Friday, April 21, 2017
I Used to Imagine . . . by Liz Burns
I used to imagine the meanings of words, rather than take the time to look them up in the dictionary.
One of these words was peripatetic. It had a slightly anxious sound to it, as if something was teetering on the edge of a table or a cliff and could suddenly fall off. Or maybe it described someone full of hysteria who could break out into unceasing cackling laughter at any minute.
Another word was redolent. I used to think it meant someone turning red. Then that image changed to someone turning red and holding on to something for dear life, as if they didn’t want to be dragged away from it.
The word cutlery used to evoke a picture of hundreds of pairs of scissors of all different shapes and sizes, including barbering shears and hedge trimmers.
When it came to more technical terms, my imagination ran amok.
When I heard the word sluice, I pictured a long sliding board with grape juice flowing down it.
Nuts and bolts were what was in the can of Planters mixed nuts on the counter.
A railroad trestle was a bridge with decorations on i t— a lot of gauze and ribbons that cheered up the train as it went past.
A manhole was where the street repair guys went to eat lunch, and asphalt and concrete were interchangeable because they both meant streets and sidewalks.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
2 Poems, by Caroline Gates-Lupton
Some Days
Some days
I like to walk along the bridge
the one over the river
beside the corn field.
Some days
I take an umbrella
just in case
the river is in the clouds.
Some days
the river is a roaring thing
turning pale rocks dark with wet
other days
it's nothing.
= = =
The Hour: a list-poem
The hour of not wanting it to happen.
The hour of the ladybugs.
The hour she came back.
The hour between dawn and sunrise.
The hour when nobody moved, not even one inch.
The hour I found you.
The hour of making bread.
The hour of inky hands and pencil-smudged cheeks.
The hour of cinnamon buns.
The hour of turning blue in the sea.
The hour of literary studies.
The hour no one prepared you for.
The hour you wish to forget.
The hour of waiting... forever.
The hour that left you behind.
The hour the clock broke.
The hour of the day of the year you were born.
The hour of evening.
The hour of sitting home with a cold on Halloween.
The hour of bright dresses and fancy hair.
The hour I missed you.
The hour after I meant to wake up.
The hour after the first time you heard that song.
The hour of silence.
The hour that lasts a month or two.
The hour of falling asleep.
The hour of waking up, slowly.
The hour of finding exactly the right kind of food.
The hour you can't do anything right.
The hour of creaky floors and old steps.
The hour the telephone didn't ring.
The hour nobody wants to remember.
The hour we'd all hate to forget.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Night Sky, by Marty Blue Waters
When I was a little girl I often snuck out of the house at night — after everyone else was asleep. I wanted the stars all around me so I lay down in the middle of our big back yard and studied the sky.
Once I was a bit older and had a bike to ride, I expanded my view of the night. Pedaling only three blocks from our house brought me to the Kansas countryside. My dog Princess was always game for these little adventures and loved to trot along beside me. If I rode down a dirt road about a mile, I came to the perfect spot to stand in awe and have the deep night sky drop its starry curtain 360 degrees all around me.
The town did not put out much light pollution and I didn't even know what that was yet anyway, so the pitch black was a special friend. Even without a moon in the sky, I loved the way my eyes knew how to see the world in a new way, letting starlight guide me down the road. The Milky Way stretched across the sky like the yellow brick road. I felt I was walking down its path without even moving my legs. I knew where to find the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the North Star, Orion, and considered them all to be my best friends. On nights when the full moon rose up just after dark, it was so incredibly enormous and often an intensely orange color. It felt as though it were so close I could actually hop right onto it. These trips were a little trickier, however, because they happened in the late evening before the cover of deep night and before everyone was asleep.
If I saw headlights approaching from miles away, I hid in a ditch. There were no trees to hide behind for many miles. Usually I could tell who drove by because I recognized the car or pickup. There was a place called "Lovers Lane" not far from my favorite spot, so some late nights had more traffic than others. Even my dog knew how to hide under a wheel of my bike and not make a sound. We would crouch in that big ditch for a long time before we came back onto the road, usually waiting for the red tail lights to turn direction.
