafford said, “write every day.” He made it his practice to awake daily at 4 AM to write. Finally after years of reading about daily practice and talking about daily practice, I am edging closer to daily practice (am writing more than I have in years).


Morning ritual
Cup of coffee, computer
Haiku word play starts

Another source of inspiration is my photography. I record the seasons and am apt to pull over quickly to take a photo (I bet you are glad you don’t live in Oregon with a crazy person like me pulling over quickly for photos and writing things down while driving).

I hate staring at blank paper or a blank screen. There are days like that. That’s why being a part of a virtual writing community provides inspiration. I look forward to the writing prompts from three fabulous sources: Sunday Scribblings, One Deep Breath, and Poetry Thursday.


Prompt, take or leave it
Sit at the writing table
Inspiration comes


Read more inspiring thoughts here.

Visual DNA

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Poetry Thursday: Defined

From Poetry Thursday:
Look up a bunch of words in the dictionary. Look at the entries only, not the definitions. Don’t even peek at the parts of speech. What you’re after is some groovy, weird word that you don’t know the meaning of but that you like for whatever reason. You might want to make a list of several words. For your poem, select the word you like most and write a poem that defines it. Not like a real definition, which you couldn't do anyway because you don’t know what the word means. It can be a wacky definition, a way-out-there definition, an over-the-top definition, even a definition that contradicts itself.

Okay, easier said than done for "little-miss-I-must-read-the definition". So I had my husband give me a list of words from The Official Scrabble Dictionary. The two words that I like best were "ferula" and "brumby". I decided to use "ferula". After I was finished with the poem I looked up the words. I really wish I would have also used "brumby" or worked it into the poem but now knowing the meaning, I felt it would be totally cheating.

Ferula in the Distance

A ferula in the distance
Fog settles on the river
A furtive glance and
Foraging begins

Fog settles on the river
Ribbon like
Foraging begins
In the quiet moment of dawn

Ribbon like
Water sprites crisscross
In the quiet moment of dawn
Spirits bade farewell

Water sprites crisscross
A furtive glance and
Spirits bade farewell
A ferula in the distance

Stillness/Calm

Meditation breath
Inhale, exhale release fears
Anticipation

Meditation breath
Morning spirit surrenders
Awakening prayer

I am trying to practice this now as I prepare for a colonoscopy on Friday.

For more haiku on stillness and calm, visit One Deep Breath.

Dream Journey

Today's Prompt: Dream Journey "You could take this to mean the journey of your dreams, the place(s) you most want to go in the world, and the luscious details of that dream trip. Or, a journey in dreams. Dreamlife, hopes, wishes."

"So many dreams, so little time."

A local radio station gave away airline tickets to anywhere in the world for over a year. I always hoped that my name would be called. I would go to Scotland and Sicily.

My grandfather was born in Ayre, Scotland in 1863. He was 24 years older than my grandmother and thus, not around when I was born. I want to see the country he grew up in until he was 13 or 14. Around that age, he left home and travelled on a three masted schooner around the world. My heritage is also Irish and German but Scotland calls my name.

My husband's family is from the toe of Italy and Sicily. Just as I am drawn to Scotland, I am drawn to this part of the world. I absolutely love Tomie de Paolo's Strega Nona books. I imagine us walking along the streets that my husband's grandmother and grandfather did.

If I could time travel, it would be to spent time on the three-masted schooner as did my grandfather. My father and aunt regaled stories of my grandfather all though my life. One of my favorites was my Grandfather and his tattoos. His ship arrived in Calcutta, India. He and his ship mates all went to shore to get tattoos. Well, my grandfather, decided the tattoos were too spendy so once aboard the ship, he did his own tattooing on his hands. I dream of walking the streets of Calcutta in the 1880's.

I led our school in celebrating the first ever Earth Day, April 22, 1970. The"Earth Day" flag flew that day as classmates planted seeds, wrote poetry, and committed ourselves to saving the planet. To me, it was a rebellious and necessary act in raising the consciousness about our precious planet. I still feel this way today although, I, at times, can be lazy about recycling, reusing, and reducing. I dream that I continue walking lighter on this amazing place we call home.

Poetry Thursday: Red

Red lipstick tube
Streaking down the expressway
A traveling
Carnival ride on wheels

Whooshing wind
Blowing hair, songs, words,
Floating
Towards the sky

Looking up
Tree arms stretching over us
Creating
An emerald canopy

Your fingers dancing
On my skin, remembering Costa Rica
Driving
A ribbon candy road

This is a revision of a poem written years ago. I have been dealing with a naughty tooth. Root canal yesterday.

For more red, visit here.

Earth/Mud/Dirt

The prompt this week at One Deep Breath is "Earth, Dirt, Mud". My love affair with the earth began early:

Grandma, want mud pie?

Three year old holds grubby mess

Grandma receives gift.

These days, I play in my garden.

The weather was almost seventy degrees in Portland yesterday.

My young student poetry club went outside to photograph the school garden.

Leaf skeleton compost

Nutrient provider now

Nurturing root life

Tulip heads poking out
Sunny day, winter's late gift
Thank you, Mother Earth

Go play in the dirt here.

Superstition

Superstition

This week Sunday Scribblings’ prompt: superstition. “Do you have any? Do you scoff at them? Do you brazenly stroll under ladders and laugh at black cats? Do you know any really weird ones? Have you ever thought of what it would have been like to live in the Middle Ages, when superstitions were such a part of daily life, and could actually get you killed?”

