March SOLC–Day 29

Still exhausted from a 14-hour day of school, conferences and what-not yesterday, I read Kim K.’s slice in which she created a found poem from her blog titles. Intrigued,  I turned to my blog titles from the past month to see if I could create a found poem. I diligently copied the titles and pondered. Hmmmmm…I’m not sure this is going to work. My titles are not inspiring me. While I sat before the computer waiting for inspiration to strike me between my tired, shadow-rimmed eyes, I started thinking about names, titles and words.

I like to know the names of things. Recognizing paintings or songs gives me a soft hum of satisfaction, and I’m always thrilled when I can identify flowers, birds or trees by their names. It’s like finding the perfect word to capture a thought or a feeling. There’s a zing! A name, a word, encompasses much more than just one finite thing. The perfect word or name is magical. It brings things to life!

Stephen King said that writing is telepathy and I agree. If you find the just-right words to describe something, you can take the image, feeling or mood from your mind and send it to your reader. Naming things enhances the process. For example, birds have some general shared attributes but when you identify a bird further with the name “chickadee”, it has a more specific appearance, personality and movements. Shakespeare wrote “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I agree that the initial naming isn’t the critical piece. It’s the sharing of that name–The communal knowledge of all that that name encompasses is powerful indeed. It becomes a sort of shorthand. You could initially call any flower a rose, but once that certain flower has that name, its defining attributes or characteristics are imbued within the name. The name contains a world of meaning encapsulated within that one word.

It seems to me that a title should do the same. A title should hint at the essence of the piece it titles, or add a nuance to it. It should have that feeling of inevitability about it–a sense that it is deeply rooted within the body of writing. My titles generally don’t. They are usually afterthoughts and feel artificial or stiff, not at all organic. There’s clearly an art to titling that I have yet to master. So, I’m curious. How do you title your pieces? Do you begin with your text or with its title? Any helpful hints?

At any rate, after this long circuitous pondering (blame the conference overload and lack of sleep!), I finally culled through my list of slice titles and here’s my poem (untitled), found within a selection of those same titles.

One of those days
A Slight Miscalculation
If Only I’d Turned Right
Treacherous ground
Disturbed
The Nightly Struggle
A Bad Dream
The Peace of Early Morning
Talisman
Spring is coming

March SOLC–Day 28

Bitter Chocolate

I remember an early Easter morning
at my grandparent’s house in Florida.
My sister whispered to me,
“Go look for your basket.”
I was uncertain, hesitant.
“Go on, ” she urged.
So I did.
Not pausing to wonder why she didn’t.
Blinded by my sweet tooth,
eager to see that grass-filled basket
filled with a tumble of toys and treats,
I searched until
Eureka!
I found it!
My laden basket
hidden behind a heavy curtain.
I knelt and my small hand reached out,
grabbed and unwrapped
a miniature chocolate bunny,
popped it into my grinning mouth.
Chocolate for breakfast!
Treasure in hand, I turned
to see two dark polished shoes
planted in the plush carpet,
long creased pant legs attached.
Slowly I rose
basket dangling in my hand.
I looked up, up, up to see
my grandfather’s face,
stern and frowning,
disappointment writ large.
“What are you doing?”
he rumbled.
“You’re not supposed to look for your basket yet!”
In an instant
my delight melted
as completely
as the chocolate in my mouth.
It left a
lingering,
bitter
taste.

As I’ve written and read slices this month, I’ve been thinking a lot about memories and how to write them. I’ve decided that being true to the emotional truth of the  moment trumps the actual details. This memory was sparked by all the Easter posts yesterday. The broad strokes of the moment are accurate though the details might be off a bit. I still remember that moment though, and the plummet from delight to shame.

March SOLC–Day 27

We took a walk yesterday and the silence hung heavy between us. We left the road, turning onto an unpaved drive, heavily rutted with churned dirt. The drive was some sort of access road, leading into the woods. Thin, endangered icebergs floated within the deeper water-filled ruts. We stepped carefully, unsure where the ground was firm and where it might give way to submerge an unwary foot. We trod on treacherous ground.

In the shady woods, the chilly temperature dropped a bit more. Small patches of snow lingered in the deeper shadows. We walked on, hands stuffed deep in pockets, sniffing from the cold. Separate.  Off to my right I saw a flash of white and two deer bounded through far off trees, their white tails flagging. Look!  We watched them gracefully leap through scrub and brush until they were out of sight.

As we moved further into the woods our steps shuffled through a carpet of dead oak leaves. A distant rush of water translated into a small, but potent waterfall. Sheets of water poured over a smooth rock face then twisted and turned amidst boulders, following the time-carved path of the stream. The turbulent water pulled at me. I yearned to sit on a cold boulder by its side and lose myself in the hypnotism of falling, rushing water and its dull roar.

We walked for a while longer. Over dead leaves, around ruts. Seeing a glint in the grit at my feet, I stopped and picked up a large, clear piece of mica. I ran my fingers over it. It cleaved smoothly in my hands, splitting into layers.  “They used to use mica in stove windows,”  he said. “It wouldn’t shatter like glass would from the extreme temperatures.” I looked at my blurred fingers through its thin, opaque sheets. Shadow fingers. Ghost fingers.

