Writer Crews

"Mom, are you going to die in December?" my six year old daughter asked. "No." I continued picking up dirty clothes from her bedroom floor. "Am I going to die in December?" cuddled onto her side, she looked over at me from her twin bed, little pink hands tucked under full rosy cheeks. "No," I paused in my clean up to look into her big brown eyes, "And why December?" "Because that's when the calendar ends." "No honey, it's a cycle. I already bought the January 2011 calendar, it just loops around." Death has been a topic of interest lately for my six year old daughter. "Mom, what happens when we die?" My first answer was honest, "I don't know what happens. I know we are connected and we will always be connected in our hearts. You will always be in my heart and I will always be in yours." Okay, kind of a lame answer, but it was under pressure and never rehearsed. ...

Nested in the Northwest Every raindrop a kiss, a blessing from the sky herself The lower the cloud, the tighter the embrace The fog protecting, holding The earth here wants to blanket me in moss Cover my body in her abundance And take me back Into her arms Down into the fertile soil Encompassing me whole Leaving only a free soul Able to drift up Lightened of living load ___________________________ * I wrote the poem thinking of abundance and acceptance, of nature itself. Only after I read it back to myself, did I see some resemblance to death. But it's really about life. Even so, aren't they just sides of the same coin?

Spring is a shy Southern Belle She sneaks up Like a slow simmer A spot of color catches the eye and behold She's been in the room all along No warning No loud announcement She tiptoes in with her vibrant agenda Twisting the kaleidoscope Shifting shades From pale winter to warm blush Upon lush cheeks. But Fall, Fall is my season When mother-nature rolls down the window Letting the wind whip up my hair Raining down leaves to knock about my head Whistling through my bones for attention When the moment comes for her spell to cast Watch Trees bow at her entrance Leaves drop in open admiration Winds blow untamed kisses She is the DIVA of seasons.

I sat at the kitchen table sipping my morning ritual- coffee- when a scratch at the window to my side caught my attention. Thinking nothing, also a morning ritual, I glanced over and startled at the squirrel nodding his furry head at me. I looked around the kitchen for witnesses but no one was around. This time, the little nut brown knocked and I looked back at him in disbelief. I pointed to my chest and raised my eyebrows. He nodded, "Yes, you." His voice was muted behind the window pane. I cracked the window, but only an inch... who knew what kind of temperament talking squirrels had.

Beauty I'm a cynic when it comes to beauty. Beauty may cause more trouble than religion. It pokes at girls, creating eating disorders. It pinches young women's wallets into buying the latest trendy brands. It guiles ladies into smearing on useless nightly lotion regiments. Beauty is as unattainable to oneself as heaven. Because, who are you to be beautiful? I've never heard a woman fully claim it as her own. There's always a flaw, a 'one-thing' to change. Beauty. You can keep the version of it that plasters its judgment across exceptional faces and shapely bodies, the version that inevitably my daughters will one day worry about in their teens. That beauty... its looks can kill. Leave it alone, it's trouble in a tight skirt. But don't be fooled, I'm beautiful. There is a healthier side of beauty. Beauty you can create, with breathtaking artistry. Beauty you can capture, listening to a stunning symphony. Beauty you can taste on you...

http://www.tea.state.tx.us/index2.aspx?id=3643

Have you seen the 300 revisions in the Texas Social Studies Textbooks? I was curious enough to search them out. Yes, I did this on my free time of my own free will, don't judge me. There are some interesting points... just food for thought. I placed a link to the site where you can look over them all on your own and see what sticks with you. I'm going to read through them right now and post my reflections as I go along... little things that I notice as I read through the revisions, some that bother me, some that seem fine to me, some will surely strike the funny bone, to be sure. I want to hear what do you think? Okay, let's start in Kinder and work our way up through the revisions. HERE WE GO: *Ordinary citizens have been replaced by patriots and good citizens. I usually like ordinary people but we didn't make the cut. *This one I like: Capitalism is taught in Kindergarten (trust me, it's being taught in my house at Preschool age - my 4 year old run...