I created my own superstition as a child. There was a Victorian type house, complete with the creepy wrought iron fence down the street from my house. A very old lady and her St. Bernard lived there. The neighbor children all believed she was a witch. My superstition was looking out my bedroom window every night. The houses that did not have any lights on were the house she had cast spells on.

Things I do because they were modeled for me as a child:

Slice the end of a cucumber. Take the sliced end and rub it in circular motions on the end of the cucumber to “get the poison” out. From my grandmother.

Remark to company “After three days, company smells like fish.” From my grandmother. I recently discovered she was quoting Ben Franklin.

Wish on falling stars along with the first star I see each evening.

If I give a purse as a gift, I put a penny in it. Same if I give a knife as a gift, I get a penny to not 'cut-up" the relationship.



Things I do today because I learned about them:

Pray to Saint Anthony when I lose something. I am not Catholic but I like doing this.

Have a variety of gemstones for a variety of things. I had a lot of muscle pain last summer. Every time I wore my necklace with green aventurine and unakite, I experienced less pain.

For more on superstitiions, click here.

Poetry Thursday: Beauty Without a Name

From the Window

Silver french knots twinkle on
midnight blue velvet
silent trees keep vigil
deep fuchsia-rose-flame scarves
tip toe in dance, signaling
feathered choir's performance,
lauds this canonical hour
Buttery essence arrives
Flickering new beginnings

It took me awhile but I did it. I knew from the first what to describe. The how without totally saying what it was; my challenge. Thank to Poetry Thursday and using Chris Sapp's idea. Sometimes we all need to stretch.

Color Haiku

Stems bear evidence
Winter's red points direction

Serenity found

Murky color day
Showers drop brief impressions
Pebbles hide beneath

For more color visti others at One Deep Breath.

Morning Ritual

Morning Ritual

Father’s morning ritual
Coffee, cigarettes, newspaper
Crossword puzzle, word scramble
Letters from a scrabble game
Arranged and re-arranged until
The scrambled word appears
Occasional phone call
Four states away
“What’s a five letter word for…?”
most of the time I had no answer
Whole mornings consumed
Puzzles solved

I was inspired by Regina's post about her mother and puzzles. Want more on puzzles? Click here.

The Body Knows

The body knows
Secrets of the night
Hears whispers, feels caresses
Syncopated breathing

Secrets of the night
Candlelight flickers, shadows dance
Syncopated breathing
Sleepy souls spoon

Candlelight flickers, shadows dance
Sounds linger, fade away
Sleepy souls spoon
As the tide is rising

Sounds linger, fade away
Draping arm pulls the body closer
As the tide is rising
Gibbous moon appears

Draping arm pulls the body closer
Hears whispers, feels caresses
Gibbous moon appears
The body knows

I discovered the poem form, the pantoum, as I was judging the poetry books for the CYBILS Award. The form has been percolating in me. For more poetry, click here.

Rosemary Fibs and a Little Weather As Well

Here
Grows
Woody

Rosemary

A favorite herb

Mediterranean Flavor

Look
Wild
Growing
Pungent Herb
Lingers on my hands
Rosmarinus dew of the sea

It's Monday, 6 AM and the weather begs me to write just one more:

Winds
Howl
Today
Trees swaying
Rain pelting the ground
Umbrellas flying from fingers

Create you own fib: There are only 2 rules. The first rule is the sequence of syllables which is 1/1/2/3/5/8. The second rule is that no one-syllable lines can contain an article (the, a, la, le, etc.)

For more fabulous fibs, click here.

Sunday Scribblings: Crush

Crush: “an intense and usually passing infatuation”

Paris, France, summer of ’69, it happened. Southern California girl, 17, meets east coast boarding school boy, four years my junior. “He’s your brother’s age”, a voice in my head repeated.
Sandy colored hair, freckles, and speaking flawless French, it was mutual attraction. A spark ignited at the first meeting. I had a boyfriend at home but here I was in France for six weeks. “He’s your brother’s age”, a voice in my head repeated.
Recent letters found confirm that within days of reaching Paris, I was already walking the streets with a boy. “He’s your brother’s age”, a voice in my head repeated.
We stole away to secret places at Lycee Michele, practicing French and smoking thin French cigarettes. At times, I melted and felt odd all at once. “He’s your brother’s age”, a voice in my head repeated.
The afternoon that he began talking to me about “speaking in tongues” was the afternoon that my crush began its fade. I was a Presbyterian girl. We did not speak in tongues (unless French kissing counted.) The whole idea of speaking gibberish, wailing and writhing seemed so foreign and weird. “He’s your brother’s age”, a voice in my head repeated.
I kept my distance as much as possible the remaining weeks. Staying in a group pack seemed the better option. Upon returning home, I received one letter from him, still wanting to keep in touch. An east coast boarding school scholar, the same age as my brother. I wonder what direction his life lead him.

Have you ever had a crush? Do you want to read more? Visit here.

Poetry Thursday: Prose Poetry

Well, first of all, let's sing a little "Happy Birthday" to Poetry Thursday. The are a year old today. What a challenge they put before all of us. (not nearly as bad as the mathematical proof)
Write a prose poem. I looked through my writing, thought of writing, and then decided to tried revising a poem I wrote over ten years ago. It was inspired by the vigil being held for Nicole Brown Simpson on the anniversary of her death.

