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SOLC Day 4: Ten Ways of Looking at a Grey Winter Day

March 2024 SOLC–Day 4
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Yesterday was dreary in a dazzling sort of way. We ventured outside to enjoy the day and were amply rewarded for doing so. In fact, during our wanderings we spotted at least 21!!! bald eagles! It was tough to keep count.

Ten Ways of Looking at a Grey Winter Day
after “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens

  1. You,
    me,
    alone together
    on rain drenched paths.
  2. Puddles
    offer up reflections
    to the sky.
  3. Wings lift and shift.
    A convocation
    of eagles gathers
    at the water’s edge.
  4. Suffused with mist and
    the keening of geese,
    the air hums.
  5. An old orchard,
    overgrown.
    Winter stark and
    free of apples,
    ripe with echoes
    of laughter.
  6. Between the thorns,
    globes of water balance
    along blackberry canes.

    Within each sphere
    a world
    encapsulated.
  7. The yellow glow
    of winter grass
    warm beneath
    the bare trees.
  8. Blueberry barrens–
    a gentle red glow,
    sweetens the grey.
  9. Negative space.
    Silence where frogs sing.
    Ice in the marshes.
  10. When the wind blew,
    it shook raindrops free
    and filled the wings
    of a hawk.

©Molly Hogan

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SOLC Day 3: Reunion

March 2024 SOLC–Day 3
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I was never brave enough to go away to summer camp. Sleep overs were the toughest challenge I could manage, and I didn’t have a great track record with those either. Mom or Dad often had to come pick me up in the middle of the night when my imaginings got the worst of me. I still remember the horrible feeling of wanting to stay but being desperate to get home.

This is why it’s so surprising that when describing the start of the challenge this month, I’ve said to my husband multiple times and with great enthusiasm, “It feels like a camp reunion! Like it’s the first day of summer camp!” I guess I’m glorifying what I imagine summer camp to be, but I’ve read the books, heard the tales (I’m looking at you, humbleswede!) . As I dove into slices on Friday and yesterday, it felt like the best sort of camp reunion.

Everywhere I looked there were familiar faces. Oh, look, it’s H! OMG, A is here again this year! I’m jumping up and down. M! J! D! Hi! Hi! Hi! I’m waving wildly, afraid of missing someone and I sort of want to fall into a pile of squealing middle-school hugs–and I’m not even a hugger! And then I stumble upon someone I hadn’t even remembered that I’d been missing until I saw them. Oh my gosh, it’s K!!! You know how that goes? Finally, there’s the thrill of the new “campers.” So many fresh faces and perspectives to meet and each one adding to the fun and festivities!

To make things even better (I know, can you believe it! It gets even better!), this year two of my colleagues are slicing, too! One is a veteran, but the other is new to the Sliceoverse. I want her to like it here as much as I do! I keep having to restrain myself from introducing her to everyone, telling her where to go, who to meet, giving tips, etc. I want to keep asking, “Do you like it? Do you?” I know that she’ll figure it all out on her own and be the richer for doing so. I’m just so glad to be slicing alongside both of them.

This is only the third day of the challenge, and I’m sure there will be some deer-in-the-headlight moments and times I wonder why I signed up again (not really, but kind of…), but for now I’m just reveling in being back at “camp” with my friends/colleagues, reuniting with return “campers” and meeting new ones, too! Welcome and welcome back everyone! Happy Writing!

We’re going to have the best time!!!

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SOLC Day 2: Making a Change

SOLC Day 2:

March 2024 SOLC–Day 2
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

This was the week. I was determined to make a change, and tonight was the night to put it all into action. I’d already done my legwork earlier in the week. I’d checked out the most local branch of the Y, adding my name to my husband’s membership. I’d scoured the class offerings and settled on a class that began at 5:30. That would allow me time to get home, change and get to the gym. I’d even peeked in on the class one night. To be honest, it looked…well… not fun. It involved multiple sets of colored weights, floor mats, and gym clothes. And people who looked like they knew what they were doing. I was pretty sure that sweat and discomfort were waiting in the wings.

Still, I was determined. During the school day, I told multiple people that I was going to start a new exercise class tonight. I hoped stating this out loud might stiffen my resolve.

At the end of the day, I tidied up, dropped a co-worker off at the car-dealer (after repeating to him, “Yup, I’m going to start a class at the gym tonight!”) and headed home.

Coming in the door, I announced to my husband.

“I’m going tonight. I do not really want to do this, but I am going to.” (Despite my encouragement, earlier in the week, my husband had decided he was not interested in sharing this particular experience with me. Go figure.)