Through the open window The breeze comes in to greet me Its cool touch is welcome Eyes closed It kisses my skin hello Surrounding my senses Bringing me the gift Of early morning scents Clear, cleansing, awakening Good Morning Wind. I inhale. A swish answers, on exhale. Poor souls, those who forget To open their windows.

In the writing circle today we focused on description and for some reason, skin came to my mind. The first prompt was a green tomato, the second was simply choosing a person we felt like describing. As always, the writing in the group astounds me and I'm humbled by my fellow writers. Little snipits of their writing really stuck with me, to me. Here's some skin off what I wrote today: Tomato Green as a Granny Smith Smooth as split pea soup Skin, balloon tight It's surface, a shiny happy face. Hard as a nine-months pregnant belly, packed with potential. Green tomato and Grandma Flo was a Peach I ran my finger across the back of her hand. Her skin was like peach skin, velvet soft, only a thin layer that if pressed too hard, could easily peel away. Ripe with age, her sweet flesh gives beneath my touch, tender. Sun spots blotch like bruised fruit. A long life on the vine has drained her juices, leaving wrinkles where fullness used to be. The only thing pl...

Been in a poem-ish mood lately... this one, written during a Portland Women's Writing Circle, was innspired by a Rumi poem about the deep listening, specifically; "the beauty of your separation". Listen Inside Listen to your solitude Hear its daily hum, edging along your skin Vibrating the heart drum Listen with intent Past the buzz in the fear of being alone There is music there, inside you- Accompanying you, a duet for your one life Listen to your solitude And find yourself there Beyond the sigh of breath A quiet orchestra In your solitary soul Waiting For your strum, for your lead You: the conductor of your loneliness Listen with the intent to hear Your spirit And it will sing A lullaby of connection.

On Witch's Thanksgiving When day and night are of equal length, balance holds my thoughts. On Witch's Thanksgiving A full moon will shine on ripe harvests below, coven basking in her glow Leaves will fall to quilt our mother, grounds growing colder Earth stands for a moment in equity, ubiquitous female On Witch's Thanksgiving The Autumnal Equinox I will pay homage to both sides The yin and the yang, the dark and the light, fire and water, joy and sorrow How brief this balance Will be Before we are set swirling once again on a titled world Living a skewed existence On Witch's Thanksgiving Things hold still- suspended, peaceful Before the Fall.

If Jealousy is green, what color would impatience be? Red- Fiery. Hot. Agitated mobility. or Black - Black is done. And when you've reached impatience you're already done. Every drop of patience has either drained or evaporated, already departed. But maybe black for emptiness, because patience was never there in the first place. Just its lack -it's absence- defines the whole of the other. I am impatient. Impatience wears jeans because they hardly wrinkle. Impatience puts too much Frizz-ease in her hair because she doesn't take the time to tame it. Impatience had two cups of coffee, not the four she desired... Al dente pasta, wet paint, typo's... these curses follow in the wake of impatience. But all you get is the wake because impatience doesn't wait around to introduce herself. So, it turns out, impatience is blue. Sowing the seed, not watching it bloom and grow Mixing ingredients, never letting them stew Making snap judgments - not sitting ...

I went to a Larry Brooks seminar at the Willamette Writers Conference. He was really good at explaining "pantsers", those of us who sit down to write without an outline and just go for it (Organic Writing)- as oppossed to the mega planners that have every plot point outlined before they write a thing. I was a panstser. My characters came to me in a dream, I began to write the scene I imagined then went back to write the beginning and middle. Problem was, I had eye color changes for my main character by mid-book, then I had to figure out what color I really really wanted, and go do a "Find" for every color and word 'eye' - which wasted too much of my valueable writing time. Then of course, as a pantser - if I have a better idea - I change as I go and then have to sift through 300 pages to make sure everything else still flows. Much harder to do all of this 'editing' as a pantser. Larry helped me move to be a pantser in the draft, or a synopsi...