Day Five

Oncoming traffic prevents her from turning left. She loses time. She loses place. She is the dutiful pupil remembering to look left, right, and then left again. Courthouse looms ahead but this is not her destination. She sees the temporary clothesline. More tee shirts line the stairs leading to the courtroom doors. She pulls over, stops the truck, jumps out. She needs a closer look, yet trembles as she walks toward the scene. Are you still hitting? After twenty years I am at peace I cannot take it anymore I live but my mommy does not
Tee-shirts flap as the wind whips them around. She loses time. She loses place. She weeps and flinches as the hand rests on her shoulder. “Would you like to make one?”
She takes a tee shirt and the pen:
When will it end? Her tee shirt flutters free. She wonders who felt violence during this brief, peaceful vigil.

As originally written:
Day Five

Oncoming traffic

she decides not to turn

left until 13th

at Franklin

She is the dutiful

school girl remembering to

look both directions

sees the

courthouse

a clothesline of tee-shirts

flapping

lining the stairs

She stops the truck

jumps out

are you still hitting?

after twenty years, I am at peace

I can't take it anymore

I live but my mommy doesn't

unaware of the time

a hand rests

on her shoulder

would you like to make one?

She takes the tee shirt and the pen

when will it stop

two clothespins her tee shirt

flutters freely

who felt violence during this

peaceful vigil?

For more prose poetry, visit Poetry Thursday.

Fanconi Anemia, One of My Heroes, and Valentine's Day

A mother, three sons

Fanconi Anemia

Mother of two now

This is my friend and colleague, Peggy. Her eldest son, Jake, was away at college when he went to the doctor about a cold that he couldn't shake. Blood taken, tests run, and a life altering diagnosis given. Jake had Fanconi Amenia, a genetic disease of the blood. He would need a bone marrow transplant.

First stop, the sibling brothers. And an answer to prayers. Her youngest son, Spencer, was a perfect match. And then, the sky fell again. Further testing revealed that Spencer also had Fanconi Anemia. (Spencer is currently attends college and so far he is stabilized with the disease).

The months ahead were a roller coaster ride no family should have to take. A bone marrow donor was eventually found. Jake received the transplant but complications ensued. Jake passed from this world in November 2003.

Peggy is one of my heroes. Her dedication and commitment to finding a cure for FA is inspiring. The first spring without Jake, Peggy organized an benefit dinner and auction. It raised well over a hundred thousand dollars.

And then another idea came to her. Jake loved to run and why not create a running event in his memory. Thus the Valentine's Day 5K was born in 2005. It happens the Sunday before Valentine's Day. The run is growing up. This year, Peggy garnered major sponsors for the run. And this year the donations grew by a third from last year. Early totals show that over $31,000 was raised for research.

Valentine's Day was yesterday. Many of our staff wore the red shirts from this year's run in honor of Peggy and all her hard work.

For further information, here are some websites to check out:

http://www.fanconi.org/

http://www.valentine5k.com/

Valentine's Day: Fifteen Years

Fifteen valentines
Anniversary today
Journey with best friend

The roses were waiting for me today(Tuesday) when I arrived home.
I do not know where time has fled. Our peaks, our valleys, and inbetweens, a wonderful journey.

I love these thoughts from Madeleine L'Engle"


“ …A love which depends solely on romance, on the combustion of two attracting chemistries, tends to fizzle out. The famous lovers usually end up dead. A long termed marriage has to move beyond chemistry to compatibility, to friendship, to companionship. It is certainly not that passion disappears, but that it is conjoined with other ways of love…

…Love of music, of sunsets and sea: a liking for the same kind of people; political opinions that are not radically divergent; a similar stance as we look at the star and think of the marvelous strangeness of this universe—these are what build a marriage. And it is never to be taken for granted…

…But the wonderful thing, whether we are together or apart, is to know that he is in the world and that we belong together. And what I must learn is to love with all of me, giving all of me, and yet remain whole in myself. Any other kind of love is too demanding of the other; it takes, rather than gives. To love so completely that you lose yourself in another person is not good. You are giving a weight, not the sense of lightness and light that loving someone would give. To love wholly, generously, and yet retain the core that makes you you…

…Our love has been anything but perfect and anything but static.
Inevitably there have been times when one of us has outrun the other and has had to wait patiently for the other to catch up. There have been times when we misunderstood each other, been insensitive to the other’s needs. I do not believe there is any marriage where this does not happen. The growth of love is not a straight line, but a series of hills and valleys. I suspect that in every good marriage there are times when love seemed to be over. Sometimes these desert lines are simply the only way to the next oasis, which is far more lush and beautiful after the desert crossing that it possibly could be without it.”

From Two-Part Invention by Madeleine L’Engle

Haiku: Shelter

Our prompt for this week:
A dwelling place, home or refuge... Or the view from such. What speaks to you of shelter?

Boxwood shrubbery
Spotted Towhee residence
Foraging for seeds

Doesn't he just look like he is sizing you up? For more, go to One Deep Breath.

Yummy

Yummy

I see yummy as a trip to Grand Central Bakery in Portland, Oregon. I walked to the one on Hawthorne regularly until I recently moved. My brother once told me, “It’s not right to live so close to a bakery like this.”

Walk in aroma
Cinnamon, coffee, spices
Delectable treats

Flour, yeast hand kneaded

Rustic loaves upon loaves baked
Daily crunch crust bread

Nourish your body
Organic ingredients

Feeding hungry soul

Are you hungry for more? Visit Sunday Scribblings.

Poetry Thursday: Changes

Wrinkly, tiny feet
Universe bids you welcome
Kissable pink toes


Wobbly walking steps
Curiosity, your friend
Invites you to play


These are the changing feet of my granddaughter, born February 5, 2005. Her feet have seen a lot of changes in a year.
For mre changes, go to Poetry Thursday.

