Mapping the Way to Spring, by Sue Norvell

Leave in Winter, February, right around Valentine’s Day. Check the forecast, poke in the snow by the fence line. Here’s the first sign pointing toward Spring: green shoots just barely above the frozen soil. (How do they do that?) The snowdrops are coming.

The Juncos become restless. Instead of feeding placidly in small flocks, they chase and dart in among the neighbor’s hemlocks. The flash of white tail feathers is unmistakable. This is the second marker.

Proceed straight on through the weeks to March. The male Cardinal sings, claiming our feeder as his personal territory, an area he has willingly shared all winter, ‘til now. He’s sung this song, fitfully, since early January as the light shifted, but now he sings in earnest, chasing younger birds who audaciously challenge his seniority.

A late snow blankets everything, but soon melts. The barberry bushes, so heavy with red berries last week have been stripped clean. Cedar Waxwings? Robins?

We’ve nearly arrived. Follow the signs. Spring is just ahead, just around that corner. I’m sure I can see it from here!

In the L Section, by Stacy Murphy

This was inspired by the line “I Found Myself in the L Section of the Dictionary” — from the Billy Collins poem, “The Lanyard”



I went looking for the answers to all of it — to the meaning of life, to the Universe, to our place within the great scheme of things.

I listened to podcasts. Went to yoga retreats. Therapy. Travel. Thrill-chasing jumps out of airplanes.  Softness. Shock. 

I tried all the ways that one can contort and chase, strive in that ever-elusive quest to know oneself.

Turns out, what they say is true — to find something it does help to stop looking. 

Turns out, I found myself in the dictionary.

Turns out, I found myself in the “L” section of the dictionary.

I recognized myself in longing right away, and could remember my younger self in lust. 

Logic has its place but too much can lead me to languish in loneliness, though that I recognized too.

Luckily, laughter — loud laughter — was another favorite find.

And the future leads me to a lioness, the lioness I long to be, lively and lovely and loving and sometimes languid by a lagoon or lake with a libation and a lobster lollipop.

Two Short Pieces, by Kimberly Zajac

These two short pieces were written in the Saturday Morning Circle on March 24. The first was in response to a “spark” that suggested using the phrase “and then” at the start of each line; the second was written in the last five minutes of the group, using the “Paint Chip Poetry Game” to provide key words.


And Then . . .

And then there is the space between after and before
And then there is the pause between losing and catching your breath
And then there is the silent life between heart beats
And then there is the lift of the pen between words
And then there is the question between worry and relief
And then there is the dangling between seasons
And then there is the suspension between loss and love
And then there is the quiet healing after the pain and before the "I don't remember"
And then there is the wait before the laughter at one's self and the holding back of tears that never really works
And then there is the hesitant lean before reassurance
And then there is the shivering robin on a cold March morning
And then there is my wonder of it all
And then there is the murky tea that brings clarity
And then there is the ink splotch tattoo on my finger
And then there is the inner voice that chooses squiggles instead of words
And then there is the muse that giggles from the last page




My Hometown

my hometown when I was a child
was just my own back yard
a community of bluebirds
and sun rays
fireflies and
orange Chinese lanterns
and best of all was ordering up
a tall glass of iced tea
and snapping off a sprig of mint
to make it oh so grown-up
while I enjoyed my childhood accordingly

The Future, by Marian Rogers

This was written earlier today, Saturday, March 24, during the last five minutes of a Writing Circle in the Painted Parrot Writing Studio. We were playing with the Paint Chip Poetry Game, choosing various words that set a theme and got us started. But that’s when the magic began …. as individual pieces took shape in meaningful ways.




Time past, I wanted the Garden of Eden in our backyard, to create it. That was ambitious, presumptuous even.

Time present,  what we have is the herb garden and the parts of the rock garden we transformed from red rock desert to alpines, lavender, and many kinds of sedum in time for the engagement party.

Time future, it will be a luxuriant jade plant, the kind that's like a tree, many-limbed, succulent leaves, wherever we find ourselves then.