Meteor showers in August were such an incredible gift. And with a little luck, they happened during the New Moon when the world was at its darkest. The shooting stars would put on a fireworks show so spectacular it took my breath away. The most difficult part was not to get excited during the day and try to describe these night experiences to somebody — especially within earshot of my mom. She would skip the wonder of it all and read me the riot act about ever leaving the house at night again. Ever ever again. Ever never. Never.
So it stayed my own spectacular secret. And I knew I could trust my dog not to spill the beans. There was so much about me that my mother didn't know. Sometimes she would try to get me to talk and tell her about things I liked and why. Part of her would have loved to share my night sky with me, but I knew the other part of her — the Baptist part — would be the one to take charge of the situation. She would worry that the Devil was talking to me and getting me to love the dark of night too much. An intervention in the making. And that was a very dim and depressing road I would avoid religiously throughout my entire childhood.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Round Things: short pieces on a theme (and more) . . . Thursday Circle
On April 13, 2017 the Thursday Morning Writing Circle devoted 10 minutes to writing on the theme of "Round Things." Here you will find the pieces that were written by 10 members of the group. But even before we did that, we spent 5 minutes writing small poems about our most recent sensory experiences. I've included those small poems at the end of this entry.
Annie Wexler
Ever since I could remember, my father was bald. When I was a little girl I thought he was the most handsome man in the world, though later I realized that he was quite average looking. I loved his round shiny head with the little fringe of hair circling his ears. He got dressed every day in a suit and tie. He polished his shoes. He wore a fedora, as every man did in that era. He didn't drink, except for a glass of Manischevitz on Friday nights at Shabbos dinner. He didn't smoke, except for the occasional cigar. He didn't curse or raise his voice. I idolized him. My mother, on the other hand, was truly beautiful, with her lustrous black hair and gorgeous figure. It must have been hard for my father when people said things like "This must be your daughter, she is so beautiful." One day when I was about 10 years old my father came home wearing a toupee. It was black, with a bit of a shag, and a part down the middle. He was very proud. He must have looked in the mirror and felt that finally he was attractive, maybe actually handsome. My mother started it — she just pointed at his head and laughed. Then I followed, and after me, my brother. We couldn't stop. The toupee must have gone in the garbage that day. We never saw it again and it was never talked about. My father seemed a bit down for a day or two but then he resumed being his happy bald self for the rest of his life.
Barbara Anger
In the hospital, my mother's belly was round with death, as hard as my brother's baseball. What happened to the soft button that attached her to her mother's life? When the full moon was hidden in the mist of the night, her mother lassoed her with an umbilical cord stronger than the one I had held tight in my heart. It circled her many times and pulled her beyond reach. She is now a shadow seen across time. I no longer remember her soft touch.
Fran Helmstadter
We walked along Eighth Street in Greenwich Village, one spring early evening. I wanted Tom to visit the bookstore where I spent so much time and money, and which had become the place where I felt deep contentment. But he pulled me past that place, and across the street, to the small jewelry shop. We walked through the door, under the sign "Wedding Rings." In the cool darkness we looked at trays of rings. Tom caught the attention of a sales clerk, probably the owner. I had never purchased a ring. The clerk sized my ring finger and put several trays on the counter. Tom looked, and waited. The choice was up to me, and I had never given any thought to my wedding ring. A gold, shiny band— braided, and 1/3 of an inch wide — caught my eye. Of the multitude of rings on offer, I tried on just this one.
Reba Dolch
"Duck, Duck, Goose" was not my favorite circle game in 1957. We had to sit on the ground in the Hope Valley Elementary School playground in Durham, North Carolina, even though all the girls wore dresses. We had to. One first grade classmate was chosen to be "it" and he went around the circle tapping everyone on the head saying "duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck." When he finally said "goose," you, the goose, had to stand up and run around the circle after him until he took your place and then it was your turn to be the tapper. I didn't like it because it was a popularity contest and some people never got to be goose. Once, sitting on the ground, waiting forever to be a goose, I got a chigger bite on my bum and it itched for the rest of the day.
Rob Sullivan
There was plastic wrap to contend with first. It encased the cardboard rectangle and the paper sleeve that housed the sleek, shiny, black vinyl disc. Grooves were etched into the surface, providing a sonic road map of the musician's journey. Here was lightning trapped in a bottle and unleashed through speakers and headphones. One brief moment of time captured for the ages.