Twilight Time

Seaside, OR 2005

Sun sets west, wakes east

Waves sing rhythmic lullabies

Twilight dreams appear

Prompt: This week's focus is on the time of day when the sun is beginning to set and when much of the world begins to settle in for a rest. What a beautiful prompt. For more, visit One Deep Breath.

One of Those Weeks: Catching Up

Christmas 1998

I am having one of those weeks. I couldn't get a poem together for "Poetry Thursday" and especially about a mathematical proof. But I thought a lot about it and maybe one will surface one day.


Then it was time for Scribbling Sunday and the topic of "Good-bye". Been thinking about it for days now.


Friday marks the 9th anniversary of my mother's passing. I have been thinking about her and how I just do not talk much about my mother.


I remember that day so clearly. I decided to go home before my acupuncture appointment. And there was a message from my aunt to call her. I knew it my heart it was about Mom. Mom had passed. I left to make my acupuncture appointment. Tears streamed down my face the entire session.


She suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). A surgery nurse who loved her cigarettes, cigars, and drinks.


The January previous, the hospice workers looked at me as if I was a crazy woman. I told them that her goal was to make it to November 1998, her 50th wedding anniversary. And she did. She made it through the holidays, too.


I remember her calling me and asking me to come as soon as winter break began. My father had sprained his ankle and couldn't get around very well. My brother and his family would be arriving. So I went and stayed until school started up in January.


She was tired. Most of the time her lips were blue. The whirring of the oxygen machine lulled me to sleep at night. Her bravery was fierce.


We talked weekly. Always telling me that she was doing better. My birthday came and went in late January. My aunt visited them.


I can't forget the final phone call. Mom, trying to put on the good game face but her voice betrayed her. Fatigued, the battle too difficult to fight. I said to her, "Mom, take the path of least resistance. I love you". "I love you, too, hon', "she replied.


And that was it. We hung up. She went to hospice on Sunday. Tuesday, the harp player's music escorted her to the light just as my dad arrived.

Speaks to me in dreams

Take path of least resistance

Lilting harp music

Other ways to say good-bye, here

One Deep Breath: Roots/Connection

Dahlia whispers

Sun setting on horizon

Spirit centered here

What is your roots and connection to nature? For other haiku, visit here.

Sunday Scribblings: Chronicles

The prompt for Sunday Scribblings this week is "Chronicles". It is defined as "to record in or in the form of a historical record". I took a writing workshop in which writing was described as mapping and sorting ourselves.

Chapter Headings of My Life

Early Years

Birth: January 29, 1953 at 8:56 AM, Thursday and a full moon
Two Years Old: Incident at the Pool in Which I Almost Drowned
Three Years Old: Preschool Here I Come
Four Years Old: Going to Grandmothers' House in New Jersey for Six Months

Elementary School

Kindergarten: Look at Me, I am Only Four Years Old and Starting School
First Grade: Sand in the Ear Makes a Sound Like the Ocean
Second Grade: No More Tonsils for Me
Third Grade: Wear Muttlucks at School to Keep Your Shoes Clean
Fourth Grade: Why Does Everyone Get to Have Braces and I Don't
Fifth Grade: The Day the Substitute Arrived for Dinner
Sixth Grade: New Town, Two Schools

Middle School

Seventh Grade: What You Mean I Have to Wear Bobbi Socksto School?
Eight Grade: The Year of the Garage Parties and Spin the Bottle
Ninth Grade: I Finally Get My Period

High School

Tenth Grade: Fifteen and I Have to Learn How to Drive (note: I didn't get my driver's license until I was 21)
Eleventh Grade: Discovering Boys, Really Discovering Boys
Summer of '69: Jone Goes to France and Learns to Speak in Tongues
Twelve Grade: Body Paint, Movie Drive-ins, and Kindred Spirits

College Years

Freshman Year: I Never Met a Dance that Didn't Have a Party to It
Sophmore Year: How to Keep A Long Distanct Relationship Going
Junior Year: It is Not Nice to Laugh at Someone When They Propose to You
Senior Year: Student Teaching, Turning 21, and Breaking Up

Ah, just writing these brings back memories which may have altered with age. It certainly gives me a list to reflect on and use for further writing.

Visit Sunday Scribblings for other chronicles.

Why I Love Poetry

Why I Love Poetry

I have a thirty minute commute to school each morning. Great time to ponder prompts. Must be something in the air. The prompt over at One Deep Breath was on the process or craft of writing haiku earlier. What synchronicity this week.
I have always written poetry, love the word play, brevity of words lingering long after in my brain.

Calming the spirit
Centering poem prayer
Daily guiding thoughts

Magic word moments
Dancing across mind pages
Encore on paper

For more on the love of poetry, visit here.

One Deep Breath: Process and Craft

This week, Susan and Jennifer, One Deep Breath, suggested that participants look at the craft and process of writing. I am forever thankful for the day I stumbled onto the website ODB. It awakened my desire for writing haiku which has been hibernating. I quickly realized that my library blog for school would not be enough, thus creating this blog strictly for my writing.

Sunday prompt given
Photo enveloping me
Living the moment

Mary Oliver's thoughts on about the many opportunities there are to be a poet publicly and quickly caught my eye. I remember being a part of the Oregon Writing Project in the early 90's. The whole home computers and email were just really catching on. I suggested to my writing group that we could post our work in order to comment on it; a virtual writing community. Nobody really pursued it.