17 Short Poems, by Heather Boob

17 Short Poems, by Heather Boob, written in response to phrases found in the poetry collection “Blood and the Word,” by Rosaire Karij


WHAT WE HAVE FORGOTTEN
Is to stop and breathe
In an out
To look each other in the eye
And to remember
We are all – only human
Or did we ever know?

A TOO SMALL APARTMENT
Is a perfect size
To keep tidy
And a good excuse
To get outside

YEAR AFTER YEAR
We see white canvas
Come to life in chartreuse
And budding rainbow blooms
Smoking chimneys turned campfire-side
To circles of celebration
Like a black bear after a long rest
Ready to refill and restore
On the wild fruits of late summer
Dreaming of hot, humid mornings
When running waters are
The only cooling relief

AT 6 A.M.
On a mid-summer morn
I rise with the sun
Yellow and blue filling sky
At 6 a.m.
On an early winter morn
I rise with the sun
Rose petal reds bursting blooms
Of color to carry through
Winter’s white

TELL ME AGAIN
Where you were standing
The moment you realized
This was not your life
What you were thinking
When she held your hand
So tightly that you felt like
You were choking
Who you called to ask
For help
What was happening
In your body
Why you waited
So long

THIS IS ABOUT A WOMAN
Whose body I came so close to
But whose heart I could not reach

THE LACK OF MONEY
Could limit one or expand her creative mind. Ben Franklin loved his beer and his women, and was crazy enough to fly a kite in a lightning storm. He had nothing to lose. A modest man, he was not. He started with nothing, and retired early in abundant wealth. He had nothing to lose.

WALKING UP THE STAIRS
Is so far, still easy
But I cannot help to think about
When the day will come
Where I feel effort behind every step
Thanking my thighs along the way

IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH
Or was it always too much?

THE FIRST TIME
I laid it all out on the table
You devoured every last morsel
Then hiccuped
I suppose that was your way
Of saying grace

SPEAK THE TRUTH
Even if it’s hard to hear the stuttering escaping your mouth
And terrifying to consider the reaction of the heart that will swallow it

SOME SMALL GRIEVANCE
Makes large
To the underdog

AN INVISISBLE MARK
Of time
Slowly reveals itself
Through a line
On her face

THAT WAS THE YEAR I LEARNED
That mothers don’t always come home
That little brothers are sweet to the blood
That young girls can become women too soon
And
That God doesn’t offer reprieve just because you’re sorry

FOR MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS
I’ll have to come back to this one

I REALLY CAN’T HELP IT
Love and compassion
Are innate

LAST NIGHT, I DREAMED
Before falling asleep
That when I awoke
I would carry the story
Of my yesterdays
Into today
Without attachment
Without hesitation
For the truth of tomorrow

==


(Note from Zee: Thank you Rosaire, for your beautiful poems. Excerpts from your book served as the inspiration for our writing this week, in all the Circles.)

V is for Violet, by Susanna Drbal

V is for Violet. Violet is the name of my toothless cat, so you would think she’s never violent. You’d be wrong. Violet, in spite of her tiny body and little head, has giant paws with thumbs. She likes to swat.

Violet doesn’t think of herself as violent — or as little, or even as a cat. She thinks she is a spy. She hides in corners and under beds, ears perked up, eyes wide and shining. She gathers information — who smells like what, what that noise means, what is inside that stuffed mouse that squeaks.

She compiles her information into a notebook she writes in after everybody is asleep. She holds a pen in her big, right front paw and holds the page down with her big, left front paw. She watches me write every morning and thinks, Susanna must be a spy too.

Violet writes her memoir, and a constant theme is food. How many crunchies did she leave behind for Klaus? She notes whether the wet food was cold or room temperature. She discusses the ongoing issue of cleaning her face after meals. She also writes about her litter box, evaluating how much scratching is ideal for covering up her deposits.

Violet writes about her past lives, too, when she lived on the streets and was chased by tomcats and shivered under bushes. She writes about her time as “Persia,” when she lived in a tiny room with six other cats. She hid under a cushion most of those days. In between, she gave birth and got hit by a car. There was some pain, some fear, but good times too. Violet is visionary.