Month: March 2024

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Last to the Party at the Word Buffet Slice of Life Day 31, Stafford Challenge Day 75

Special Thanks to Two Writing Teachers
The poem that turned my heart to poetry forever

I’m the last to the party, crawling up to the word buffet, invitation in hand from Leigh Anne Eck in case this is one of those exclusive shindigs where they ask for ID.

And they might. I’m dragging a leg, my shoes don’t match, my jeans have holes not bought that way, and my hair’s a bedheaded mess. I look like I belong on the set of the Thriller video, and it’s Easter Sunday. It’s way early, we’re half-packed in the camper, and we might be headed out to find a Sunrise service on the lake beach of Callaway Gardens.

But first, coffee. And second, an invitation to continue the writing journey at http://www.ethicalela.com beginning tomorrow, where we will write poetry together each day thoughout April during #VerseLove as we celebrate National Poetry Month. If you’re part of the Slice of Life group, you’ve written for 31 days. You can make it to 61 – just say YES! That’s how I became a daily writer 3 years ago this past February. I’ll be your host tomorrow as we introduce ourselves, and others in this group will be hosting a day on the journey as well. Consider this your personal invitation to the next party.

And third – the buffet of words. Here are my words and expressions, countdown style:

5. tentative consonants (shh-, spp-, smm-)- this is a word combination my eyes didn’t want to leave in Georgia Poet Laureate Chelsea Rathburn‘s poem Returning to My Childhood Library coming out in her new book, defined in her poem as “the soft sounds of someone learning to read.”

4. hush – this word comes from the tipping point poem for me, the one that catapulted a love of poetry to an absolute fixation on it, where the nymph silences the goblin wanting her green glass beads in Overheard on a Salt Marsh by Harold Monro from Volume 1 Poems and Rhymes, the Childcraft volume with the pink spine band.

3. ceaselessly– my One Little Word for 2023 and 2024 is Pray. This is how we should pray. And also, it’s part of Gatsby’s last words: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. F. Scott Fitzgerald, party animal as he was, is where our dog Fitz (a true transcendental – not a party dog – who came to us with the more fitting name of Henry) got his new name.

2. Tell me – because it’s how Mary Oliver started her (probably) most famous line of all time from her poem The Summer Day. There is a beckoning to know, to tell a tale, to listen as someone shares a plan. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?” And it’s why our dog Ollie is named Ollie. It’s at the heart of why we rescue – so we can give our dogs a family and a hope for their one wild and precious life. Ollie eats poetry books – his favorite is anything by Ada Limon. I suspect that what led us to rescue this little dog was divine intervention – I truly believe that he is the reincarnate of one of Mary O’s own little rescues named Percy, for whom she seemed particularly partial in the Oliverist possible way.

1, Hey, Boo! – my cryingest scene in To Kill a Mockingbird, that tender moment when Boo is behind the door…..and Scout (I can’t….I can’t…..I’ll get weepy and I won’t stop)……these are the words that named our dog (abandoned by his previous family, left behind a door, rescued by us) Boo Radley. Boo, who is as white as a ghost and rivals the most damaged of little dogs, who we know without a doubt, despite all of his own random and quirky fears, would pounce on anyone who tried to hurt us if we were dressed as a ham out trick or treating.

Happy Easter, everyone! Hope to see you each day in April and on Tuesdays all year long! 

Daily Writers 

last day of slicing
leads to first day of #VerseLove
daily writers born

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Awakenings at 1828 Coffee Company – an Evening of Poetry Slice of Life Day 30, Stafford Challenge Day 74

SpSpecial thanks to Two Writing Teachers
 Spellbound by Poetry

we, in one accord
listened ~ hung on every word
our hungry hearts heard

Thursday night’s reading of Awakenings by Clayton Moon in our local coffee shop on the town square to kick off our town’s celebration of National Poetry Month was a heartwarming cross-section of intergenerational bridging that nothing but poetry can build. From teenagers to young adults to middle-agers to seniors, we were all listening in one accord as we hung on every word.