Spike Schaff
The earth is round. The wind around my ears makes a circular sound. Vibrating at 440 cycles per second, like the middle A on a piano surrounded by the orchestra, all playing Tasha O's concert-o, "Wagon Wheels #2."
Stacey Murphy
Basketball manipulated magically. Spinning on top of one thick finger, falling off other smaller ones. Orange, black, gray — or red, white, and blue — the persistent thud-thud-thud down the hallway, the living room, the driveway, the street, bouncing amplified by as many boys as there are balls, a percussive din by young athletes who don't know they're also musicians. Bounce-passing, three pointers, layups, jump-balls, and fast breaks. Constant dribbling, with one hand, then the other. Dribbling while watching TV, while brushing teeth, while waiting for the bus. But NOT while showering. A basketball boy yearns to merge with his sphere, extend his arm and release the ball at only the right moment, every bounce making the ball a part of him. Or himself at one with the ball.
Sue Crowley
Jezebel has hyperthyroidism, requiring 1 pill a day, cut into 4 tiny pieces. These go into chicken- and salmon-flavored pill pockets that I carefully roll into perfect little balls, while she rubs circles impatiently around my ankles. Always, every day, twice a day, we repeat this ritual. And every time, as I begin rolling the pill pocket closed, she steps away from my feet and begins talking to me. It's only one sound really. A sound just like that demented cartoon cat made. An "ack" sound. Jezebel says "ack," and "ack" again if I lollygag while refining these little morsels into perfect balls. "Ack!" which I translate as "Stop playing with my food and just give it to me already." Yes, all that in an "ack, ack." Jezebel is a very expressive cat, to my mind's ear.
Susan Lesser
In our wedding ceremony, 41 years ago, the officiant, as we say today, explained that the round rings we were exchanging were a symbol of the unbrokenness of the marriage bond. We did not laugh, but we thought about it. When Bill and I became engaged he was resolute in his decision that he did not want a wedding ring — never, no way. Couldn't stand the thought of it. Fine, I said, okay by me. However, four days before our wedding we were doing some Christmas shopping in a nearby town. One shop window had a display of locally crafted jewelry and Bill suddenly decided he liked one of the rings he saw skewered on the pointy display prop. It was a hippie-style ring — silver with silver curlicues stuck on, and a small stone in the center. But it was too tight for his finger and there was no time to have it sized. So the proprietor/jeweler simply sliced through the band and stretched it. There was a noticeable gap. This ring was not continuous. It did not go around forever and ever. But it was Bill's wedding ring. Over time I have come to think that this ring is a worthy symbol of marriage. It is important to honor the space between partners, to embrace not just each other but the need for each to take a breath, and to be separate for a time . . . before rejoining the perfectly imperfect circle of togetherness.
Yvonne Fisher
No matzoh balls for me this Passover. I'm too busy preparing to fly around the earth. Or part way around this great globe, this blue dot. There I will be in the night time dark, trying to sleep as we hurl ourselves through the starry sky around and around across the ocean, to another place. Another place, indeed. I will try to trust that a fine good pilot will take us safely around the world in the dark. I will try not to think about it too much, us up there flying through space around the globe. I might pray a little. I might take a little pill. I might list all that I am grateful for. I only hope there are stars to guide us.
===
small poems:
gospels in French
my husband meditates —
holy week
- Annie Wexler
matzoh half eaten
apples and walnuts
will horseradish keep until next year?
- Annie Wexler
radio stirring my oatmeal
Russia and U.S. mixed
with blueberries and bananas
tastes like anxiety
- Barbara Anger
message from the middle
dig deeper to unfold
space
- Fran Helmstadter
restless limb
fixed in space
no go
- Fran Helmstadter
skin covers and reveals
red alarm
touch the message
- Fran Helmstadter
wet washcloth . . . cool clean sheets
dogs tucked against me like sentinels —
remembering mother's healing hands
the flu recedes
- Rebecca Dolch
car door whooshes shut
engine revs to start
radio hums ode to Maybelline
- Rob Sullivan
deer running into the road
new fertilizer on the grass
and on my shoes
- Spike Schaff
breakfast in the car
coffee banana coffee
cinnamon coffee
- Stacey Murphy
spicy laughter
sweet mellow beer bubbles
catfish sausage gumbo
- Stacey Murphy
night air in spring
the earth opens slowly . . .
