Coupling

Sorry this is a day late (and here I am a dollar short--sorry, couldn't resist), but my sister came to visit this weekend. So, I'm a little preoccupied.

Coupling II

My breakfast is gone when
I notice honking at my patio door.
The geese that live in the complex
have made their daily migration to my abode.
They too seem to be paired,
their white-ringed necks creating hearts in mid-air,
a Hallmark greeting card just outside my door.
Geese mate for life.
Even if separated during annual migrations
they wait--sometimes years--for their partner
to return to the nest.
If one in a pair dies,
the other continues to live--
but not thrive--
for he (or she) does not re-mate.
Flocks have no singles’ groups
whereby unattached geese can find a new beau,
no ladies' night at the local pond.

Watching my flock hunt and peck
through the sparse brown grass under the elm,
I wonder...
Do some geese never find a mate?
Do some just join the thronging vee
hoping this year they'll find that lover
who makes their lives complete,
the one who gets them as none
other in the migratory pattern have?
Are there geese who watch as others find their mate
and yearly hatch their broods of goslings?
What does this single goose think
as her dark head turns grey?
Does she fear dying without notice--
alone, unmourned, easily forgotten?
Does she spend her nights yearning
the warmth of a body curled next to her
in the cold and forbidding darkness?
Does she watch each year pass
and realize the fading hope of meeting "the one"?

Holding my cup of Earl Grey between my hands,
my heart aches for that one soul
slightly apart from the rest,
hunkered, separate, not feeding.
Her bowed head swivels to observe the others.
She, unpaired, is spectator to their lives,
barely an actor within her own.

Coupling

This is part one of a two part poem. Weird as it is to say, I was inspired to write this while chasing my cereal around the bowl one rainy Saturday morning. I noticed that usually when one Cheerio was near another they seemed drawn to each other, like some magnetic force compelled them to one another. There's actually a scientific reason for this. Anyway, my writing group seemed to enjoy the first draft. I've worked on it some since then, so hopefully it's better. :) I'll post part two next Sunday.

Coupling I

How is it some couples seem to naturally pair?
Like the Cheerios in my breakfast bowl
they drift toward one another--
sometimes coasting into crowds
comprised of individual rings
but other times butting up in twos
to cling near the edge of their world.
Rarely do I find that solo Cheerio,
who, by the way, doesn't look so cheery.
Usually softened, maybe slightly misshapen,
he roams all over the ecru
surface of the skim milk,
He may occasionally hook up
with some group of o's,
but not for long.
He'll detach and wander away,
maybe because my spoon has come between
him and the object of his attraction.
Other times, he seems to bounce off
the others, seemingly repulsed,
or maybe he just enjoys his solitude,
his time alone to splash against the tide
of milk or laze away in the bubbles.
I call this lonesome rover "he;"
it could just as easily be "she."
Females can wander,
enjoy time apart from others.

Watching the rings lap lazily
at the sides of my white bowl,
a homogeneous group of like-visioned
individuals, I wonder if a rebel heart
buoys to the surface.
Does one beige cheerio ever long
to escape the green-rimmed white plastic
and dive into a fiesta red dish
bobbing with fruit loops?
Does she ever want to break
the chains holding her to the same place,
visit a wilder atmosphere,
chase a lucky charm?
Or will she eventually give up the dream,
settle in suburbia with the equally bland
but wholesome and slightly square
shredded wheat?
What will she do
before the thought of life
gobbling her up, one bite at a time
drives her to settle?
Or will she give in to self-absorption,
wallow on her own for a while,
and then eventually sink
to the bottom of the bowl?

Writing Group--update

Okay, I just found an essay that says more aptly what I tried to say yesterday about having a supportive group to write with. Brenda Ueland states:

The only good teachers for you are those friends who love you, who think you are interesting, or very important, or wonderfully funny; whose attitude is

"Tell me more. Tell me all you can. I want to understand more about everything you feel and know all the changes inside and out of you. Let more come out."

--from: Ueland, Brenda. "Everybody is Talented, Original and Has Something Important to Say." Landmark Essays on Writing Process. Ed. Sondra Perl. Davis, CA: Hermagoras, 1994. page 237.

Writing Group

I just returned from my spring break trip to Northwest Missouri. While others I know may have spent their week in Spain, New York City, Las Vegas, or other exotic locales, I am so glad I roadtripped "back home." While I don't relish a 3 1/2 hour drive anymore, the effort was worth it! In spades!

First of all, my nephew performed in his school's production of The Wizard of Oz. He played several of the characters: Uncle Henry, the guard at the Wizard's door, and one of the "O-E-O" guys at the witch's castle. However, his best role was as the basket of the Wizard's hot air balloon. Inspired! It makes me sad to think he's all grown up and almost graduated.

