driving in to work
sun rising over the fields
showering in mist
March 5: 7:08-7:39 The Sun and The Mist Haiku
March 2: 5:32-6:03 a.m. Goodbye, Little Guy Max!
Goodbye, Little Guy Max!
This morning we roll out at 6 a.m.
to meet your new family halfway ~
they’ll take you across this
great country to see new sights
experience new adventures
you’ll embrace a whole new crew
shelter them from storms
blanket them in warmth
love them as much as
we have loved you!
Happy trails, Max!
My Slice of Life Plan
A little over a decade ago, my adult daughters and I went to the Bodies exhibit at Atlantic Station in Atlanta, Georgia. We drove the short distance from our rural farmland into the city and spent the day examining every part of a human body, all preserved behind clear plexiglass cases to show how bones, muscles and organs function as parts of systems, all packed into the skin-covered suitcase of a lifetime.
We entered one room where an entire body had been cross-sectioned, sliced in horizontal sections from head to toe the way one might casually slice a carrot coin-style while preparing dinner. Knowing the bodies had all been donated to Science and were real people at one point in time, I was in the rabbit hole of endless wondering: when was this person born? What was her name? what did she do for work? did she have children? did she ever, for one second of her life, have any inkling that millions of people would study every inch of her dead body, parts she herself had never seen, all preserved and on display in such an arrangement as this? I wanted to scan a QR code and see a video of what she’d looked like on the playground when she was 5 years old, her mother pushing a swing from behind as her dress sash rippled in the wind, little Mary Jane shoes and lacy socks pumping to keep momentum. And after wondering all these things about how she’d lived, I wondered how she’d died, ruling out the obvious impossibilities: she wasn’t eaten by a shark or crushed by a falling rock.
The dark, shadowy fascination of that day has stayed with me for all these years, and I often find my mind transferring the concept of cross-sectioning things that I never would have considered cross-sectionable: a bird, a plane, a castle, a car, or even time itself, like some Stephen Biesty book that my son used to enjoy when he was young. I have even wondered what the waking hours of my day would look like cross-sectioned here in my little corner of rural Georgia.  Perhaps, even what those same exact cross-sections of time would look like cross-sectioned across our country by fellow bloggers from points across the map – or even the world. Throughout March, that’s my plan as I participate in the Slice of Life Writing Challenge at www.twowritingteachers.com. I’ve created 31 equal increments of time from 5:00 a.m. to 9:30 p.m., and I’ll write a poem for a blip of living during each sliced segment of a part of my day throughout the month- emotions, senses, mundane or fascinating work or home tasks, and maybe even a daydream or two.Â
who knows what the days
will bring? Let’s all live
and find out – – ready, set, write!
Mosaic
Ollie is upside-down
in the olive chair
chasing rabbits in
his sleep in the quiet
morning whirr of
the fan, coffee
steam rising from
my cup, Boo Radley
curled around my neck
like a fur-fringed coat
on the back of my chair,
Fitz hiding out under
the bed again
while I consider all
the fine porcelain
plates, these
place settings of past
destined to become
somebody’s mosaic
art piece of the
future
Ticks ~ Husband vs. Wife
Wife: Oh, good gracious! A tick!
(gets tweezers, removes tick, flushes it)
7 seconds later finishes
applying makeup, gets dressed and starts
writing before work in her favorite chair
***********
Husband: (hollers from shower)
Can you come here?
I need you to look at something!
Wife: (hollers back) I’m not falling for that again.
Husband: No, seriously.
I think I have a tick.
Wife: I’ll be there when you get out.
Husband: (parading into living room
towel wrapped around his waist,
still half-wet, hair every whichaway,
pointing just under his left nipple)
No wonder I’ve been itching since
we got home from camping!
Wife: Are you sure it’s a tick? It’s
embedded deep. It’s not a mole?
Husband: I don’t think so.
Do you have tweezers?
Wife: Yes, I’ll get them.
(brings them from makeup bag)
Husband: Here, you try! (hands tweezers back)
Wife: (rolling eyes)
Husband: Well, I can’t see that angle
Wife: There’s a mirror right
behind you (digging at embedded
tick, husband wincing)
Husband: Here, let me try
(takes tweezers)
Wait, do you have different
tweezers? These aren’t lining up right.