Syllable word play
Writing community here
Writing haikun now

I write to be a better writer. I write to capture the little moments. I write to be a better teacher of poetry to my students.

Dawn creates words
Capturing daybreak moment
The soul smiling now

You are invited to read more at One Deep Breath.

Sunday Scribblings: Fantasy

Fantasy

What a great topic. Well, at first I thought, I don’t have anything to write. However, the topic has been simmering in my head for a couple days like my great aunt’s stew. How can I say I don’t like fantasy?

I lived in a house with a two hallways, second through fifth grade. One led to the other bedrooms of the house and the other to the main bathroom. But at night, the hallways were paths in the forest, The Fairy Tale Forest. Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, Little Red Riding Hood, and other fairy tale characters all resided there. I had great adventures with them.

Then there was the “witch” who lived down the street. The house loomed large compared to the new housing track further up the street. A little old woman and her St. Bernard inhabited the property, surrounded by a giant wrought iron fence. I stood at my window every night and peered out at the street. I wanted to know which houses she had cast a spell on.

Early beginnings of fantasy for me, don’t you think? I went through a period in middle school of writing ghost stories and alien stories, hmmm, more fantasy.

Today as an elementary librarian, I read a wide variety of books. I tell stories of “Nona, the Library Spider” to my students. I recommend fairy tale or folk tale books, the Harry Potter series, Charlie Bone series, and many of the dragon books. I have read them all. So how can I say I am not fond of fantasy? I can’t. I don’t anymore.

I have come to realize what makes a fantasy book a great read is the characters. If the characters are strong and vibrant, if you can make a connection with them, then the book will be one you cannot put down. And isn’t that like any great read?

I am thinking that perhaps I look at reading a book in a different way. It is not the genre label but whether the characters can transport you away to their world. So yes to fantasy, and to all stories that cause you to travel.

Go here to read more on Fantasy

Poetry Thursday

This is a great prompt from Poetry Thursday this week. We were to leave a line for the taking and borrow other lines. Fun, fun, fun. Day three of snowed and iced out of school.

Chance Meeting

The email, an olive branch, inviting
You to lunch
Too busy: kids
Work
school
to meet without an agenda
“Another time, perhaps”
Parents died years ago
Aware I am not innocent in creating the chasm
Between us.

Our blood flows fast in currents of time
Chasing after blue-bellied lizards, sand crabs
Perfect for belly buttons
Fighting, our feet as weapons on car trips
Dinnertime talk, me mostly listening as
Parents riddled with question after question
Annoying younger sibling habit
I left for college
Unaware it would be a lifetime away
Between us.

I enter the restaurant, Friday evening.
Standing room only.
Familiar couple sitting at the bar
Savoring a liquid dinner
Silver white hair, double take
Parents died years ago.
Our blood flows fast in currents of time
Performing the “duty” hug
Aware there are no coincidences in this journey
Between us.


Thank you to Sassy Dewy ( I am not innocent) and Tammy ( Our blood flows fast in currents of time) for their quotes. Thank you to Liz and Dana for a great prompt idea. For more "borrowed lines" visit Poetry Thursday.

One Deep Breath: Reflection

Japanese maple

Winter refuge as snow falls

Napping by fire

The scene in my front yard yesterday and today. No school. No hummingbirds. Quiet cold.
Read more on reflections.

Sunday Scribblings: I have an Idea

Late, late, late. In California for the weekend and home to snow and ice. The Sunday Scribblings' prompt reminded me of an idea list I once wrote to remind my of things to to every day:

To Do Each Day

Laugh, find the humor in the darkest cloud
Love
Be kind to all who come your way
Remember the saying "you have two ears and one mouth"
Extend a hand as an ambassador of welcome and hospitality
Nuture my creative self
Dance even though one tap shoe is missing
Sing not knowing the words, make them up
Create a sense of home whereever the day's path leads you.

Two snow days, no school. Life is good. More ideas can be found here.

Poetry Thursday: Cliche

Morning chat with you
Forgot to ask a question
Angels arrived later

The prompt for this week was "cliche". I particularly like the one " Don't put off tomorrow what you can do today" (it is more likely a proverb). It has been three years this month that my dad has been gone.

Subtle Change

Morning twilight glow

Horizon ribbon divides

Lengthening days

The length of day tomorrow will be one minute and thirty seconds longer.

As an aside: I have a photo that made it into the Top 100. My first and I am so excited. I wrote about it in an earlier post today. There more subtle changes here.

Hooray: The Top One Hundred

My aunt and a friend of her encouraged me to submit this photo into a contest. I found a local one which is a fundraiser for the Multnomah County ESD Outdoor School Program. I was surprised to see it made the "Top 100" semi-finalists. There were 165 contributors and almost 1400 photos to select from. Now anyone who desires can vote for their favorite "Top 10".
Here's how to vote.

1. Please go to http://www.photooftheyear.net/default.asp?pageid=-602262091.
2. Click on How to Vote”
3. Choose the “Top 100”.
4. Find my photo of the Dahlia Center and vote for it and 9 others

My goal: to make the top 10.
You can vote until January 22nd.

Sunday Scribblings: Kissing

This week's prompt, KISSING, sent me down long forgotten roads. There was the boy in first grade who kissed me and told me we could live in Paris. Followed by the learning to kiss in dimly lit garages in which we would have parties. The record player providing a music of the 60's and folding chairs lining the walls of the garage. Soon it would be "spin the bottle" time. I stood between wanting to chosen and thankful I wasn't chosen.