“Well, you know, we can go to the other Y and swim together on Friday and Monday nights,” he suggested, looking at his phone. “There are also some other classes there. There’s some Yoga and a Pilates class.”

“I know,” I said, “I looked. But I want absolutely nothing to do with anything that has ‘an infusion of ab chiseling.’ That sounds horrid! I might swim some, but I really want to do something with weights, too. Well, not “want”, but you know…”

He laughed and I headed upstairs to find the gym clothes that I’d neglected to organize earlier.

A few minutes later, I was scrounging through my clothes. What should I wear? Sweatpants? Leggings?

“Hey, Molly!” Kurt’s voice had an odd note in it.

“What?”

No answer.

“What?” I yelled again, glancing at my watch. Where had the time gone? I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry up. I definitely needed some extra time before the class began to confess my ignorance and out-of-shapedness and throw myself on the mercy of the instructor.

I grabbed some sweatpants and moved out into the hallway, yelling downstairs again.

“Kurt, did you say something?”

“Well, I don’t know if this is good news or bad news.”

“What?” I asked, yet again as he appeared in the hallway, holding his phone.

“It says here that the Y is closed.”

I froze.

“Really?” I asked, maybe in a hopeful tone. “Why?”

“I got an update, and it says there’s a power outage.”

I didn’t even have to think for a second.

“Oh. No doubt about it! That is most definitely good news!” I tossed my sweatpants back toward my closet, and practically skipped down the stairs. Color me Off. The. Hook! This was like a free pass–almost as good as a snow day–like finding two hours of free time!

A few minutes later, I was happily ensconced in my chair. I looked over at Kurt.

“You know I was going to go, right? Even though I really didn’t want to.”

He nodded.

“That means I get credit for all the good intentions, right?”

He nodded again.

Smart man.

So, I guess next week will have to be the week. Stay tuned!

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SOLC Day 1: Leap Year Lucky?

SOLC Day 1:

March 2024 SOLC–Day 1
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Yesterday morning, I woke before my alarm detonated, rolled over and switched it off.

Did it freeze overnight? Would we have a delay?

I reached over hopefully to pick up my phone and clicked on the school closings page.

Nothing. Not a single delay anywhere.

I sighed, then had another thought, brightened and whispered, “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit!”

In my family, saying “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit” first on the first day of a new month brings good luck. I’ve been attempting to do so for longer than I can remember, with mixed results. I was thrilled that I’d remembered this time.

I reached over and poked my sleeping husband.

“Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit!” I whispered loudly, determined to spread the luck around. (Also, since we are married, good luck for one typically means good luck for the other, so it wasn’t entirely unselfish of me.)

“Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit,” he responded sleepily. (After almost 35 years or marriage, he knows the drill.)

I slid out of bed and made my way downstairs to get the day started, slightly disappointed there was no delay, but chuffed that I’d remembered to say “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.” It is surprisingly difficult to do. Suddenly, I had a delightful thought:

Oooooh! I wonder if it will be extra lucky since I remembered on a Leap Year! I should text my sisters and see what they think.

A few sleep-logged clogs turned sluggishly in my brain…

Wait
a
minute…

On a Leap Year…(insert your favorite major head slap image here!)

If it’s Leap Year… that means it’s still February today.
That means tomorrow is March 1st.

I had to laugh–and cringe! Luckily I hadn’t texted my sisters yet.

Later, in the day I texted my husband, “Sorry! I guess it’s still February. We’ll just have to try again tomorrow!”

Update: In case you were worried, I remembered again this morning! And woke my husband up again so that he could, too. Phew! This has to bode well for the launch of this year’s Slice of Life Challenge!

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PF: Persona Poems

It’s the first Friday of the month and that means our Inklings’ challenge is due. This month’s challenge was issued by Margaret Simon, who asked us to write a persona poem. In short, a persona poem “has a specific audience, conveys a message, is written in the voice of another person, place, or thing, uses direct address.” I checked out a couple of fabulous examples, including Sylvia Plath’s stunning Mirror, and Patricia Smith’s Katrina. These were both inspiring and intimidating.

After considering a few options, The Giving Tree popped into my head– Yes, that controversial children’s story woven by the oh-so-talented Shel Silverstein. Is it a cautionary tale? A tale of unbound love or unboundaried love? A warning to a parent? A warning to a child? Selfless? Abusive? For some reason, I found myself wanting to consider the Tree’s perspective. To be honest, even though I wrote it, I find myself a little uncomfortable with the voice in this poem. But right or wrong, here’s what she had to say:

The Giving Tree Speaks

I see you cringe as you turn
each page.
You judge me, don’t you?
For giving and giving
until it seems all
is gone.
Even as my story resonates,
it leaves you uncomfortable,
doesn’t it?
“Too much…” I hear you whisper.

