Round Things: short pieces on a theme . . . Tuesday Circle

On April 11, 2017 the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle began with a 10 minute warm-up on the theme of "Round Things." These pieces were written by the 8 women who were present that day. 



Soccer Ball, by Gabrielle Vehar

My niece's soccer ball — which she brings everywhere with her — is a teal blue with yellow and orange highlights. It's a beauty of a round object. My niece is going to be 7 next month, so she's not really 6 years old, she's transitioning. She asked me yesterday if I wanted to play soccer with her. I should mention that I am going to be 53 years old in a few months, but I thought: it's fine, it's fine, how hard can it be to kick a ball for a little while . . . in 80 degree weather? So of course I said "Sure, no problem." She brought out her beauty of a ball and said "I've been on 6 soccer teams." So I countered "Well, I've been on 2." To which she replied "That makes me the better soccer player." Oh boy, I thought, this is going to be fun. So we started with a few warm-up kicks back and forth to each other. Then she said "This yard's too small, let's go over there." Over there was a pasture. "Okay, no problem," I said. Well, I got to running my almost 53-year-old body in 80 degree sunshine, after her kick, and I ended up flat on my back, with mud-stained clothes. Moral of the story: Always listen to your almost 7-year-old niece when she insists that she's going to beat the shit out of your almost 53-year-old self.


Kitty Crunchies, by Kim Falstick

My cats are Curious George (a handsome tiger) and Copper Doodle Dandy Bug (a big orange tiger with a great big purr). In the mornings George takes a drink from the bathroom faucet, then sits silently by his dish waiting for his human to attend to him. Copper, on the other hand, paces, plops down for tummy rubs, and meows ceaselessly until his human opens the pantry door. There are three kinds of kitty crunchies there, and also canned food as a treat. Only one of the kitty crunchies is round, the others are pellet-shaped, but the round ones rule. And the sound of kitties munching down means peace in the kingdom. Tails straight out — ignoring the human. That's how I know I have done my job well.


Tires, by Linda Keeler

We can't sit on our front porch, our favorite place, even though the temperatures are soaring and the blossoms are bursting open on the trees. Spring — no summer! — is here. And we are relegated to the side yard with its bare spots, where we get whiffs of neighbor's cigarette smoke or maybe it's some other weed. And why is the porch off limits, you ask? Sitting there in the center of things are four very round, very black, very new tires. With a very very   very potent rubbery smell. Delivered by UPS a week or so ago, they are sitting just where the driver decided they should go. The tires are "wheels in waiting" — waiting for the all clear from above — the assurance that there will be no more snow. Then these porch-sitting inhibitors will be gone; they'll be rolling around the streets of Ithaca. And I'll be sitting on my porch once again. Stop by at 5 o'clock some evening.


Tractor Wheels, by Marty Blue

Giant tractor wheels fascinated me from the first time I met one. We lived in a small town but we also had a farm, and the whole family would travel there frequently to take care of the Black Angus herd, and the wheat and alfalfa fields. Sometimes Daddy would drive his big green John Deere tractor into town and give the neighbor kids a ride around the block. My favorite thing in the world to do was to climb up onto that enormous machine and perch myself on the smooth fender. When we were moving along I could follow the treads on the huge wheel under me. And I hoped I would never have to leave my throne.


Spheres, by Nancy Osborn

I'd like to be nice and make no comparison between my geometry teacher and round things. But I'm not going to be nice. My teacher, who shall remain nameless, was short, almost bald, and round himself — with a sweet little belly that stretched his suit coat. He was Italian, and very good-natured, and skillful at teaching high schoolers. I liked him, despite the fact that I was a terrible student of plane geometry, with its endless proofs to be memorized and reproduced on the blackboard, day after day in class. I was never interested in logic so of course I wasn't interested in these abstract proofs. I barely managed a passing grade for the semester. But solid geometry was another matter. Solid geometry seemed real to me — it dealt with 3-dimensional objects — pyramids, rectangular blocks, and spheres. Things you could actually hold in your hand. For some reason I particularly enjoyed all the equations that involved spheres. Spheres seemed mysterious to me — mysterious in terms of how one could measure them — for how can you measure something that has no edges, no sides, no anything to hold on to? But of course, with the help of solid geometry and its equations you can accomplish such measurements. And thanks to my little round, bald-headed teacher, I managed to pass solid geometry, with a good grade.