Before I welcomed Clayton to the microphone, I shared the impact of a writing community not only in the writing, but in the day to day living – the motivation to learn new things, to try new things, to notice new things. I shared with those who’d come that I would be sharing poems written by living poets from across the United States during the month of April. I began by sharing a definition poem illuminating our theme of awakenings, written by our friend Fran Haley of North Carolina. I shared each canvas, one at a time, describing how they would hang ladder-style in the window of the Chamber of Commerce with eye hooks and chain once the display was complete. #4 brought smiles, the kind I could tell were deep from within, the knowing satisfaction of a feeling.

Here are some photos of the kickoff event for our town’s poetry celebration.

Definition poem by Fran Haley
Clayton “Boxer” Moon reads from his book Awakenings

Clayton, who goes by Boxer for most of us who know him, shared his book, written from the awakening to the brewing of the coffee to the first cup, the second cup, the third cup, and the dregs. His featured poem, The Heart of Nahoo, offered a tribute to retired educator Dr. Dan Dunnahoo, who was our county’s long-time art teacher and who now is the president of the Pike County Arts Council and who restored the coffee shop and preserved its history right down to saving each nail and floorboard.

Boxer’s books and Sarah’s art – they collaborate on father/daughter books that he writes and she illustrates
Boxer reads to the crowd
Boxer (L), Dr. Dan Dunnahoo (C), and Sarah (R) stand with an excerpt of Boxer’s tribute poem for Dan.
Three people who didn’t know each other an hour ago write poetry together – this is why we need more of it!
This young lady wrote a Cento poem in a short time – she used the poetry kiosk sticks and wrote hers in colorful letters.
One of our town’s short story writers came out to support poetry writing and hear Clayton read.
Our town’s Magistrate Judge talks with Sarah and Melinda Moon, Clayton’s wife and daughter
Ethan Jacobs’ Cento Poem on a magnetic poetry kiosk

Ethan was our poet for our February event. He shared from is recently published book Dust. I also wanted to share a couple of photos from his event. We’re blessed to live in a town where authors, poets, and artists stand ready to share their talents with us!

Ethan Jacobs was our reader from February, and this is a photo from his Leap Day event.
Ethan Jacobs read from his book Dust on Leap Day in our coffee shop.

Come visit us in Georgia, have coffee, and read and write with us!

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Happy Anniversary, Baby! Stafford Challenge Day 73, Slice of Life Challenge Day 29

Special Thanks to Two Writing Teachers

We celebrate our 16th wedding anniversary today. For a couple of divorcees who found each other a little later in life and had given up on ever marrying again, we realize now that when God winks on love, it’s a dream come true.

There we were, on a swing in a park, where he proposed while wearing a royal blue button-down shirt. There just happened to be a royal blue car driving by with a teenage kid cheering and fist pumping out the window as the love of my life was down on a knee asking for my hand (is there any wonder that I drive a bright blue Caribbean colored RAV4, even though my personality is more of a muted silver or pearly white?).

I think back to that day, on that swing, and count the joys.

A photo of our swing in the reading room of our home
Marriage Proposal Haiku

a swing proposal
with a smashed Cracker Jack ring
you'd resurrected

and still I said yes
with a yes-er yes because
you'd fixed the broken


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Metaphor Dice are Mirrored Magic 8 Balls – The Stafford Challenge Day 72, Slice of Life Challenge Day 28

Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers

If you’ve never rolled a set of Taylor Mali’s Metaphor Dice, take note: they’re one of the best ways to make poetry accessible for reluctant writers. The red dice are nouns (conceptual, most), white are adjectives, and blue are nouns that represent the direct comparison to the red dice. I rolled the dice:

Naysay Nonet 

the truth is a back-handed mirror
because once you say to someone
to prove your argument's point
that they should have called you
you can't turn around
and not have called
them when you 
should have
called

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Gratitude for Marshall – Slice of Life Challenge Day 27, Stafford Challenge Day 71

Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers
My son (r) with hunting face camo, and his buddy (l)

My middle child of my gas station Octane Trio, the one born in 1989, turns 35 today. He loves hunting, fishing, Nascar racing, and spending time with his family of 7, plus 3 labs. I’m proud of him – he makes good choices, and I was even fine with that mullet he had going on for a couple of years. He and his good buddy recently sent me the photo above, smiling and proud of the tickets they’d gotten for not having the proper number of life vests in their boat while they were out duck hunting (turns out they were warnings – which explains the smiles).