You don’t see that the giving 
was a choice.
My choice.
I gave actively
with love, energy, 
full-hearted generosity–
I chose not to await
time’s
slow
drain.

Don’t you see?
I’m in the same place
I would have been
ultimately
eventually
But
I shaped myself
through my giving, 
got here on my own terms.

You may see only a stump, but
my roots are secure, and
did you notice?
As our story ends
we are resting…
together.
What more could I want?

And I am happy.  

©Molly Hogan, draft

If you’d like to see what the other Inklings have done with this challenge, click on their links:
Mary Lee Hahn
Catherine Flynn
Linda Mitchell
Heidi Mordhorst
Margaret Simon

This week’s Poetry Friday challenge is hosted by Linda Baie at her blog, Teacher Dance.

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SOL: And just like that, my bubble popped

Her voice hisses across the dividers of clothing racks.

“Do you know what they said on the news last night?”

My head jerks up, away from the discounted sweaters, and I look around trying to find the disembodied voice. Is she talking to me?

“No, what?” someone answers and I pinpoint a trio of women gathered at the end of the next row, looking through the long-sleeved shirts.

“They said it costs 56 thousand dollars for each immigrant. Can you believe it? I thought Mike was going to go through the TV! He had to turn it off. Couldn’t listen to it. And you know they get everything paid for. EVERYTHING!”

My hands still amidst the cotton and wool. I look over again at the speaker. She’s a benign looking gray-haired elderly woman. She continues her rant.

“And the law says they can’t work for six months. So they just sit on their as#!s.”

Her listeners nod enthusiastically and another one eagerly jumps into the conversation.

“I know! They get everything. And I get NO help. Nothing. I have to pay for my rent, my car payment, everything. And they just sit on their as#!s and get everything paid for.”

“Tell her what they do here, Betty,” the other one says, encouraging her friend.

“Ok, you know what they do here?” She pauses strategically, then continues, clearly relishing her contribution, “They just cut in line. Cut right in front of everybody. Like they think they’re the only ones who matter.”

The initial speaker interrupts, “Maybe 300 years ago this was the ‘Land of Opportunity’ but there was no one here then. Now there’s no room.”

They continue their talk for quite some time. There is a lot of repetition. A lot of talk about sitting on as#!s. I listen to them rant, sickened by the hateful intensity of their voices, by their utter lack of empathy…and by my own by-standing. What should I say? What can I say? I run through and reject all sorts of possibilities. I doubt they’d be open to my mentioning their own inconsistencies (If immigrants legally can’t work for six months, what are they supposed to be doing? Also, there actually were people here 300 years ago. etc.) or questioning them further about their knowledge, beliefs. I don’t have facts and statistics readily available to spout. No antidote available for their Fox-fueled venom.

Hearing this vitriol in my own community shocks me. But really, I should have known it was there. We have major problems all over our country. Major divisions. People are struggling in so many ways, and clearly there are problems with the immigration system. I try to remember to have empathy for these women. They are frightened or struggling, looking to make sense of things. Still, I back away from them: the hatred and the “othering” that they espouse feels toxic, dark and deeply disturbing.

I take my leave from the store soon afterward, unable to rummage through used clothes and books any longer. Ashamed that I don’t say something. Anything.

The irony that I was shopping in a store named “Goodwill” was not lost on me.

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PF: A Wordle Poem

This week has been our winter break, and I’ve had minimal plans and lots of down time. Sometimes that feels good, sometimes not as much. It’s been quite cold in the mornings, and I’ve struggled to find the motivation to get up and out. I teeter back and forth on the balance beam between sluggish and relaxed.

Yesterday morning, although the skies promised a humdrum sunrise (is there such a thing, really?), I drove down to watch day begin at the river. I wasn’t the only one appreciating the views.

When I got home, I stopped to feed the birds before heading inside. As I neared the feeders, mourning doves departed in a flurry of feather and sound. A cardinal serenaded me from a nearby tree, and chickadees and crows chimed in. There were a few more unknown calls rounding out the chorus. So much singing!

Soon after coming inside, the morning lured me outside again to wander around my yard, listen to the bird song and try to capture a few photos. I can’t remember how long it had been since I’d done that. Even though it was still cold and none of my photos were particularly inspired, It felt oh-so-good.

When I sat down later for my daily Wordle, my four guesses (in bold) seemed to flow out of the morning and afterward, into this poem:

Today I will drink fresh morning air
inhale rippling bird song
and let both guide me
to build a day
worth remembering

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Tabatha Yeatts at her blog The Opposite of Indifference . Be sure to stop by today or any day for some inspiration!