Wasted away in California for the summer, dried out my Portland skin. Oh, yes, and had my 20 year High School Reunion... that was more fun than I had ever imagined it could be. We had a very rare class, we all got along. Small town. The Willamette Writer's Conference was the best place to go as an aspiring writer. I met tons of author's, beginning like myself, and some well-known author's as well, along with editor's, agents, screenwriters... what an inspiring group to feed off of. How great to have a nice conversation with Hallie Ephron over breakfast before realizing that I was out of my league and shouldn't borrow her cloth napkin! She was SO nice. And then I met many odd one's in the group too - they were fun to hear pitch. I kept hearing the same theme as I heard when I began teaching, "It's a lot of work and you have to love it." Just passing the bar after the conference ended, I would pick up on different conversations as I passed tables...

Seems to be a season of departure. Rosie,Jason, Aunt Evelyn, Aunt Corine... And isn't it just like mother nature- moody woman- to have the season's of our lives pass so vehemently different. Change. They pass quickly- out the blue, a shock to the system, lighting. They fall gracefully- a leaf from the limb, to decay, slowly on the forest floor. A subtle ebb to the ocean tide, they recede. Or go swiftly by, in a gush of errant wind. Either way, our season's change. The cycle of life will take us all and all I can say is... I wish for you, my friend, nice weather in passing.

Writing is something I've done all my life,however; becoming a 'writer' is new. I've written a novel and am working on another, while searching out agents and learning the game. What I've posted here will vary from memoir to poem to a snippet of fiction... anything that comes to mind that I'd like to share - with you - so, let me know what you think and post a comment!

Pine soldiers diligently lining the hillside Sainted with the kiss of white cloud the children are busy but who am I if I'm not forgoing my needs for someone else mother so I sip my coffee and watch as green men are knighted by noble day

No rules to follow Only words to write The words that carry the most of the might Words we can relate to connect us as we read Reflect on our life, our death, our beliefs True in simplicity truth in its form A poem tells it honestly against the norm Beauty found in the placement of letters Sounds to swim in Words mesh together Forming a body beautiful, bold, better We are walking poetry Poems in free verse All our souls dip Into the ink we immerse

Words turn into serrated black claws ripping their way across the page. Dark moments, exhausting the pen, muddy blood of emotion. I should be afraid to write them, but my will is to pull your heart out and show you it beating, dripping in my palm... so you can see it, feel it, and perceive the pain that I write. My only fear is that you won't.

Sometimes we need to rip off the wrapping to see inside. Sometimes we need a breakdown before a breakthrough - The darkness of womb before the light of birth, Reborn. If only every tear down preceded a rebuilding but sometimes, nothing is put back together. Sometimes, the egg shells still lie scattered from the fall. Less a rebirth, than a shifting of sands - blown distant singed by sun dry solitude. A breakdown, tearing off the pretty paper that held the gift together, exposing the reality and rawness of solitary self. Reminding of mortality, fragility... grace. Sometimes, we can patch and repaper Sometimes, cover, take-back, lick and stick torn tissue back to form... No longer a strong solid support but a mature, majestic, pieced together mosaic.

Obsidian Smooth dripping, melting me softening edges malleable mood malleable me hands meld heating molding the space between us touched together two lives strong enough to stand apart strength enough to gently touch hearts A kindness surrounds us flows and bubbles around the love tickling, lightly, living, breathing Obsidian smooth

I have an immortal nose. It is the nose of Aunt Barbara - who is a teacher, like me - happy, like me - and I want to be vibrant at 70 like her. It is the nose of Grandma Baldwin - who was a giant in a petite package - whose faith could pull you in - who hit things in her big car, like me. My nose is hanging in a Vermont Museum on a prominent Baldwin of old, on a woman who doesn't smile nearly as much as me. The bones that show a hole where my nose used to be are buried, in a small Upstate New York cemetery, in the casket of a woman who led a more difficult life than me. When I'm done here - my nose will live on - giving some future little girl a ledge for her glasses, if she happens also... to get my father's eyes.