Second, of course, I was able to spend time with my family--even though they were sick for most of my visit. Poor Mom slept and coughed almost the entire time I was there.

However, by far the best part about my spring break trip was meeting with my writing group. Being away from them is probably the biggest negative to my doctoral studies. Sitting with Tina, Dawn, Vicky, and Vickey, I finally felt at home. Among them I'm at my best because they deserve my best and and give me the security to be myself. They're insightful, inquisitive, witty, and just plain fun. Plus, they overlook my stupidity--those moments when I utter something utterly dumb. For that, I am always thankful. As if all those characteristics weren't enough, they are also the coolest cats around.

Well, that's all for this week. I planned to post a poem I've been working on, but I flat out don't have time to finish it tonight. Bummer. So, look for it in coming weeks...or maybe after this semester is over.

yes we can

Atlanta

I just returned from Atlanta--for business not pleasure, darn it! But because of that trip I've let one more week elapse without writing. Bummer.

So, instead I thought I'd share a few thoughts and suggestions from my trip:

• When staying in the Buckhead region, visit Lola's Bellini Bar for dinner. It looked to be the new (a.k.a. "trendy") spot for after work socializing. I ordered their fish of the day--scallops with thin sliced roasted potatoes and asparagus. Divine. The scallops were HUGE! and so delicious. The Riesling was pretty good too.
• Another excellent place to eat is the Buckhead Diner, not at all what I expected. It was tres chic with gourmet plates. I had the salmon on cucumber salad. Yum. Plus, the service is beyond phenomenal. Our waiter was so patient with our giggles and questions, and none of the servers ever let my sweet tea glass go empty.
• A final place to eat (noting a pattern here?) is Brick Tops, another new and trendy place. I had the fish of the day sandwich--a sea bass. My only downer on this restaurant was that the sides weren't very customer friendly. I could only choose from french fries or a mayonaise cole slaw. But, everything else was excellent. The sea bass was light and flaky but not dry; the bun, toasted just right.

On another note, while I was in Atlanta the city experienced its first ever tornado in the downtown area. Luckily we were north of that area and only experienced wind and rain, but it made me think about lots of things. I was in Atlanta for a National Writing Project meeting for research grants and had experienced a major meltdown during the afternoon before the tornado. Needless to say I am MONDO STRESSED about this project and wasn't working well with the professor who was in Atlanta to work on the same project. Well, let's put it this way: I cried, and I rarely cry (heck, I made it through my dad's funeral without crying). So, I'm a little on edge, capesh? But after the tornado hit and I saw all the devestation on TV (and talked to my sister and my mother), I realized that in five years, all this will be well behind me, no longer "rattling my cage." There are many worse things out there, and I should just concentrate on how THANKFUL I am to have the life I live, the opportunity to go to grad school, the wonderfully supportive family I have, and so much else.

Okay, before I turn into a Hallmark commercial, I'll end my missive here. Atlanta is a beautiful city, one which I hope to visit again someday just for fun. I sincerely send them all my kind words and thoughts as they recover from the wrath nature visited upon them Friday night.

And to anyone who actually reads this--quelle shock! there's someone out there reading this????--I promise to post something less whiny and more creatively minded next week. Honest! (fyi: spring break starts this Friday--hooray!)

Surviving the Ice

I wrote this piece earlier this year after visiting my sister and her family in northwest Missouri. In December a series of ice storms struck the entire area, leaving the trees just massacred. It was painful to see all these awesome trees just stripped of limbs. So, on this March 2, with the temperature in the mid-seventies, I thought it appropriate to post a poem about an ice storm. This is a ROUGH DRAFT, so please don't expect much. However, if you have suggestions, please let me know! I always welcome constructive criticism! Especially a better title.

They stand beheaded.
Broken limbs dangleat their sides,
while flayed skin, cracked
and rough, lays scattered
at their roots, clinging
deep into frozen earth.
The wind gusts, firing bullets
to encase their torsos
and yet unhacked arms.
Shivering, they rub against each other,
rattling a skeletal rhythm of nature.
Melting snow tracks tears
the arid wind wipes clear.
A slight burn remains
mute evidence of their trials.
Naked and abused,
they stand against the whitened landscape.
Broken and exposed,
an unknown vulnerability emerges,
but they persevere.
Their bark has seen worse storms,
colder winters, thicker ice.
Some may be damaged,
others may be bowed,
but come summer,
they will rise once again
from these icy flames
and join the verdant chorus
of triumph and a wondrous
woodland peace.