hints of scents to come
- Sue Crowley
gentle cat opens her eyes
and closes them —
too early too early
- Susan Lesser
English muffin
the toaster pops —
too hot too hot
- Susan Lesser
she came over this morning
her lyrical voice
we had a fight
- Yvonne Fisher
news on NPR
turn it off
favoring silence
- Yvonne Fisher
Annie Wexler
Ever since I could remember, my father was bald. When I was a little girl I thought he was the most handsome man in the world, though later I realized that he was quite average looking. I loved his round shiny head with the little fringe of hair circling his ears. He got dressed every day in a suit and tie. He polished his shoes. He wore a fedora, as every man did in that era. He didn't drink, except for a glass of Manischevitz on Friday nights at Shabbos dinner. He didn't smoke, except for the occasional cigar. He didn't curse or raise his voice. I idolized him. My mother, on the other hand, was truly beautiful, with her lustrous black hair and gorgeous figure. It must have been hard for my father when people said things like "This must be your daughter, she is so beautiful." One day when I was about 10 years old my father came home wearing a toupee. It was black, with a bit of a shag, and a part down the middle. He was very proud. He must have looked in the mirror and felt that finally he was attractive, maybe actually handsome. My mother started it — she just pointed at his head and laughed. Then I followed, and after me, my brother. We couldn't stop. The toupee must have gone in the garbage that day. We never saw it again and it was never talked about. My father seemed a bit down for a day or two but then he resumed being his happy bald self for the rest of his life.
Barbara Anger
In the hospital, my mother's belly was round with death, as hard as my brother's baseball. What happened to the soft button that attached her to her mother's life? When the full moon was hidden in the mist of the night, her mother lassoed her with an umbilical cord stronger than the one I had held tight in my heart. It circled her many times and pulled her beyond reach. She is now a shadow seen across time. I no longer remember her soft touch.
Fran Helmstadter
We walked along Eighth Street in Greenwich Village, one spring early evening. I wanted Tom to visit the bookstore where I spent so much time and money, and which had become the place where I felt deep contentment. But he pulled me past that place, and across the street, to the small jewelry shop. We walked through the door, under the sign "Wedding Rings." In the cool darkness we looked at trays of rings. Tom caught the attention of a sales clerk, probably the owner. I had never purchased a ring. The clerk sized my ring finger and put several trays on the counter. Tom looked, and waited. The choice was up to me, and I had never given any thought to my wedding ring. A gold, shiny band— braided, and 1/3 of an inch wide — caught my eye. Of the multitude of rings on offer, I tried on just this one.
Reba Dolch
"Duck, Duck, Goose" was not my favorite circle game in 1957. We had to sit on the ground in the Hope Valley Elementary School playground in Durham, North Carolina, even though all the girls wore dresses. We had to. One first grade classmate was chosen to be "it" and he went around the circle tapping everyone on the head saying "duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck." When he finally said "goose," you, the goose, had to stand up and run around the circle after him until he took your place and then it was your turn to be the tapper. I didn't like it because it was a popularity contest and some people never got to be goose. Once, sitting on the ground, waiting forever to be a goose, I got a chigger bite on my bum and it itched for the rest of the day.
Rob Sullivan
There was plastic wrap to contend with first. It encased the cardboard rectangle and the paper sleeve that housed the sleek, shiny, black vinyl disc. Grooves were etched into the surface, providing a sonic road map of the musician's journey. Here was lightning trapped in a bottle and unleashed through speakers and headphones. One brief moment of time captured for the ages.
Spike Schaff
The earth is round. The wind around my ears makes a circular sound. Vibrating at 440 cycles per second, like the middle A on a piano surrounded by the orchestra, all playing Tasha O's concert-o, "Wagon Wheels #2."
Stacey Murphy
Basketball manipulated magically. Spinning on top of one thick finger, falling off other smaller ones. Orange, black, gray — or red, white, and blue — the persistent thud-thud-thud down the hallway, the living room, the driveway, the street, bouncing amplified by as many boys as there are balls, a percussive din by young athletes who don't know they're also musicians. Bounce-passing, three pointers, layups, jump-balls, and fast breaks. Constant dribbling, with one hand, then the other. Dribbling while watching TV, while brushing teeth, while waiting for the bus. But NOT while showering. A basketball boy yearns to merge with his sphere, extend his arm and release the ball at only the right moment, every bounce making the ball a part of him. Or himself at one with the ball.