Wife: (goes and looks for another pair
brings them back 3 minutes later)
Husband: (still digging) I got part of it
Wife: The head is still in there.
Husband: I’ll dig that out later. I’m
going to be late for work…..
(dresses, kisses her, grabs coffee, leaves for work)
Wife returns to chair to finish writing
<writes: Ticks ~ Husband vs. Wife>
Day 30 of #VerseLove with Dr. Sarah Donovan of Oklahoma on a Slice of Life
Today we wrap up #VerseLove 2024 at http://www.ethicalela.com with a prompt from Dr. Sarah Donovan, inviting us to choose a favorite prompt from the month and write another poem on that same prompt. I chose Stacey Joy’s In Our Mama’s Kitchens and Fran Haley’s The First Time. A very special thanks to Sarah Donovan and to Two Writing Teachers for giving us a space to write and grow and encourage each other. I look back as a preacher’s kid growing up in a household where one truly never knew which way the ball was coming, and today’s poem takes me back to the first time I knew I needed to hold on tight.
Pastorium Perils
late summer 1971
in rural Reynolds, Georgia
the land of peach trees
in their time of ripeness
Mama was pregnant with
my baby brother and
we were in the den
Mama Daddy and me
when
~~whoosh~~
in through the kitchen door
a naked girl with
long wet hair
streaked through
our house holding a towel
screaming all the way
down the hall
to my parents’ bedroom
locking the door
on her heels her stepdad
pounding and screaming
threatening her life
I recognized them from church
I was five
the girl was a teenager
(with flapping boobs
……and hair….down there?)
her stepdad was drunk
my mother clutched me
carried me like a football
into my room
locked the door
then ran through
the connecting bathroom
I followed, fearful
to stay alone
crawled under their bed
Mama found the girl
huddled in the bottom
of their closet
shaking
crying uncontrollably
wailing for help
Mama comforted her
clothed her
sat on the bed
holding her
called the cops
we listened
in fear for Dad
as we waited
those slurred screams
of fury
are seared
into my memory forever
she comes with me
or I’ll go get
my ruiner
and ruin you
then more voices,
the crash of a lamp
furniture slamming
handcuffs, arrest,
police report
one prominent
family in ruins
exposed
it was the first time
I knew
growing up a preacher’s
kid would bring
a whole cast of
characters always calling
mostly clothed
it was the first time
I saw a naked teenager
running for her life
Gratitude for Marshall – Slice of Life Challenge Day 27, Stafford Challenge Day 71
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:
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:
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:
I am so proud of my son and wish him the happiest birthday ever. His family loves him too!
Birthday Surprise Haiku
he's getting a shirt
and a camouflaged fan cap
but not a surprise.
Messages in the Sound Machine – Slice of Life Challenge Day 23, The Stafford Challenge Day 67
#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.
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
The Power of Connection in a Slice of Life Neighborhood- Slice of Life Challenge Day 22, Stafford Challenge Day 66
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.
March Open Write Day 4, Slice of Life Challenge Day 19, Stafford Challenge Day 63
Rex Muston of Iowa is our host today for the 4th day of the March Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com. He inspires us to use our kitchen junk drawer to inspire poetry. You can read his full prompt here.
A kitchen junk drawer is second only as frightening to me as forgetting a piece of clothing and showing up at work for everyone to see all truth. It’s downright scary except for the drawer I did clean out last weekend. I still have one to go, and it’s the worst one. An invitation to explore those quirky drawer corners is fantastic! I love that even in the oddities, the junk, there are revelations of life and memories.
Unbanded
One junk drawer
is empty
~the middle one~
but the one
on the edge
is chock-full
of random bits
and pieces
a years’ supply
of 9V batteries
for the
smoke alarms
we change
often
because
Boo Radley shivers
at the smell of
toaster heat and
smoke alarm chirps
plus the goat ball
banding tool
and bright orange
bands
as if the
whole horrid
thing
needed a
screaming
fluorescent
proclamation
across the farm
and a vintage
unfiltered
cigarette-
sized box of
Happy Family
ceramic pigs
from England
a mama
and twin
piglets
but no daddy
there was never
even a space
for his
unbanded
self
now
from the
Funny Farm
kitchen
windowsill
Mama smiles
with a sparkle-eye
bats her eyelashes
and thinks….
freedom!
Common Threads 