Along the road sections of old stone walls were visible through the winter-bare trees, marking land borders. Whose land were we walking on now in this unfamiliar terrain? I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. We kept moving step by step. Mostly silent.

March SOLC–Day 26

This morning I woke later than usual and walked through the house without flicking on light switches. The world outside was already illuminated and bird song trilled in chilly air. Most mornings these are things I’m anticipating. Walking into the kitchen I looked out and saw the birds already feasting at the feeders, feathers flashing as they moved about. Usually I think of bird watching as similar to viewing fish in an aquarium. This morning I saw a choreographed dance.

Avian Dance

Blue jay swoops in low
And downy woodpecker leaps
to a nearby branch
alert and poised.
With a flash of white
juncos launch into flight
exiting stage left, while
red-breasted robins,
fat as friars,
hop in time on the lawn
Song Sparrows flutter and perch
flutter and perch
And with a flash
of crimson feathers,
cardinal makes his entrance
upstaging the others
with a splashy aerial show.

March SOLC–Day 25 and Poetry Friday Roundup 

With warmer weather here, I’ve been out and about more. Last week I was delighted to see Pussy willows emerging–a sure sign of spring!  My poem does double duty today for the Slice of Life Challenge and Poetry Friday.

Pussy Willow

Pussy willow whispers softly
of motherhood
of water and moon
of dreaming and intuition.

Legend says
a mother cat
wept at water’s edge
as her cloud-gray kittens
swirled within wild currents
and kind Willow
bowed down low
trailing graceful branches
to rescue
those struggling kittens.
And ever since,
soft gray paws adorn
Willow’s supple branches-
furry catkins
to remember clinging kittens.

In the chilly March breeze
Pussy willow bats her soft paws
at the dark edge of winter,
a silken harbinger of spring.

Molly Hogan (2016)

Thanks to Heidi Mordhorst for hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at My Juicy Little Universe.  Head on over to enjoy some poetry!

March SOLC–Day 24

This is our third Junior Achievement class. The volunteer, mother of one of my students, comes into our classroom once a week for five weeks. She teaches about communities, families, wants and needs, etc. It’s interactive and informative for the kids, and I get to sit back and listen, or even work quietly at my desk. Yesterday during her third visit, she focused on jobs. She guided the students in a game that involved giving clues about jobs and guessing different jobs. She then told the kids that some people start their own business and make their own jobs.

“J,” she said, “How did your mom make her own job? What does she sell?”
“Pizza?” asked L., always the comic.
“No, she doesn’t sell pizza!” giggled J. “She sells honey and she makes soap, too. From goat’s milk.”

The volunteer continued, “There’s a special name for people who start their own businesses, like J’s mom. They’re called entreprenuers.” She wrote the word on the board and asked the children to repeat it with her.
“Entreprenuers.”
Another child piped up, “Is that kind of like ice cream?”
“Um, no,” the volunteer said slowly.
“Well, does it taste like it?” The volunteer looked simultaneously confused and amused.
“No, ” she said finally and firmly, ” It has nothing to do with ice cream.”
“Oh. Ok.”

Well, don’t tell Ben and Jerry that! I thought as I grinned from my safe spot at my desk. Sometimes I wonder what in the world my students are thinking when they make seemingly random comments like this and sometimes I think I may be better off not knowing. For now I was content to listen and observe while someone else was in charge.

March SOLC–Day 23

I wake suddenly. What is that?

I’m curled in a ball beneath a tangle of sheets. My shoulders are raised and tense, my breathing ragged and my fists clenched. Dim memories of rattling, phlegmy Sleestak* breathing, unspoken threats and shuddering fear flicker through my mind. I’m overheated again and push back the covers. Oh, it’s another nightmare. I tend to have bad dreams when I get overheated, but I can’t resist the welcoming weight of a pile of blankets. At this time in my life when my body’s thermometer is a bit wacky, my dreams often drift into the realm of dark and creepy.

This particular dream is hard to shake, though I can’t remember the particulars–just the dreadful inhuman breathing and the threatening atmosphere. Lying here in the dark, still sleepy, I deliberately push my mind into new channels.  The dream lurks, a dark smudge in my brain, insidiously threatening to spread and pull me back in.  What will I write today?

Suddenly I hear it again. That threatening, rattling breathing.  What is it? Where is it coming from? But I’m still awake… Aren’t I?
The thoughts sprint through my mind as tension clenches me again.
And then I realize. That breathing? That awful, rattling breathing from my dream? It came from my husband snoring beside me. My very own Sleestak.