I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, and our conversation went something like this:

Screenshot

This got his attention. He knew I’d find a book about how salt marsh species cooperate to survive the harsh conditions of the marsh. I learned it throwing quadrants in the marsh when I took marine biology at University of South Carolina, where he also graduated years later. Spartina marsh grass survives in extreme salty conditions because the periwinkle shells attached to the base thrive on salt and take it in. In this way, both species can survive.

There is a story there for another time, but I guess he didn’t want to learn more about the marshgrass in his back yard. He replied, thoughtfully, moments later:

Screenshot

Since I haven’t physically seen him since Christmas and know my own battles with quick weight change, I asked about the size. I decided on the medium, but wanted him to know to be on the lookout for the gifts since sometimes with prankster kids (who learned it from him), a box might disappear off the front porch before anyone knew it was ever there. I put him on alert:

Screenshot

I am so proud of my son and wish him the happiest birthday ever. His family loves him too!

Screenshot
Birthday Surprise Haiku

he's getting a shirt
and a camouflaged fan cap
but not a surprise.
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Chasing Sunrise – Stafford Challenge Day 70, Slice of Life Challenge Day 26

Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers

I was three minutes late to work one day last week because I was chasing the sunrise. If you’ve ever been on the backside of nowhere in the rural Georgia countryside between 7:45 and 8:00 just after the time springs forward, you’ve seen it: the most gorgeous glowing coral red sunrise ever, so rich and fiery it could be an over-easy orange yolk of a just-laid Buff Orpington egg, the kind still warm upon cracking into the pan, the kind that mesmerizes folks who’ve never seen a yolk so unhormonally free-ranging fresh, that didn’t come from a carton in a store.

Sometimes that egg yolk sun’ll be right in front of you, as it is when it’s waiting for me like a dog who wants to play chase, right at the end of my eastside driveway first thing in the morning on my way to work. Then, it’s like I’ve tossed it a stick. It takes off to the left when I turn south, then stays left when I head back east, only a little lefter than before. At the stop sign, it’s still left, just not as behindish, and then when I turn back to the south right before I turn back east again, I’m approaching what I know is THE MOST beautiful sunrise ribbon of roadway in the entire county and maybe all of Georgia, maybe even all of the southeastern United States or the world or the universe.

And sometimes I slow waaaaaaay down just to take it all in, if there’s nobody behind me.

Photo by Konevi on Pexels.com
How to Chase a Sunrise

I was late for work
watching the sun dance

she curtseys 
through the countryside
a morning meringue
of slide-stepping
just over the next hill, to
do-si-do the meadows

pirouetting periwinkle pasture
just around the next bend
then

stopping to spin
like a 
March Madness
basketball
on the courthouse
clock steeple 

reminding me I'm late

that's how
you chase a
glorious
countryside
sun
           e
       s
    i
r
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Alien Whatifs On Campsite 231 – The Slice of Life Challenge Day 25, The Stafford Challenge Day 69

Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers

My friend Barb Edler and I both made spooky posts Saturday. Barb’s post was about the possibility of aliens returning after their suspected driveway visit when her oldest son was a baby. Mine was about loss of sleep because of messages in a sound machine (probably possessed by evil spirits, because its twin is working fine).

All of this gnawed on my brain last night when the whatifs* started spinning on the midnight merry-go-round of my mind…..what if a tree falls on the campsite and crushes us right here in the camper? What if somebody up the hill forgot to chock their tires and their camper slides down the hill in the middle of the night and lands on us? What if a rogue tornado pops up and slings us all the way to Alabama? What if aliens invade Pine Mountain?

Aliens.

And then that whatif gobbled and swallowed my whole frontal lobe with a poem. 

