My Favorite Pair of Eyes :)

The second picture is of the sunset on the river last night...so, it's a little dark...but there's a reflection there, you can tell it's a river at least...smoke rising from a tower in the background. :) I went on a bike ride, the river trails are so wonderful to ride on, and beautiful. Sometimes your "groove" gets thrown off by dogs or distracted disc golf players, but i love them nonetheless. I got a later start than usual (after a stop at Mod's for english custard gelato and a chat with a friend :) and dusk was definitely settling on the return trip. I love riding the trails in the sunlight, but dusk is a different feel altogether--the combination of autumn with shadow and bicycle lights bouncing toward you (like will-o-the-wisps) and the bordering trees made it feel like I was riding through a haunted wood. Should have been bats, eerie noises, etc...but it was pleasantly eerie even so.
Continuing in the vein of somber sonnets, I'm afraid :) This was written at my favorite coffeeshop, Doubleshot Coffee Company (you can order online!) over a cup of Las Animas coffee. Delicious. All my poems begin with a first line, and go from there. I don't have an "idea" of what i want to write about usually. They just happen. Staring into space, getting in touch with that iambic pentameter, and seeing what happens. This is what happened today:

To hear a word as soft as subtlety,
To see a sight could calm blood-spattered rage,
To smell spiced autumn, touch a velvet glove,
To thrill as fresh, wet ink fills up a page,
This rebel core that drives so many fears--
Or is fear-driven?--Could relent a pace,
Could cry repentance and refreshing tears,
Grow strong enough to hold a steady gaze.
But this I hear: the serpent placing blame,
And this I see: a love-affair with war.
I smell like burning tar, I blush hot shame,
This page lies empty and I'll write no more.

But there--a child building a bouquet
Of yellow flowers--young, and unafraid...

Caution: Solemnity Ahead

But first...the Grasshopper Cake. Not. So. Much. :) Actually, it was delicious (i was just tempted to write "he was delicious" because now that it has a face it's a little more personable, but that's just too weird), but I messed up the frosting, dumped it on top and watched it slump off leaving behind a thin, sickly-green coating. Rachel, this grasshopper cake is a chocolate cake frosted with peppermint schnapps buttercream (recipe found in Baked! cookbook...it's not their fault it turned out so disappointingly). There was supposed to be a schnapps-choc-ganache, but i decided not to waste any more ingredients. So he...it...got a face instead!

So, for some reason (tiredness?) I felt more like writing a serious poem than a goofy one. Most of my serious poems are sonnets, and this one is, too (basically). I love sonnets. They're comfortable. Not that I always get them "right" of course...this one has some rhythmic issues, but I enjoyed writing it. The best part is always coming up with word combinations, alliteration, just using words in ways you wouldn't normally. It's about the experience of loneliness, of fearing how your sin might alienate you from people--because you're proud, self-righteous and unloving, or because you're just sinful and it's obvious and you might be rejected for it. And you fear the embarassment. At least I do :) Thankfully, there's hope, and even if I continue rowing out to my little island of self-isolation, God is there, too, and will bring me back. To community, to Himself...thank goodness. Here goes:


There are times I am an island, times
Of straightlaced/sin-based solitude (pick one,
Pick two, for prideful saintliness, that
Parody of Virtue--with her belt undone.)
But vice was never comfort on the crags
That plummet seaward straight as naked truth,
Or bending to the biting, salt-sprayed wind
Of this gray land, grown bitterer since youth--
For then I still sought pictures in the clouds,
The last lone rosebud in the thorny briar,
Lived half-naive to frosts and failed loves,
And dared to warm my body by their fire.
Long years have passed, but still I choose to row
To my small island. Why, I'll never know.

My Secret Woe

Meet the Izz! The third picture is of my sweet little Izzy looking goofily neglected as she waited to be let in this morning.
Today's poem is once again gym-inspired, only a little more personal: i'm fairly certain that it is a "manifestation of subconscious frustration" (or something :) that has built up due to several conversations of this nature:
Boy: "Go ahead, hit me! No, seriously, I don't care."
Me: "I'm not going to hurt you! And yes, I could if I really wanted to! I took tae kwan do!"
Boy: "Haha, right..."
So I wrote a poem about a creature that is having the devil of a time gaining muscle. :) The creature is a Very melodramatic snail--if you read it aloud, i would recommend giving him a whiny, nasally voice. (you're not supposed to know, for the first half of the poem, that the speaker Is a snail--but since i haven't figured out how to format pictures properly yet, and they're all at the top of the post anyway, the secret is out.) Here 'tis:

"I'd like to buy some biceps,
If you have a pair in stock--
Just not the squishy kind,
I want them firmer than a rock.
I joined the gym. I've sweated for
The best part of the year--
I must be doing something wrong!
No muscles have appeared."
"I'd love to help you, sir, but see,
Our muscles aren't for sale.
And--pardon me--but where'd they go?
You're just a garden snail!"
The snail glared, and stomped his...feet?...
He fumed and shrieked and swore--
He grew so loud, the watchman had
To show him to the door.
Outside, the snail settled down--
He sang a soulful song:
"I've got the garden snail blues,
I'll have 'em till i'm strong,
I can't lift weights, I can't wear shoes,
I've got those snail blues...."


Thank you for being here today! :) My list of things to do now includes finishing painting my bedroom door (a lovely spiced butternut yellow) and baking a Grasshopper Cake! Should be delicious! Good day to you all--

Snippets on a Sunday

Happy Blustery Sunday/Talk Like a Pirate Day! The first of the two poems offered in today's post was written this morning while making breakfast (muesli in almond milk and crispy bacon), and reminded me of a chapter in Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, in which she suggests to panicking young writers that they simply write or talk about their school lunches. She includes samples of some of her own writing on school lunches, and strangely enough, most of her memories do not match up to mine. She remembers bologna being an okay sandwich ingredient, as well as "salami and unagressive cheese." And that, if you had PB and J, it ought to have been made with grape jelly or strawberry jam. I always preferred PBandJ, except when Mums had bought cajun-spiced turkey. But I don't remember a time when orange marmalade wasn't my favorite spread. And bologna?! Kids really prefer that? *despair* *disbelief* It's not important, I'm just wondering if I was that unobservant of the school lunch hierarchy (possible), or if my school experience was just that different (also possible)? Either way, you should read Bird by Bird, it's fantastic.
The three drawings beginning with Chocolate Chip Charlie resulted from a conversation with a coworker about his visit to the Waffle House at 2 in the morning the previous night. I've not had that experience, but I can imagine...Chocolate Chip Charlie is wearing (it's a little faint) a "Life is Good" T-Shirt and eating a smiley face pancake. He's trying so hard to convince himself that life is, indeed, good...but he's an insomniac and paranoid. Sadness. So young, too. I don't have a good idea for Waffle Wanda's character, but she's somehow living in the past and a little "out there" :) Ed Over-Easy is inspired by certain encounters I've had with grumpy breakfast customers who, inevitably, have ordered Over-Easy eggs. These encounters have led me to despise over-easies (the eggs, not necessarily the people who order them). Right now, Ed Over-Easy is fuming because his eggs are taking too long (that's because the poor breakfast cook has had to fry up about 10 eggs just to get his 2 cooked perfectly). Anyway, that's what i imagine 2 a.m. at a Waffle House/IHOP/etc must look like. :) The poems:

Lament on the Theme of School Lunches

Here's a jar of peanut butter,
Here's some jam and bread--
Looks hopeful, yet I have no knife
To see them safely spread.
Sweet PBJ, who lived a time,
But only in my dreams,
I'll have to leave you formless,
Cause I'm making ham and cheese.

A Travelling Poem (sorry the picture loaded sideways!)

Older than a million miles
Travelled one by one--
Stumbled, trotted, turned-around,
Regretted, hoped-for, run.
A pair of boots discarded,
Angry blisters here and there--
But certainty, though walking blind:
The end is not despair.

Dress-Like-The-Weather Day!

You have three choices before you: Dress-Like-the-Weather Day, Irrational Day, or Just-Another-Day. All this means is that I have invented/am celebrating Dress-Like-the-Weather Day by wearing a blue blue vintage skirt, a turquoise tank top with a bright yellow shirt over it, and a sparkly blue cap. It's a sunny day! And...today's poem is entitled "Irrational Day." On which note, I believe Talk Like a Pirate Day is coming up this Sunday...(!!!)


Irrational Day

What a day to take a chance
At flying through the sky!
I've never flown, I have no wings,
And yet I want to try!
For stranger things have happened, no?
In fact as well as dreams--
Last night I dreamt, to prove my point,
That everyone was green.
My mom was olive green, my dad
Had more a grassy hue,
My sister was a lovely sage,
But wore magenta shoes.
I told her she should change them,
Cause they didn't really "go"--
But she just danced around me laughing,
"Silly Sister!...No."
That's when I woke, and thought of flying--
Though, on second thought,
A twister's fast-approaching, so
I guess I'd better not.
I'm so bummed out. Oh wait, I know
What I could do instead!
I'll paint myself a shade of green
And dress in shades of red!