My Bottom, by Paula Culver

My bottom is round. Sometimes rounder than others, but always round. Remember that 10 pounds I lost? Guess what? I found it yesterday, right on me bum! There it sat, gleeful in its ability to elude me up until the last minute. The last minute was when I very tentatively ventured into the shed to get a lawn chair. It was suddenly and instantly summer and I couldn't wait to bask in the sun in the backyard, and there I basked with my book and big insulated mug of ice water. Then, I had to pee. I got up and guess what happened? Me bum clung to that chair and brought it right up with me. And there I stood, blinking in the bright light, a lawn chair stuck to my ass. Boy, was my face red! Or, did I already get sunburned? Yup, I guess it's the time of year when my bottom is on the fuller side, the rounder side. And I've always liked round things. Bagels, pizza, Oreo cookies. Hey, I wonder if round things like to stick together? If eating round things inspires my bottom to become round too? All the round things must want company, after all.



Big Orange Ball, by Sara Robbins

The big bright orange ball sits in my house, waiting for Jacob, my almost-two-year-old grandson, to come. He hasn't visited for many months, but I keep it waiting for him.  I also have Mega Bloks, many books, a small table and two tiny chairs, large sheets of paper, crayons, some extra clothes he might need if he gets to sleep over again, diapers he's grown out of, wipes, organic baby food, soy milk and rice milk, a high chair he's sat in one time, sippy cups, bubbles, a small red ball, a big red bear, a small brown bear, harmonicas, bongos, and two other drums. I keep broccoli in the fridge because that's his favorite vegetable. His face is round and his big blue eyes are round. He runs around in circles in his house, a large house with many rooms to run through. On my birthday he will come to our house to share my day. His birthday is one day before mine. I will bake a cake that's round and write our names on it. And maybe we will play with the big orange ball.


Watch Faces, by Sue Norvell

We always assume a serene round watch face knows what it's talking about. "Yes, sure, you have time to check the garden, add the missed underwear to the laundry load, change the pillow cases, and clean up the cat's winter bed where she's shed enough fur for at least one more entire cat," my watch says. But sometimes the watch face lies. I am late for writing circle, again.

Meditative Poems, by Rob Sullivan

These small poems were composed last week during the Thursday Morning Writing Circle. Some of us were practicing "meditative writing" — intentionally slowing down and breathing consciously into each word. Rob captured this intuitive process so well!
 



balancing acts
as anchor, buoy, and line
changing as need be

you outside
me inside
us besides

devote each breath
every thought, all action
to Divine Mother

drop each excuse
lose every hesitation
rest, dwell, be

dreams are mist
fog and dew
burning off with eastern sun

a single flower
beautiful and brief
heart aches tears

daisy chain of thoughts
separate to reveal
spaces between knots

push away fearful things
draw in shiny lusts
ignore perceived cruel ones

deck of fifty-two billion cards
set up in a lifelong line
single act starts karmic chain reaction

soft simple smile
tastes sweet
slowly soothing

Porridge in the Pot, by Susan Lesser

At my house we call oatmeal “porridge.” True, it is the same gluey, colorless stuff as oatmeal, but somehow it seems tastier if it is assigned this rather British moniker. Instead of scooping a blob of goop out of the pot that still has most of its wooden handle, and hearing that blob land with a squdging sound in the cereal bowl with the chipped edge . . . . and instead of splashing in some milk that will never mix in properly until the entire dish is too cold to bother with . . . . and instead of looking about for a bit of sugar and finding only the canister of white crystals left over from Christmas baking efforts . . . . instead of that sort of oatmeal-related disappointment, porridge arrives with a certain proud sense of itself. This can be dangerous.

Porridge, once let in the door, threatens to run away with its own self-image, flaunt itself, and make fun of ordinary domestic life. Porridge may insist on arriving at the table in a bowl festooned with images of rose blooms and forget-me-nots. Porridge demands the milk be heated and served in a small porcelain pitcher with a gold band around the top. The sugar is not to be lowly brown sugar, but demerara sugar that twinkles as you shake it onto the porridge from the monogrammed silver spoon.

