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
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
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.
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.
Shelley of Oklahoma is our host today for the final day of the March Open Write, encouraging us to write poems to help us relax. You can read her full prompt here. I have one of those conferences today – the kind in a town with a gas station and a stop sign and maybe a hot dog in the gas station and nothing else, and I’m driving in with coworkers from an hour and seven minutes northeast, and I’m not overnighting so I have to leave early and get home late and I know the coffee’s gonna suck because it always does when they have those plastic canisters of powdered creamer and only pink-packet off-brand sweetener.
But I’m trying to relax.
Really.
Frumpy
Relax - no one cares whether your pants match your shirt or that they're wrinkled
Relax - no one cares that the tops of your feet are white as unbaked bread
Relax - no one sees you picking at your fingers of chipped nail polish
Relax - no one knows your Odor Eaters are now expired by three months
Relax - just because you forgot to tweeze your lip doesn't mean don't go
After all: you're the driver....others are counting on you to get there
Relax - your oil got changed, your gas tank's full and your car is vacuumed out
Relax - your riders might find your car is cleaner than theirs (not driven)
Relax - wait, is that .....is that a seam coming out? It's right on the butt
Nope, don't relax. Go change pants. Nothing clean? That's what long sweaters are for.
Heck, grab a blanket and wrap up like a student .....relax for a change!
Special Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Slice of Life Challenge!
Katrina Morrison of Oklahoma is our host today for the second day of the March Open Write at http://www.ethicalea.com. You can read her full prompt here. She explains that misheard lyrics are called Mondegreen. I’m a fan of Coxy.Official, and when the whole bed is shaking with my laughter at night, my husband knows I’m watching Nathan Cox on Tik Tok. He’s the king of music Mondegreen, and so thanks to Katrina, I now know this misheard lyric genre has a name. Coxy’s short clips are for adults, and it’s not the words as much as his reactions that get my tickle box turned over. Now it makes me want to go find the exact lyrics for all those songs I often mis-sang growing up. I was never sure whether Clapton was saying she don’t ride, she don’t ride, she don’t ride cocaine or she’s alright, she’s alright, she’s alright cocaine, but either way you sing it, it works in the song.
My poem is about a text that became our own new phrase shortly after we married.
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for inspiring writers.
As I move through the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year, I’m trying different forms and experimenting. Today, my poem for The Stafford Challenge is a luc-bat, a Vietnamese poetry form that alternates six and eight syllables with internal and end rhyme scheme. I refinished my late grandmother’s table recently, and I often think about all the family members who have ever sat at this table – and all the stories told here. I wonder, sometimes, whether family members in Heaven get passes to visit and check on the living. And whether there is a kitchen full of spirits listening in, checking on us to see what we’re doing.
I hope so!
Family Gatherings
table transformation for our congregation of folks family pride evokes stories build laughs and jokes from past so those long gone will last through time ancestors living ~prime of life conjured husband and wife ~spirits pasts with presents - - its future gatherings to endure ages
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for inspiring writers!
Sunday was a day well-spent! We watched my dad preach in my childhood church via YouTube, and I texted my brother and his fiancee to check on them as they travel to New Orleans for the week. We had breakfast with our schnoodles by the fire, and then I painted 18 canvases to dress the Chamber of Commerce windows for National Poetry Month. Finally, we had a wonderful Zoom gathering arranged by Lainie Levin to meet other slicers face to face and enjoy conversation.
Part of my role in my school system is to oversee the L4GA Literacy grant, which offers funding for literacy events in the community. National Poetry Month is a fabulous time to plan some Open Mic nights, author poetry readings, and writing workshops. Last year, we created a progressive poetry walk around our town square, featuring a local poet’s poem he’d written about our rural town to the theme of Bloom!
For this year’s theme, Awakenings (our local Arts Council chose this year’s theme), we’re switching from a progressive poetry walk to a window dressing, thanks to our sensational Chamber of Commerce team, who has agreed to allow us to decorate the windows as a town square feature this year. These canvases will have poetry written on them in black letters.
If you are looking for a slice topic sometime this week and enjoy writing poetry, I would love to have some short poems (4-6 lines) on the theme of Awakenings. I’m curating a collection of poems on this theme by living poets to feature in our window. Some will be local poets who share readings in our coffee shop, while others will be from right here in the Slice of Life or another writing group….maybe you! I’ll change them out from week to week, so if yours is featured, I’ll share a photo of your poem on display sometime at the end of May on a Tuesday slicing day. You can add your poem in the comments on any day of my blog throughout March.
I’m sharing our palette color scheme below.
Poetry Invitation Elfchen
painting bright canvases National Poetry Month local business window dressings ~ awakenings ~
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for inspiring writers.
Our three schnoodles aren’t spoiled, but they do expect a hand-fed breakfast every morning, so my husband gives them bites of graham crackers or Teddy Grahams. As they were sitting by the fire on Sunday morning having their royal feast, I wondered about the origins of graham crackers. I was thinking that perhaps since the Huitain is a French form of poetry and poodles are a German breed but are the national dog of France, then maybe if the crackers were of French origin, I could work all of that into a poem and serve it up like a fresh-baked croissant, all buttery and warm.
It was not to be.
I learned more about graham crackers than I should know.
Boo Radley and Ollie eating graham crackers
The crackers do not have French origins, and they were not invented to feed little dogs a healthy breakfast snack. They were invented by a preacher, Reverend Graham, who baked them to dissuade physical affection. I got quite an eye-opening education about these seemingly innocent little wafers. Who knew?
Huitain Graham Cracker Purity
three schnoodles when hungry like graham squares breakfast with Dad inspired Mom to inquire to see where they started, these squares and bears *** oh my! a sermon: brimstone and hellfire! to repress our deepest carnal desire crackers were baked to dissuade our urges to keep us out of the funeral pyre *** stay dressed! eat crackers! say NO to merges!
Many thanks to Two Writing Teachers for giving writers space to bud and bloom!
The earth laughs in flowers. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Today’s poem is a triolet, inspired by Barb Edler’s post yesterday. Before Barb’s mother died, she planted daffodils, and these are Barb’s favorite flowers. I, too, lost my mother (December 2015) and miss her very much – my mother’ s favorites were wild petunias and yellow roses. When I need to count blessings and decompress, I take my keys off the hook by the door and start up my little blue Caribbean RAV4 and go riding the country roads. I look for the blooms, the rolling hills, the hawks on wires, the cows in the meadows. It puts the world back in perspective for me – – I am here but for a blink of an eye, and whatever is worrying me, too, shall pass.
Today, let’s remember our mothers who have gone before us but who still wave to us in flowers! We still see you, Moms! #flowerhugs
Common Threads 