Forbidden morsel
secret rendezvous whisper
play spin the bottle

warm caramel kiss
lingering a bit too long
melts winter snowflakes

What are others writing about kissing? Click here.

Time Zones

Poetry Thursday introduced us to the Gumball Poetry website. Can you imagine? You put a quarter in a machine and instead of gum you get a poem. How cool is that? I think I want to find a gumball machine and do this with student's poems.

So I checked on the submission part of the poetry website, only to discover they are full up with potential submissions for now. This is the poem I would submit.

Time Zones

Three o'clock in the morning
I lay awake. Our dog's moist pointy nose
nuzzles the ell of my knees.
You sleep soundly.

East coast bakers swing open doors,
releasing aroma ribbons, invisible hooks
pulling early morning workers inside for
hasty cups of coffee and warm pastries.

West of me, moonlight guides a lone wanderer
roaming deserted streets
Church bells sound off, an alarm clock
proclaiming a new day.

I turn over, draping my arm over your midriff,
pulling you closer. Breathing synchronizes,
our dog shifts south
All this while you sleep soundly.


For more, go to Poetry Thursday.

Destination

New year beginning
Reaching out to family
Finding common ground

Walking humbly
Each day, observing nature
Being in the moment

Dreaming wildly
Compassionate acts of love
Staying true to self

For more on destinations, click here.

Happy New Year

Quiet gray morning

Hummingbird sips sweet nectar

Toasting the new year

Joyous year ending
Pondering which feeder next
Raindrops grow larger

Wishing all who visit a joyous and prosperous new year. For more haiku about the new year visit One Deep Breath.

Storm

Autumn's final dance
Yellow leaves twirl, spin downward
Winter approaching

Wind choir singing
Fir tree ballet in progress
Dancer loses limb

More storm haiku here

Anticipation

Anticipation
Will Santa bring us toys, food?
Request goes out to church

Mother, two daughters
Coats, sleepwear, cuddly items
Shopping adventure

Packages wrapped up
Food boxes loaded in car
Grateful mother cries

For more aniticipating moments, go here.

Elizondo Street

Look alike houses lining the street
You, my best friend, next door
Planning our next adventure
Lathering ourselves with baby oil
No sunscreen here on Elizondo Street.

“Big Red” my dad’s endearment to you
“Monkey” you called me
Walking to school, singing
Zeppelin anthem, off key
No buses for us on Elizondo Street.

Arriving home, waving “good-bye”
Our front doors open, we enter
A phone call first before homework begins
Regaling the day’s events
No text messages then on Elizondo Street.

Swearing off boys only to
Rediscovered them
Exploring, secret whisperings
Your mom on late night patrol
No questions asked on Elizondo Street.

Thirty plus years has passed
on Elizondo Street.
Families grown, parents gone
Emails sent regaling our daily lives
Friendship remains.

Oh this was harder than anticipated and a work in progress. That's why the late, late posting.

One Deep Breath: Containers

Hair receiver

Grandmother's strands placed inside

Recycled holder

The human body
Emotions, thoughts coursing through
Spirit container

For other haiku on containers, visit One Deep Breath.

Punishment and Reward: A Christmas Story

My parents always sent "Southwest Santa" packages to my family. The girls were eleven and thirteen when the youngest decided to try her skill at peeking.

Packages surrounded the tree. I noticed one package opened and re=taped while adding to the pile. Hmmm, I thought, this is interesting. So I carefully extricated the gift and replaced it with underwear.

Christmas Eve arrived. We loaded up the car and drove to my husband's mother's house as was our tradition. The family gathered in the living room after a wonderful meal of crabs and red sauce, garlic bread and salad.

Packages were handed out. The youngest unwraps a gift, followed by the next until each family member has had a turn. Both my husband and oldest child knew about the "switch". I opened my "Southwest Santa" gift; a sweatshirt. My husband opened his "Southwest Santa" package; a sweatshirt, and my oldest opened hers; a sweatshirt. The youngest put off opening hers (because why should she, she knew what was in it) until it was the final gift of the evening. She unwrapped the gift with great care and said, "Oh, "Southwest Santa"sent me underwear". Her expression said something else, "WHAT?".

The next day she admitted it scared her to see a different gift come out of the package. This is one story we tell each Christmas.

For more Punishment and Reward, visit Sunday Scribblings

A Poetry Meme: Poetry is Like

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was …and just barely was Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. I still have my book that my parents read that poem out of, cost twenty five cents. Later, in high school I discovered Yeats and Browning.
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and …I don't remember being forced to memorize any poem and a good thing because memorization is difficult for me.
3. I read/don’t read poetry because …I am drawn to the brevity of the words with the power to leave you breathless.
4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is …gads, there is so many. "The Travelling Onion" by Naomi Shihab Nye comes to mind and "When You Are Old" by Yeats These are the first two that popped into my head. But there is also William Stafford's works and another day, other poems might pop into my head.
5. I write/don’t write poetry, but … hadn't for a while until I stumbled into Poetry Thursday and One Deep Breath. The switch turned back on and that makes me joyful. In the earlier 90's I had envsioned an on-line community of writers and many thought I was hmmm, a little silly.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature … I slow down and re-read. I read aloud more.
7. I find poetry … in the early morning, as I drive, in the little moments of the day. I also find it a great way to inspire first through third graders to write and write a lot when I teach an after school class in poetry.
8. The last time I heard poetry …is when I listened to the audio cd that accompanies Poetry Speaks to Children.
9. I think poetry is like …the petals of an artichoke, peel them off, savor as you reach the heart.