You never know when she'll flip It may be standing in the grocery line when she feels the hum of florescent lights dulling her senses It could be when she's driving and forgotten to turn on the radio so her ears ache for fulfillment You never know when she'll decide her mouth has been parched too long and she needs to taste livliness And in an instant no matter the audience she'll break out into a song a dance a diatribe or into your life

A seed, light, full of promise a seedling on the pathway to reaching potential so much hope contained in it's tiny vessel so much my responsibility for without nourishment this seed will never grow I feel too small to be the sun, water and soil to this little girl

I vividly remember going in for my first interview at a popular sandwich shop. I had on my best white loafers, cuffed powder blue shorts and a pastel splashed cotton shirt. I wore my best shoes because I remembered hearing something once about how employers judge you based on the condition of your shoes. Someone should have told me not to wear the shorts, but it didn't seem to matter. As I asked for an application the manager came out, gave me an impromptu interview and hired me on the spot. My career has pretty much gone like that ever since. I apply, I interview, I get the job. I've got a perfect record. I've never even been fired. Oh, they tried once at the sandwich shop, but I cried. I explained that I thought 'requesting' time off meant that I'd get the time off and I didn't mean to miss two days of work. And then I cried some more... until they said never mind. So, technically, I've never been fired. Since that first job throwing toge...

In the classroom, I weave magic pulling from their hearts, spinning their interests into what I teach I charm the snakes, help falcons soar, remove invisible cloaks and carve out barriers so waters of knowledge flow Threading a connection, weaving a safe haven dyeing their fabric into colors that spark They bring from me - an energy and I stitch it into their days So they learn... So I love... All my ancient powers drawn out on the loom the teacher within me weaves magic They may not notice the carpet of knowledge laid before them - until it carries them forward of their own little spell For when they weave magic on their own... I know I've taught them well. P.S. To all my little magicians out there, I am so proud of you!

A seed is planted and hope is born --- For growth of future treasures The gifted smile --- bringing forth rows of beaming grins A melody embedded --- creating a day a-buzz with humming A clean house --- reaches like ivy over the barbs of my worry, softening and serene A completed project --- vinegar on glass, gleans accomplishment Time for myself --- sprouts a happier woman who in return blooms To enrich the lives of those who pass my garden Fertilizing the soils of my life Tucking in seeds that support my growth Dewey petals capturing life's succulent essence I, flower --- open to nature's bounty Me, a flower --- a woman, a mother, a continuing origin Of a seed Predisposed to express all beauty, all life All hope and all treasure

Band-aid is my wingman. She sticks by my side at all times. When my kiss won't heal, when my whispered words aren't enough to soothe, my buddy Band-aid steps in. I've used her to cover more than bleeding elbows and scraped knees. Just her presence placed gently over a perceived injury will calm and allow us all to carry on. I guess a Band-aid in my house acts a bit like a Jewish Yarmulke, worn as a reminder that God is above - the Band-aid is a reminder that love is about and can be carried around with you. Maybe I should frolick about placing Band-aids on wounded spirits. If only it could help others like it does my daughters. More likely, the "Band-aid Fairy" would just draw suspicious looks. So, I'll refrain and keep my Band-aid superpowers in the family. It's nice having a reliable back-up.

An adventure begins when I step off the sidewalk onto the gravel trail. A branch snaps as I tread over its fallen respite. I have no idea where the moss-escorted path will lead. Pine trees accompany me. I hum, mingling in a tune with the sounds of a nearby stream. My scent joins the fresh smell of rain. I don't walk through unknown forest, I walk with it. Everything feels vibrantly green here, including me. Inhale the given abundance. I'm glowing with an appreciation of my new found connection to nature. The land is fertile with life and sharing its energy with me. Feeling giddy with bravery, my tennis shoes pick up a perky pace. I pass a slug, inadvertently disrupting its purpose. My sounds interrupt and the bluebird swishes off to find a different meal. My breath puffs out ahead, as my feet crunch below. Slip on mud, push at an overgrown fern, squish an innocent mushroom, snap, hum, inhale... just by being here, I'm intruding. I'm an invader on t...

When I dream about stories, I write about dreams. I will wake up feeling like I'd fallen asleep at the movies. The picture won't stay in my groggy mind for long, so I race to capture its essence in ink. These dreams don't only happen while asleep. I'll be mid-stir in macaroni when an image will wander into my conscience and my husband laughs as I run upstairs to let it out onto my computer before it tip-toes away. When I'm moving these ideas from mind to matter, it's LIFE is in the flow - if I look up, or the phone rings, or a child enters... if I falter, it can easily die before ever coming to life. I've learned to write quickly, on whatever I can grab and in the dark.