*Note–I’m dating myself with the Sleestak reference but for some reason that’s the description that lingered in my  mind when I woke this early this morning, though I think they hissed instead of rattled. Why Sleestaks? Who knows!  The mind is a funny thing. It’s been close to 40 years since I watched the show Land of the Lost and many decades since I’ve thought of these creatures.  According to Wikipedia, “Sleestaks are devolved, green humanoids with both reptilian and insectoid features; they have scaly skin with frills around the neck, bulbous unblinking eyes, pincer-like hands, stubby tails, and a single blunt horn on top of the head…” Charming, right? And in case you missed the original show or have forgotten–here’s a photo:

March SOLC–Day 22

I don’t know my cousin well, so I don’t know his wife well either. But I’ve followed the Facebook photos through the years and watched their family grow and I’ve visited with them at rare family events. Over time the two of them became three, then four, then five with three beautiful daughters who are just now beginning to make their way into the world.

In the past few months, since I’ve learned of her illness, I’ve been watching her, my cousin’s wife, through pictures on Facebook. I’ve seen her enjoying various family events. I’ve seen her gradually lose her hair. I’ve seen her smiling on a trip to NYC, surrounded by family, Christmas trees and neon lights. Always smiling broadly, no wig to cover her balding head, cancer’s beacon. I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her strength, her determination and the signs of battle on her body.

Last week her daughter posted a new picture. In it my cousin’s wife sits in a hospital gown in a hospital chair in a hospital room with this daughter sitting on the edge of the chair. My cousin’s wife seems folded in upon herself. Her daughter sits slightly behind her, leaning toward her with her arm about her, sheltering her. The contrast between vibrant youthful health and debilitating illness is striking. Heartbreaking. The broad smile is now tentative and there’s a look in her eyes…Oh, that look in her eyes. I think it was then that I realized. But still I hoped. There was talk of eligibility for an experimental treatment. Hope.

The message arrived yesterday. “Cancer all over her body. In her lungs. Not good at all.” So the cancer has spread.  Her body is “riddled” with it–that suggests something to be puzzled over and solved. In this case there is no solution; her options, apparently, are at an end.

Though I don’t know them well, I ache with sadness. I ache for her, facing the ultimate lonely inevitability of it all. For her, as a mother, unimaginably leaving her girls, and for her girls who will soon be left behind, motherless. I look at the photographs of the past few months–those digital battle flags of determined cheer and sweet moments from daily life. I ache for my cousin, fixedly smiling at her side. I look into the eyes of her vivacious, smiling daughters and I ache for them.  I know some of what awaits them. I know what it’s like to be a motherless daughter.  Some of my pain now echoes from my own lingering grief. I weep for this shattering family, reeling in the face of this impending loss that will reshape the bedrock of their lives.

And I wonder. How do you wrap a lifetime, a world of love into words? How do you comfort the one who is departing and those who will be left behind? How do you say goodbye?

March SOLC–Day 21

The Peace of Early Morning

I treasure my mornings
the sweet hush of pre-dawn
when the birds still sleep
and the sun lingers
below the horizon.
The unfolding day
stretches before me
unlimited in its potential.

I treasure my mornings
the coming of light,
a slow deepening blush
on the horizon,
and the gradual birth of
angular tree shadows
striping the lawn,
and the sweet surprise
of the first bird song,
thrilling in the tranquility,
rippling across the morning air.

I treasure my mornings
and the warm gleam
of my solitary light
in this drowsy house
and the muted click clack
of my fingers
on the keyboard,
as I work and wonder with words,
embraced by the growing light
and the peace of the dawning day.

I treasure my mornings.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

March SOLC–Day 20

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  Flame leaps off the grill and the nearby diners gasp and applaud. Two of our three children, Connor and Lydia, are heading back to school tomorrow and we wanted to spend the last evening together. We opted for Hibachi–a delicious, sensory explosion.  Flaming grills, juggled eggs, flashing blades, volcanic onions and vegetable missiles equal guaranteed fun.

The downside of hibachi is the noise of the grill and the potentially encroaching volume of the conversations of the assorted groups seated around it.  On the periphery of our group, I tried hard to focus, not wanting to hear the admiring Trump comments on my left (especially with sharp implements close at hand), and unable to fully hear our group’s conversations. With my son’s girlfriend with us, we were a group of 5. That seemed odd to me.  5 is our family number. Countless reservations, tickets, and orders for 5 at countless places over countless years. How can we be 5 when Adeline (my older daughter) isn’t here? She’s been studying in England since January and to me, her absence is palpable. Our group is incomplete: tonight 5 doesn’t equal 5.

“I miss Addie right now,” I said to Lydia, then paused. “Actually I miss her whenever I breathe,” I added, somewhat melodramatically.
“Well, then, don’t breathe,” suggested Lydia, helpfully. We both laughed and a quiet moment passed.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said.
“I know,” she said, “I don’t feel like I’ve had much time off.” She rested her head on my shoulder and tucked her arms around me. I leaned into her and kissed her forehead, relishing her affection, her proximity. I looked across the grill at my son, sitting between his girlfriend and his father. I couldn’t hear what was said but I watched him as they chatted, saw the expressions flit across his face. This was his final spring break. He’s graduating in May and won’t be living at home this summer. Possibly not ever again.

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  The flames leapt into the air again, a bit blurry now. I blinked and deliberately shook off the mood, the melancholy. I leaned back into Lydia, into the conversation, determined to enjoy the time I had right now and count each moment as precious.

There will be plenty of time for missing later.