In the Last Hour

In the last hour
family gathers around the table
Two parents
Two daughters
Two son-in-laws
Two granddaughters
Aromas of yeasty rolls, garnet yams,
and broccoli linger
talking, laughter fill the room
I poise my camera
"Gamma, say cheese" says the two year old
runs
hides
in plain sight down the hall
An hour of love

For more on "In the Last Hour, click here.

Close, Closer, Closest

Autumn afternoon

Leaves creating rust carpet

Quiet hangs on branches

Silent guard watches
Squirrels gather winter food
One leaf dances by

Elephant trunk speaks
Who wanders through sacred ground
Autumn afternooon

For more takes on "Close, Closer, Closest" check out One Deep Breath. Photos were taken in Ringwood, New Jersey.

If Walls Could Talk

Photo: Window of Giles Mandeville House

Pomtpon Plains, NJ,

built 1788.

Giles Mandeville House
Field and quarry construction
Pequannock Township

Years earlier war
Patriots and Washington
camped and fought nearby

War veteran builds
home, stacking stone upon stone
Raises his family

Years pass, children grown
War Between the States erupts
House holds secret places

Quilt squares showing way
Rooms above kitchen for slaves
Underground Railroad

Whispering prayers
Following the north star
New life new freedoms

First Reformed Church Manse
Stories seep from stonewalls
Hundred years later

Legacy

One Deep Breath suggested to write about person who has imparted a legacy to you...or a legacy that you hope to pass on to someone else.

My grandmother, Sadie Rush MacCulloch, was such a person. She taught until she was in her eighties. She travelled each summer to visit her two grandchildren.

Laughter infectious
a lap for curling up in
story time begins

She had hobbies: needlework (she taught me how to do French knots), played solitaire and other card games. I turned down one of her legacies.

Knotting thread half-loops
Nimble fingers push shuttle
Delicate doilies

Each one left handed
Granddaughter turns up nose
At offer to learn

I was always curious at some of her sayings, "After three days, company smells like fish" and "I am going to put some "ippy" on." (ippy is lipstick). But what was more curious to me was what she did with cucumbers ( something I still do today)

Snipped cucumber end
Circular motion on rest
Getting poison out

I visited her daughter, my aunt, earlier this month. I read some of my poetry to her. Her comment? "You get that from your grandmother." A wonderful legacy to be imparted.

Reader, journals kept
Brittle pages aging now
Memory keeper

Nemesis

Sunday Scribbling poses the question "Have you had a nemesis in your life"? I didn't think I did until I started writing.

Dear Nemesis,
Someone asked me recently, “Who is my nemesis?” I did not think I had one at first. Then it hit me, my nemesis is you: the family disease of alcoholism.

Dad will be gone three years in January. If I could have one wish granted it would be to have knowledge, I have now about this insidious disease. I would have handled his passing and its aftermath in a much different way. But that’s hindsight for you, isn’t it?

I struggle admitting that I grew up in an alcoholic home. I know my parents loved me and I did not want for much. They made sacrifices for me in order to send me to France for a summer and to the college of my choice. Yet, there were times, I felt alone and unheard.

Our house was the “party” home, where grown-ups gathered, drank and were jovial for the most part. I will tell this, it made me uncomfortable. I did not like watching the adults being loud and crazy.

It was one reason for going away to college. And the funny thing is that I could be a party girl when I was not at the “party house”. I mean, did you ever see me drink beyond my limits in front of the parents? I am thankful for untangling myself from your grip, as I grew older but not without side effects.

I now understand where I got my control, anger, and mistrust. They are by-products of this disease. They have clouded my thinking a lot of my life. Some people see me as that “take charge person, the one who gets things done” but many times, it was to control my environment. Others see me as a trusting soul, yet I trust few and sometimes not myself.

The day Dad died, I was angry. Angry he died so suddenly and there was still so much to say. Angry with myself for not calling him at lunch. Angry for the chasm created among the remaining family. Angry with myself for the manner in which I handled his affairs.

I am standing on the precipice of recovery. I wish I could redo those months after his passing. I would do things differently. I am walking on the recovery path; learning to let go of the anger, learning to trust myself. It is painful. My heart aches but I understand you, my nemesis: the family disease of alcoholism.

Anonymous

Poetry Speaks to Children

The prompt over at Poetry Thursday asked us to go to a poetry reading or listen to to poets read. This provided a wonderful opportunity to look (and listen to the accompanying CD) Poetry Speaks to Children. There are 95 selected poems in the book and an audio cd with about half of the poems being read.

I knew I would love this book when I saw that poems from Naomi Shihab Nye, William Stafford and X. J. Kennedy were listed. But what I really love is the audio CD and being able to hear Roald Dahl read his "The Dentist and the Crocodile", Langston Huges read "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" and Robert Frost read "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" along with the many other poets who read their work. What a gift to hear these voices, the dialects, and the intonations. It is like having a private poetry reading where ever you can play a cd. I am very sorry however that students will not be able to hear William Stafford read his poem "First Grade." Somewhere I have a tape of him reading other poetry. Can't wait to use it with my students.

Come to Your Senses

Green turns bronze yellow

Decaying veins brewing tea

Garden vitamin

Winter's leaf blanket

Worms traveling underneath

Dream garden of spring

Sunday Scribblings: Heroes

This week's prompt: "heroes" evokes first, a song from the 80's, then repulsion of idea that some people think a hero is someone famous or has money. I don't like the word hero; it's a loaded term filled with lots of expectations.