Sue Crowley
Jezebel has hyperthyroidism, requiring 1 pill a day, cut into 4 tiny pieces. These go into chicken- and salmon-flavored pill pockets that I carefully roll into perfect little balls, while she rubs circles impatiently around my ankles. Always, every day, twice a day, we repeat this ritual. And every time, as I begin rolling the pill pocket closed, she steps away from my feet and begins talking to me. It's only one sound really. A sound just like that demented cartoon cat made. An "ack" sound. Jezebel says "ack," and "ack" again if I lollygag while refining these little morsels into perfect balls. "Ack!" which I translate as "Stop playing with my food and just give it to me already." Yes, all that in an "ack, ack." Jezebel is a very expressive cat, to my mind's ear.
Susan Lesser
In our wedding ceremony, 41 years ago, the officiant, as we say today, explained that the round rings we were exchanging were a symbol of the unbrokenness of the marriage bond. We did not laugh, but we thought about it. When Bill and I became engaged he was resolute in his decision that he did not want a wedding ring — never, no way. Couldn't stand the thought of it. Fine, I said, okay by me. However, four days before our wedding we were doing some Christmas shopping in a nearby town. One shop window had a display of locally crafted jewelry and Bill suddenly decided he liked one of the rings he saw skewered on the pointy display prop. It was a hippie-style ring — silver with silver curlicues stuck on, and a small stone in the center. But it was too tight for his finger and there was no time to have it sized. So the proprietor/jeweler simply sliced through the band and stretched it. There was a noticeable gap. This ring was not continuous. It did not go around forever and ever. But it was Bill's wedding ring. Over time I have come to think that this ring is a worthy symbol of marriage. It is important to honor the space between partners, to embrace not just each other but the need for each to take a breath, and to be separate for a time . . . before rejoining the perfectly imperfect circle of togetherness.
Yvonne Fisher
No matzoh balls for me this Passover. I'm too busy preparing to fly around the earth. Or part way around this great globe, this blue dot. There I will be in the night time dark, trying to sleep as we hurl ourselves through the starry sky around and around across the ocean, to another place. Another place, indeed. I will try to trust that a fine good pilot will take us safely around the world in the dark. I will try not to think about it too much, us up there flying through space around the globe. I might pray a little. I might take a little pill. I might list all that I am grateful for. I only hope there are stars to guide us.
===
small poems:
gospels in French
my husband meditates —
holy week
- Annie Wexler
matzoh half eaten
apples and walnuts
will horseradish keep until next year?
- Annie Wexler
radio stirring my oatmeal
Russia and U.S. mixed
with blueberries and bananas
tastes like anxiety
- Barbara Anger
message from the middle
dig deeper to unfold
space
- Fran Helmstadter
restless limb
fixed in space
no go
- Fran Helmstadter
skin covers and reveals
red alarm
touch the message
- Fran Helmstadter
wet washcloth . . . cool clean sheets
dogs tucked against me like sentinels —
remembering mother's healing hands
the flu recedes
- Rebecca Dolch
car door whooshes shut
engine revs to start
radio hums ode to Maybelline
- Rob Sullivan
deer running into the road
new fertilizer on the grass
and on my shoes
- Spike Schaff
breakfast in the car
coffee banana coffee
cinnamon coffee
- Stacey Murphy
spicy laughter
sweet mellow beer bubbles
catfish sausage gumbo
- Stacey Murphy
night air in spring
the earth opens slowly . . .
hints of scents to come
- Sue Crowley
gentle cat opens her eyes
and closes them —
too early too early
- Susan Lesser
English muffin
the toaster pops —
too hot too hot
- Susan Lesser
she came over this morning
her lyrical voice
we had a fight
- Yvonne Fisher
news on NPR
turn it off
favoring silence
- Yvonne Fisher
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Round Things: short pieces on a theme . . . Wednesday Circle
On April 12, 2017 the Wednesday Morning Writing Circle began with a 10 minute warm-up on the theme "Round Things." Here are the pieces that were written by the 7 women and men who were present that day.