P.S. Obviously, those are not your only three options. Your day does not have to be boring if you don't dress like the weather or do something crazy. All i mean is that i hope you all have a wonderful day! :)

Gondolina and Nicholinas

Gondolina the Ghost

Gondolina is a ghost,
But not the grisly kind--
In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find
A spirit more refined.
She wears white gloves and paisley
And says "Gracious, dearie me!
I'm so forgetful, I don't know
Where my poor head could be!"
She really doesn't. Gondolina's
Head lies far away--
And yet, she never goes a day
Without her Earl Grey.
"Refined," I said--are you convinced?
A lady, 'live or dead,
Would never miss her teatime, though
She may misplace her head.

Nicholinas Neverpants

Nicholinas Neverpants
Is scandalous, no doubt--
He does wear pants, but only when
He wears them inside-out,
Or on his head--well, anywhere
But where, or how, he ought.
At least he wears them--with that name,
He just as soon might not!

Quick poem biographies: Gondolina was written during an afternoon baking shift (yes, I'm a baker :) while listening to This American Life. For some reason, I chose two episodes that had to do with death--one on children dealing with their parents' murders, and one on people dealing with feeling guilty for someone else's death even though they did nothing wrong. Rough stough...um...stuff. Oops :) Anyway, I needed to lighten the mood. Gondolina has a head in her picture. This is wrong, but more visually appealing :)
Nicholinas was written today at the gym. Simple--however, it should be noted that it was while drawing Nicholas in his various states of pants-wearing-madness that I first experienced what authors mean when they talk about their characters having a life of their own. By portrait #3, Nicholas is clearly not having as good a time wearing his pants all crazy as i would have thought. Sorry, buddy.
The third picture up there is of some baby leaves sitting atop some brightly colored pencils. Yay color and adorable leaves!

A Greeting; A Poem

Hello!
Peppermint Squeak was a mouse. A sweet albino mouse, one of 14 (or 21?) mouselets birthed into our household the year my brother and sister both got pet mice--one male, one female, as it turns out. All initial attempts to keep them separated were thwarted, but many children were made happy by their union, as all the babies were placed into good homes. Peppermint Squeak went to a good home, where I'm pretty certain she was renamed, to my infinite disappointment. I named her. The name was perfect. Peppermint Squeak is one of my favorite name inventions. The others: Blueberry Sprite (ice cream!), Chauncey Red (my alter ego, the one who takes chances and has red hair and doesn't care that Chauncey is a boy's name apparently...), and Droll Snoops (a banana tree). Anyway, the point is that the name Peppermint Squeak makes me happy, and I am hoping this will be a happy, light-hearted blog free of snobbery and freaking out. It will alternate between children's poetry and random poetry and baking exploits, and maybe some life stories--but i'm not typically very good at telling those. :) This is for fun, and because I need to write.

Song of the Hen

"Nothing beats bananas!" shrieked
The monkey known as Glen.
"Except dried corn and insects," muttered
Dulcimeena Hen.
"What's that?!" snapped Glen, accusingly,
"You dare to disagree?
Who cannot reach the lowest limbs
Of any given tree?"
"Excuse me," Dulcimeena sniffed,
"No need to be so rude.
Especially as you seem to have
The lowest taste in food!"
At that, Glen threw the fruit in question
With quite deadly speed,
And Dulcimeena pelted Glen
With pounds of chicken feed.
The fruit struck Dulcee's noggin and
Completely knocked her out--
And waking, she could not recall
What they'd been fighting 'bout.
The pellets drove the haughty monkey
Mad as a baboon--
So when she fell, he started singing
Love songs to the Moon.
"How lovely," Dulcimeena breathed,
Awaking to his ode.
"That's nothing--you should hear Me sing,"
Bragged Duke, a passing toad.
"I gladly will!" said Dulcee sweetly,
"Glen sings for the Moon--
But you, I trust, would sing--for me?--
A far more pleasing tune."
The toad affirmed--he loved the hen,
Her grace had caught his eye.
He dreamed about their future as
He zapped an errant fly.
So Glen, for unchecked love of fruit
And Lady Luna Loo,
Lost Dulcimeena's friendship, and
He missed her wedding, too.