If I have to use the word "hero", it goes to the people on this earth, working to make the world a better place. They go about their days, quietly and humbly.

It is my friend/colleague at work who lost her oldest son to Fanconi Anemia two years ago. Of her two remaining sons, the youngest is also struck by this awful genetic disease. And how does a mother who's lost a child before their time and has another staring the disease in the face deal with life? The first year of his passing, she organized dinner/auction and raised over $100, 000 for research. She's organized a run/walk event each February to raise money for research. It is now in its third year and growing in size. She trained for the Portland Marathon, running in his memory to raise money for gene research. She had an idea and made it happen. This is a hero. Quiet and determined.

It is also my college roommate and friend, diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago. She decided to walk in the "Weekend to End Breast Cancer" in Vancouver, BC. She's been walking and raising money for breast cancer research ever since; doing the 2005 and 2006 Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walking Event. And her husband has been a hero also, training with her in 2004 and then walking with her in the last two walks. Both heroes. Quiet and committed.

I teach. Everyday, there are little heroes coming to school. It's students who arrive at school, ready to learn, resilient despite their home life. It's the students who will bring presents for the giving tree or food for the food drive and yet, their families are just as in need. Not so quiet, their laughter and words speak hope.

Poetry Thursday: Lies

This week's prompt: "Liar, Liar Pants On Fire". T ake ten things and create lie about them. Hmmm, I assembled ten things and placed them so I looked at them frequently. Three spoke out loud.

Seven Twenty

Grandfather's pocket watch
held his travels 'til
stopping
7:20, Calcutta, India, 1883
Banished forever

Grandmother's beaded coin purse
held her secrets 'til
opening
7:20, Lodi, New Jersey, 1905
Scattered forever


7:20, Portland, Oregon 1974
Travels banished
Secrets scattered
Forever
Only a skeleton key remains

"Friends and Companions"

This week, One Deep Breath suggests writing about "Friends and Companions".
A great prompt. I was looking for a way to write about my weekend in New Jersey with my aunt and her friends.


niece journeys by plane
lightning delays flight 'til
morning losing time

artist, principal
friends, early days of teaching
laughter surrounds them

niece's pace faster
turning, sees, aunt walking slow
lessons on aging

sitting side by side
back church pew, Thanksgiving prayer
friends many decades

niece asks "remember"
looks up, sees her nodding off
dreaming of yesterday

women walking slow
raindrops slipping off slickers
wind blows words a far

movie, concert, meals
conversations in-between
wishing for more time

bridge, laughter, trips, art, tea
witnessing life’s transitions
friendship paints pictures

aunt, niece attending
historic church, singing hymns
praying together

niece returning home
a single tear slides down cheek
memories hold fast

Weather Haibun

"If a haiku is an insight into a moment of experience, a haibun is the story or narrative of how one came to have that experience." -Bruce Ross
This is the prompt from One Deep Breath this week. My first in trying this type of haiku and that's what I like about the weekly experience.

November

November doesn't march in like a lion, that's reserved for another month. But November arrived in full gale; winds, rain, the sputtering remains of a typhoon. Weather did not to dampen my plans for the weekend.

Northwest hills in view
Brisk walkers escaping wet
Enter the bead show

Cloud blanket comforts
Trees weeping for the fallen
leaving skeletons

Poetry Thursday: Lines that Dance in Your Head

From the blog site, Poetry Thursday, comes this prompt:
"Share a favorite line of poetry. You might decide to explain why the line resonates, why it speaks to you...you might want to let your favorite line spark your own poem. A favorite line written by someone else becomes the springboard for a new poem."

It is funny that the poems that come to mind immediately, without hesitation, are from Yeats:

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree..." (The Lake Isle of Innisfree, 1890)

and

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep.
and nodding by the fire, take down this book..."(When You are Old, 1892)

It is not like I quote him often. In fact, it is difficult for me to recite much poetry from memory. But there is something there, deep in me that I think: Yeats. It takes me back to college and the spring term that I took this English Poets' class. I don't remember much about the class. I do remember the sitting outdoors and discussing this fine literature; being horribly intimitated by the professor. And yet the intimidation I felt did not lead me away this particular era of poetry.

I love these two particular poems. I love the rythm of Yeats' words read aloud. There is such a cadence in his poetry. I have always been fairly strong willed. The inner independence alluded to in Innisfree always appealed to me. Tonight, rereading "When You are Old" I have to laughed because now I am there; old and full of sleep.

It is funny how the world works. I went to the college that had one of the greatest poets of all time, William Stafford, teaching there. But I missed his undergraduate classes. It wasn't until I graduated from Lewis and Clark, that I discovered what I had been missing. He was a quiet teacher, one who gently led you into writing.

Here's a one of my poems, inspired by a line from a William Stafford's poems:

When To Say Good-bye

"Our days together were the ones we already had."
--William Stafford

Looking at her
lying on the kitchen floor. My eyes
watching, waiting
for movement of her wavy, black fur.
Is she breathing?
Barely.
Will I know when it's time?

A relentless beggar
every meal at my feet
unaware pheasant season has begun
Reminds cats, she's "The Queen" but
no longer howls at passing sirens
Remembers the signal for car rides then
wandering
forgets her way

Sitting on the kitchen floor
Hand resting on her fur
Feeling the rattle in her rising breath
Noticing its shallowness
Smelling her age
A centenarian were she human
Companion loyal all the years
Her eyes speak
It's time.

(written for Ashleigh, my 16+ year old cocker spaniel. 1996)