Caroline Gates-Lupton
Planets and stars and the moon are all round, or at least they look like that from the deceptively flat surface of the earth. The wheels on Zee's and Daniel's chairs are round, with a half-circle of roundness capping each wheel. The way a person talks can be round, their pitch and volume traveling from high to low and back again. The letter o, not to be confused with the number zero, is very round, perfectly round, when written correctly. Sometimes my o's look like blobs on the page; sometimes they look like the circular mouth of a water bottle. The tip of this pen, where the ink comes out, is round. I guess that's why they call it a "ball point pen." I wonder, if I could somehow take that point out of the pen, would there be an actual inky ball that I could roll across my fingers?
Daniel Cooper
Golf ball — Grandpa's arms were tan from his golfing. Harold was Grandpa's name and he had round blonde curls as a child. When he was older all his hair fell out and he became bald. A bald eagle has round eyes.
Christine Sanchirico
The sun is round. I think. Except when there are those explosions that happen on the surface, that break through the roundness and burst, throwing little sparks everywhere. And us, we sit on our round earth, assuming the soft roundness of the warm sun. When in reality the sun is a fiery mass of energy, wishing that we would notice its intensity. We sit mulling our urbane lives, rocking in our rocking chairs, as we observe the sun slowly slipping below the horizon.
The full moon, apparently pink in April. Although at night its blue coolness sprinkles on the spruce tree — the branches, sharp, grab at the reflected light. For the moon, with no light of its own, alas, must surrender to the shadows, as it slips behind a cloud.
The earth. When you are way up on a hillside you can see the gentle curvature and you become a passenger on a round boat, riding the waves of space and time as you journey forward, little imagining that you really are going in circles.
Janie Nusser
Worms are round. Long and round. I noticed this las week during the flood watch. In my walk along Seneca Lake in the rain I noticed that worms had migrated from their homes on the asphalt trail. I worried about them as I tried to avoid stepping on them. Would they be able to go home when the water subsided? Would they survive on the asphalt? Each day, I checked. Some worms formed circles, curling into themselves. I thought that might be a bad sign. I stopped often to see if any of them moved. Some did, some didn't. If they died, would a worm family miss them? Did worms have belongings that would have been washed away in what, to them, was a flood? When the sun came out one day I looked even more closely. Obviously, some worms survived, for there were far fewer of their pink bodies standing out on the black trail. But, sadly, some, usually the ones curled into round pink balls, had not moved an inch in a couple of days. By the next day, their bodies were black orbs. I hope there is a worm heaven and that they have all joined their families on the other side.
Mary Louise Church
Babies' tummies. Eyes when the package is opened. Oranges full of refreshing juice. My great-grandmother's ring and my forget-me-not ring. Mouths that are ooohing over the sight of chocolate pie. The tires on my car that go round and round and round, mile after mile. The rings in my notebook that holds the last year of my creative thoughts. Holes dug in the Seneca County clay for the plants my husband has decided must be moved. The direction my thoughts go in when I'm puzzling out an annoying problem. The brim of my coffee cup with the aroma wafting over it. Ben's yellow eyes contrasting sharply with his ebony fur. The merry-go-round at the park. The path around the merry-go-round where the grass has been worn away by the pounding feet of people pushing pushing pushing. The perfect little snowballs that hit the windshield as I drove through the storm the other day. Lower case o but not upper case O. Black olives are much rounder than green ones. The smoke rings my grandpa used to blow for us kids to try to catch.
Ross Haarstad
What goes around come around. The sleeping infant, the dog at the hearth, the opening of the glass at my elbow, the sounds of the settling night. Gather round to round off the turning of the day.
Spring moon floats through last night's sky, calling me home.
This button, lost from its shirt. Or the shirt, lost from this button. Turn it around, again and again.
Children spinning as the world slips its balance, like young dervishes escaping gravity.
Mandalas: rose windows high in the gothic arches, and manhole covers.
Dimes, pennies, nickels, quarters. The vanishing tangibility of cash.
Saskya van Nouhuys
An ispod rolls up into a perfect ball when it gets startled. If that happens on a slope then it also rolls away.
==
Katy and I went to the beach. We searched for the roundest small pebbles, and swallowed them.