What Do I Do?

what do I do
if aliens
land here
and
the whole 
campground
nudges me
forward 
to greet
the spaceship,
elects
me their
spokesperson
like some
Hunger Games
tribute?

what do I do
when the ramp 
door lowers
to the ground
smoke spilling
out against
the backlit
silhouettes
of aliens
the 
expressionless
kind
with big heads
huge eyes
and knobby
knees?

what do I do
when they 
confront me
and stop
toe to toe
face to face
expecting a
word or a
welcome or a
warning?

what do I do
when I start
wondering
if this is
what the
Indian 
Removal
Act felt like
for those
pushed off
their own
planet? 

what do I do
when it looks
like they 
start 
speculating
about 
the speed
of all
our little 
earth-anchored
sewer-hosed
spaceships
with lights
over the
doors?

what do I do
when I feel
like the fly
before the
spider says
step into 
my parlor?

what do I do?

I do
what I do
best

I invite them 
into my teardrop
to read 
poetry
and sip
tea


*with a nod to Shel Silverstein for the whatifs in his ear

Images generated by Gemini

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Tight Lids – Slice of Life Challenge Day 24, The Stafford Challenge Day 68

Photo by Jill Burrow on Pexels.com
Our first camping weekend of 2024, and we arrived in heavy rain on our favorite campground within an hour from home.  It's pretty full - campers pepper the campground, and kids are out on brightly lit hoverboards, while others are riding bikes and playing frisbee.  Folks are walking their dogs (and vice-versa), and one site had its smokeless fire ring going this morning after the drizzle stopped and there was a damp chill for the reckoning.  

The dogs were nestled back in the crook of the teardrop on the bed, under blankets like little humans, their heads resting on the pillows in a deep schnoodle-snooze.  

I was making the coffee for breakfast when the sweetest moment happened - one I shall never forget, connected to another moment that I shall also never forget.

The first one happened in May 2013, when I got my fingers slammed in the trunk of the honeymoon getaway car at my son's wedding as the happy couple were leaving.  I assured everyone I was fine, fine, fine, but as we drove back to the hotel, I cried and carried on because I was afraid I would never be able to write again since I couldn't bend my fingers yet and they looked a lot like a package of Ballpark franks after being in a sandwich press.  It sent my husband into such a panic that this moment of fear became forever etched into his scrapbook of memories he'd rather forget.  But I was fine, am fine, nothing broken or chopped off. 

Which makes this morning's moment all the more special.  

I handed him
the water
bottle
as I 
made 
coffee

more and more
recently
I've handed 
him 
tight lids

I apologized ~
my hands
don't have
the
strength
they used
to have
I explained
again

it’s a scary 
feeling, this
change
of
neediness

He smiled
took the
bottle
uscrewed 
the lid
handed 
it back

his words
brought 
reassurance
of the
deepest
kind

.....but 
they 
can still
write


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Messages in the Sound Machine – Slice of Life Challenge Day 23, The Stafford Challenge Day 67

Special Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for inspiring writers, especially sleepless ones.

#messages in the madness

The melatonin was working fine, just fine, I thought, but I figured either we had a rogue sound machine with broken buttons or that one of the machines was possessed. I kept hearing things, but my husband didn’t. Just like when the car starts making a sound, only not a car but a tiny little white noise machine.

So finally, finally – – he in his melatoninlessness began hearing mysterious sounds, too. I didn’t know whether to cry, be scared, or celebrate.

If your children tell you they hear funny voices at night, believe them and check the sound machine. They’re in there.