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On the fading of good intentions…

I begin today with so many grand and productive intentions…

I wrote that sentence probably fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes ago, and immediately got side-tracked by incoming texts and messages. I chatted with my sisters and a few friends, made some plans, then checked my e-mail and scoped out a few cameras on line.

My good intentions are already fraying about the edges, losing clarity, and if not exactly paving the way to hell, definitely creating a path headed toward indolence…

It’s winter break here and I’m torn between two options: laze and lounge or cram something into every available moment. I’m trying to strike the right balance, but it’s hard.

At this moment I’m sitting in the living room. To my right the rising sun is peeking in the windows. I thought about going out to take photos earlier, but it was about 8˚F and I wasn’t that inspired. Instead, I lit the fire in the wood stove, and settled in to drink my coffee and write (and apparently text and message and shop).

So now, my feet rest on the ottoman and the cat is curled up next to them. I’m warmed by both fire and fur. Every so often the cat twitches in her dreams, nudging me. She’s working herself closer and closer to the edge, oblivious to her peril. Just now I had to reposition her so she didn’t fall off. Of course that was misinterpreted as an invitation to join me on my chair, so next I had to gently deter her from repositioning entirely onto my lap/computer. As you can see, I’ve been busy. Thankfully, we’re both settled in again now. At least for the moment.

And so flows the time.

Soon I’ll head into the kitchen and rummage around for something to eat. My thoughts turn toward the wood-fired bagels and fruit salad left over from our family brunch on Sunday.

Still, I don’t move.

It’s such a luxury to be unproductive. I have vague thoughts of making vacation plans and reservations, getting work done, exercising…

The fire crackles in the stove. The sun warms my shoulders. The cat is safely positioned in the middle of the ottoman. My coffee’s gotten cold, but I really don’t care. My stomach reminds me again about those waiting bagels. But for right now, I’ll just sit a bit longer.

This leisurely morning is simply delicious.

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Taken for a Ride

I’m easing away from the stop sign, turning right onto the main road, when I see it. The car is squatting in a shadowed lay-by, ready to pounce. My heart thumps.

Did I come to a complete stop?

I thhhhhinnnnnk so. I’m not 100% sure. I drive the short distance to my next turn turn, flick on my blinker and glance in the rear view mirror.

Oh, crap! It’s pulling out.

I watch it pull onto the main road as I make my turn off of it and proceed down the hill. I keep one eye on the road ahead and another behind me.

Is it turning onto this road?

My breath hitches.

Please no please no please no!
Oh, no! Yes! It is! But, there are no flashing lights. At least not yet.

My pulse skitters.

Am I going to get a ticket? Oh, no! What will that do to my insurance rates?

I eye the speedometer, keeping it right at 35 mph. I drive onward. There are still no flashing lights, but I feel its presence behind me like a nemesis.

Maybe they’re running my plates. Will it show that I’ve never had a moving violation? Ever! In more than 40 years of driving! Shouldn’t that count for something?

I continue driving, trying to talk myself off the ledge of my incipient free fall into panic, keeping my speed right at the limit.

There’s nothing you can do now. If you get a ticket, you get a ticket. It’s not the end of the world.

I wrest my eyes from the ominous headlights behind me and try to keep them on the road ahead…when they’re aren’t glued to the speedometer.

Maybe I should turn off this road just to see if it follows…

A crossroads is up ahead.

Will it turn off? Should I?

I keep on driving. I hold my breath, and pass the turn, continuing on my regular route.

Is it slowing? Maybe just a little? Yes! Yes! It is! And the blinker’s on. It’s turning!!!

I watch it start to turn down the road that leads away from me.

Immediate relief seeps through my body. My hands loosen their death grip on the steering wheel. I take a deep breath.

Phew!

I glance back to ensure that it’s well and truly on its way. But wait…what?!

My foot lifts off the gas. I look behind me again, able now to see the full silhouette of the car. The silhouette that does not look like a police car… Not At All.

My mind whirls.

Wait, was that even a police car? Or was I mistaken all along?

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PF: In Vino Veritas

In vino veritas

My relationship to poetry
is much like mine to wine
I don’t know the terminology
but I know what I like
what flows into me
with soft notes of currant
or spicy pepper
subtle pleasures that
have me sipping more
and slipping into giddy

Once someone talked to me
about the poetic use of anaphora
and I momentarily pictured 
elegant Greek vases
crusted in time
holders of sweet, secret ambrosia…

Was I so wrong?

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Carol Varsalona at her blog, Beyond Literacy Link.