Of course, if you welcome this transformation of oatmeal into porridge, you will need to hire a butler. His name is Winchester, and he will deliver your porridge to you on a tray. Okay, let’s just admit it is a silver tray.. Also on that tray will be a small cut-glass bowl of wild strawberries gathered from the woods behind the stables. You will find coffee that gurgles gently from a silver-domed coffee pot. Perhaps best of all, there is a single pink rose in a bud vase in the upper left corner of the tray. The blossom was picked just as the sun rose over the conservatory and still carries three sparkling drops of dew on it petals. This is how porridge takes over a breakfast table.

I am pleased to report that I have succeeded in keeping the porridge at my house under control. I do this by using Quaker Quick Oats (never the instant variety) and cooking it for two minutes in the ticking microwave. Sometimes in a fit of pique, the bowl boils over and makes a terrible mess. I say “Dammit! You are acting like a bowl of oatmeal!” And I shove a bagel into the toaster.

So you have been warned. Beware of humble foodstuffs putting on airs! All the same, I will continue to contend that a bowl of porridge is a much more pleasant way to start the day that a bowl of oatmeal could ever be.

I Am Waiting, by Maureen Owens

for spring
the snow to stop
to melt
unveil the mud,
the mud to dry
the right moment
to remove
the snow tires
put away
the sweaters
and fleece,
park the boots,
plant the garden.
Waiting
Waiting
waiting for the alarm
for dogs to stir
coffee to finish
my turn in the shower
the car to warm.
Waiting for the computer
the emails, the replies
the issues of the day.
Waiting for lunch
for a run, a walk,
the sun, a breeze.
Waiting to leave,
To drive and arrive,
for joyful dogs
waiting to bolt.
Waiting for dinner
waiting for bed,
the sweetness
of sheets and blankets
cotton on skin
release and surrender,
exquisite not-waiting.

Edible Haiku, by Caroline Gates-Lupton

decaying leaves
dark earth
white, wild strawberries

trees in bloom
scattered apples
night falls — deer come

clattering on the porch
a light goes on
deer in the pumpkins

twilight
fresh compost
two fawns, one doe

making hand pies
my sister
the sugar monster

ithaca parade
i’m told
i have enough candy

birthday party
soda, apple juice
i cry for water

cows don’t realize —
grass
is not delicious

dandelion heads
eat them, she says
too fluffy for me

marshmallow on a stick
burning, falling
tiny explosion

green flames
consume
the pasta box

my sister, pasta queen
the box says ten minutes
she says five

homemade whipped cream
warm summer night
strawberries

pancakes
a dinner food
in my family

container of blueberries
fresh from the store
gone in a day

my great-grandmother’s
marinara sauce
gone, forever

vegan
no more honey
on buttered toast

food for thought:
what
does ink taste like?

Quan Yin, by Rob Sullivan

She is the embodiment
the essence distilled
the deity made manifest
living, breathing incarnation
of compassion boundless, with no end

She is the comforter
the healer and changer
of hearts and minds
of obstacles and veils
the clear seeing truth sayer
the ever patient, always caring
for continual awakening experience

She is the beloved
sought for wise guidance
and skillful means
the object of subject devotion
and life giving gratitude

She is the esoteric
made simple, real and plain
the kind and gentle guide
on the path to enlightenment
beyond old age, sickness, birth and death
through illusion of duality
towards a loving embrace
of her wise ways of the feminine

She is the ah yes!
the aha! the eureka!
the yes! the now I see!
the all is well!
the what will be, will be!
the love reign o'er me!
the compassion awakens!

Labyrinth, by Stacey Murphy

While only the stars watch
I walk the labyrinth
Palming the rock
Inhaling pine scent from the trees
And worm scent from the morning rain
The clouds now a memory
The sky bright tonight
Glinting off a shell on the path —

A shell.
And I smell something else
Sea beneath my feet
A mile down, maybe more
The remnants of life before
Bones of the tiny beings
And the giant creatures,
The ones who would have engulfed me
Laid my soul bare
Divinely ravaged.

And yet I walk
Back and forth on the path
Into the middle, leave the rock
Back out again
A slower unraveling
The stars so old
Their light taking so long
To hit this shell on this path
Everything winding back
To the need for patience.