Photo by Mariana Montrazi on Pexels.com
our old fan broke
                but our new fan was too quiet 


     (they don't make 'em like they used to)

so
we bought a second 
                  sound machine 
                           the kind for babies
with the white noise

so we can both sleep
                      if one of us is traveling

but now I’m hearing 
                                              what he
can’t make out
                                   in all the white noise

                     in this Sound Spa machine

     we both hear
            all the usual things: rain, thunder, waves
                       crashing, crickets chirping, owls hooting

             but I roll over half asleep 
                           and I hear
                these:

        computer printer printing
                                                                              washing machine

                        pulsing monitor 

                                                      injured animal

                                                                             Moaning Myrtle
                                                             steel drums

                          robot sirens

                                              Amazon notifications

                   vintage typewriter return dings

                                                                         disco beats 

      messages in the machine

heard by one unpillowed ear

             I'm afraid next I'll hear a murder 
                                                                                                or a confession

                              or a ghost of a soldier who stood where I now sleep

                                             looking for his lost buttons
                                                                and his lost love



                                                                                                   no sleeping here
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The Power of Connection in a Slice of Life Neighborhood- Slice of Life Challenge Day 22, Stafford Challenge Day 66

Special Thanks to Two Writing Teachers
The windows should all be open, but Gemini didn’t listen.

A week ago, Lainie Levin posted an announcement that I wish could be reposted every day. Below, she states that engaging with others is the single most powerful thing that builds community during this challenge.

I emailed her immediately to ask if I could repost this announcement. She readily agreed.

Which brings me to a connection that stopped me in my tracks. I was having a conversation with the Poetry Fox as we were working out the details of his visit to Georgia from North Carolina. I asked him to describe what his events look like, and he told me that he sits at his typewriter and writes on-demand poetry for people who give him a word. He said, “And really, it’s not even about the poem. It’s about the connections I make and the people I get to meet. Those moments of connecting with someone are what it’s all about.”

I’ve thought about this again and again as I have returned to the conversation and the blog announcement and reflected on the power of connection. This community would be nothing without it. I realize that when I wake up during March and get to open the blogging windows and drink my coffee with an entire community and we’re all talking to each other about the slices of our lives and what is happening, there is power in these moments. We may all be tired and worn thin some days, but I know things about you – the people in my community – and I know many of your family members and how you spend time.

I know Paul likes to cook and actually likes Brussels sprouts (I thought I was the only one), Glenda likes to travel and has a voracious appetite for adventure (and will be having quite an adventure today – – I won’t spoil her surprise, but be on the lookout for something uniquely and colorfully …..uplifting)! Denise hikes in the desert and has a stargazer window in her house, Fran watches birds and is teaching her little granddaughters to love them too, Maureen also has two young granddaughters who love music and art and the outdoors, Peter is beginning to grieve the loss of a loved one and many of us are keeping his family close in our thoughts, Barb loves poetry slams and art exhibits and spending time outdoors, Sally checks in on her mom and has a granddaughter with new shoes, Margaret lives on the bayou and has the cutest ducks that jump into the water on jump day, and Joanne loves flowers and gardening. And I’m getting to know each of you, too!

Even though we all live in different places across the nation and beyond, I imagine a high rise brick apartment building where we’re all sitting in an open window chatting, waving, greeting each other at the start of the day, and smiling, rather like we might look from windows on the cover of the New Yorker if someone illustrated all of us in one drawing. We’d see floral window boxes for the green thumbs, cats and dogs with the animal lovers, and food cooking on the stoves of the culinary artists. We’d see children playing with grandmothers and, in a Paul Fleishman Seedfolks-ish kind of way, we’d all be connecting, contributing in beautiful ways to the community vegetable garden and sharing what we have to share, helping as we can, reaching out as we have needs that others can help meet.

Connection. Conversation. Sharing. Caring, Responding in kindness. Giving. Living.

Because that’s what community and connection are all about, and it’s also what writing is about – – reaching the next person. Not the word choice, not the capitalization of proper nouns, and not the run-on sentences (which, like Brussels sprouts, I love, by the way).

Thank you for these marathon days in March where we build our own neighborhood, and the Tuesdays throughout the year where we keep in touch! And to the owners of the Slice of Life apartment building for letting us move in for a month, rent-free, a huge debt of gratitude is owed for all of your hard work in keeping the lights on and the water running.

You each make a difference!

Slice of Life Challenge 

Slice of Life Challenge
community connections:
open your windows!

pour a cup of tea
share family recipes
show trip photographs

compare hobby notes
reveal hopes and dreams
share fears and shed tears

open your windows!
connect with fellow writers
plant seeds. water them.