Caroline Gates-Lupton
Planets and stars and the moon are all round, or at least they look like that from the deceptively flat surface of the earth. The wheels on Zee's and Daniel's chairs are round, with a half-circle of roundness capping each wheel. The way a person talks can be round, their pitch and volume traveling from high to low and back again. The letter o, not to be confused with the number zero, is very round, perfectly round, when written correctly. Sometimes my o's look like blobs on the page; sometimes they look like the circular mouth of a water bottle. The tip of this pen, where the ink comes out, is round. I guess that's why they call it a "ball point pen." I wonder, if I could somehow take that point out of the pen, would there be an actual inky ball that I could roll across my fingers?
Daniel Cooper
Golf ball — Grandpa's arms were tan from his golfing. Harold was Grandpa's name and he had round blonde curls as a child. When he was older all his hair fell out and he became bald. A bald eagle has round eyes.
Christine Sanchirico
The sun is round. I think. Except when there are those explosions that happen on the surface, that break through the roundness and burst, throwing little sparks everywhere. And us, we sit on our round earth, assuming the soft roundness of the warm sun. When in reality the sun is a fiery mass of energy, wishing that we would notice its intensity. We sit mulling our urbane lives, rocking in our rocking chairs, as we observe the sun slowly slipping below the horizon.
The full moon, apparently pink in April. Although at night its blue coolness sprinkles on the spruce tree — the branches, sharp, grab at the reflected light. For the moon, with no light of its own, alas, must surrender to the shadows, as it slips behind a cloud.
The earth. When you are way up on a hillside you can see the gentle curvature and you become a passenger on a round boat, riding the waves of space and time as you journey forward, little imagining that you really are going in circles.
Janie Nusser
Worms are round. Long and round. I noticed this las week during the flood watch. In my walk along Seneca Lake in the rain I noticed that worms had migrated from their homes on the asphalt trail. I worried about them as I tried to avoid stepping on them. Would they be able to go home when the water subsided? Would they survive on the asphalt? Each day, I checked. Some worms formed circles, curling into themselves. I thought that might be a bad sign. I stopped often to see if any of them moved. Some did, some didn't. If they died, would a worm family miss them? Did worms have belongings that would have been washed away in what, to them, was a flood? When the sun came out one day I looked even more closely. Obviously, some worms survived, for there were far fewer of their pink bodies standing out on the black trail. But, sadly, some, usually the ones curled into round pink balls, had not moved an inch in a couple of days. By the next day, their bodies were black orbs. I hope there is a worm heaven and that they have all joined their families on the other side.
Mary Louise Church
Babies' tummies. Eyes when the package is opened. Oranges full of refreshing juice. My great-grandmother's ring and my forget-me-not ring. Mouths that are ooohing over the sight of chocolate pie. The tires on my car that go round and round and round, mile after mile. The rings in my notebook that holds the last year of my creative thoughts. Holes dug in the Seneca County clay for the plants my husband has decided must be moved. The direction my thoughts go in when I'm puzzling out an annoying problem. The brim of my coffee cup with the aroma wafting over it. Ben's yellow eyes contrasting sharply with his ebony fur. The merry-go-round at the park. The path around the merry-go-round where the grass has been worn away by the pounding feet of people pushing pushing pushing. The perfect little snowballs that hit the windshield as I drove through the storm the other day. Lower case o but not upper case O. Black olives are much rounder than green ones. The smoke rings my grandpa used to blow for us kids to try to catch.
Ross Haarstad
What goes around come around. The sleeping infant, the dog at the hearth, the opening of the glass at my elbow, the sounds of the settling night. Gather round to round off the turning of the day.
Spring moon floats through last night's sky, calling me home.
This button, lost from its shirt. Or the shirt, lost from this button. Turn it around, again and again.
Children spinning as the world slips its balance, like young dervishes escaping gravity.
Mandalas: rose windows high in the gothic arches, and manhole covers.
Dimes, pennies, nickels, quarters. The vanishing tangibility of cash.
Saskya van Nouhuys
An ispod rolls up into a perfect ball when it gets startled. If that happens on a slope then it also rolls away.
==
Katy and I went to the beach. We searched for the roundest small pebbles, and swallowed them.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
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
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
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