When I looked up Mama had her worry look on and it was fo me. I knew cause I was pok-a-dottied and itchy all over. Even my tooths itch. Mama says, I got the Pox. All I know is now I can't play with my friend Patty today and she was even havin' her birthday party. Mama says Patty don't want that gift I got to give. Says Patty'd be mad if I gave her the Pox too. Me? I figure Patty'd like it. We could jus' play inside all day together. Uh-course, that itchy part ain't so good. I'm not uh-scared though, cause Mama said she do the worrin fo both uh-us. I just gotta not scratch and stay by myself and the other little one's that gots the Pox. But Patty's my favorite friend and I sho wish she gets the Pox for her birthday any ol way. I don't gotta go to school tomorrow neither. Wouldn't Patty like that? Not going to school means no Wendell poking me from his side-a-da-line. And no arithi-amatic. Patty hates the subtractions. Pox would cure that.....

We were old enough to know better- but the butane seemed harmless enough. Four women of an age where skinny jeans were questionable and clothes that 'give' preferable, sitting in our pajamas at the dinner table in our hotel room. Hair tossed up in wild buns, faces smelling clean and flannel jammies comforting us, we felt in our teens. And (not to do anything halfway) we were making decisions like them too. Tara in the plush white hotel robe, pulled out what looked like an unlabeled tin of cat food - but when she struck a match to it, the jump of flame like a rock star appearing on stage, was a tell-tell sign that it wasn't cat food. Candy,looking thirteen in blue monkey flannel pj's, retrieved the wooden skewers. And Debbie, in her holey-worn sweats came giggling out of the kitchen area with marshmallows. We were living it up at the Ritz and making smores may not seem devilish to some - but for four stay-at-home mom's, this was like being drunk at Prom (although I...

Journey through the life of a cherry candy. Begin hard and stubborn - holding in flavor. Give way to a pink bunny, soft and sweet. Bunny hops away and is transformed by evolutionary miracle, into a round tangy ball of citrus that releases floods in your mouth from its sour pucker. Replaced then by a gummy molasses of fading sugar- more hibernating bear than hoppy bunny. Tired, used, fading. Relish it. It will soon be over. Seriously... this was all just a good slow suck on a cherry candy, but in reading it, sounds almost like the cycle of life.

I awaken a vagrant damsel in distress. The morning feels like sandpaper- its rough edges grating in my head, drying my eyes and leaving dust in my mouth. I tumble my habitual path to the kitchen with slushy feet and scribbled hair. I sense relief is near, hearing a gravely scoop of beans. A swish of water. Then the drip of awakening, the drop of stimulation, the drip and drop of coffee coming to my rescue. Drip, drop, like the clip clop of a white horse, my knight riding in. My eyes clear with visions of lucid brown liquid. My nose perks. My hair actually relaxes. One taste. One taste and my spirit rises like a champagne bubble. Coffee, my prince. It feels like love.

Today I attended my first writing session with the Portland Women's Writing Group and was elated to see after our first shared prompt, that not only was I amongst a very talented group of writers that I intend to have rub off on me, but also that we responded similarly. The prompt was "When I write..." and "When I don't write..." I'm thrilled to be feeding the art within... nothing feels better (okay, maybe sex and cake) than writing. When I write it can be a transcendental experience. Time stops and I am able to connect myself to all the "Me's" in this world throughout time. When that pen moves I'm with Deborah the eight year old still battling boys on the playground and I'm with Deborah the teen, so eager to please. I'm connecting to Deborah in the future as well. She's waiting for my message down the line. When I write I am mask-less and most me. It's cathartic. It's meditative. When I don't write sometimes I ...

Last night I attended the Willamette Writer's Group Meeting to hear Jessica Morrell speak. She's a local, successful author. She shared her story, and oh! I love stories. She inspired me. The entire writing community in the Portland area is astounding me. First, I didn't even know there was a 'community' until Wordstock 2009 gave me the red pill that jolted me into a new existence. My new world has a club, and it's not exclusive. I expected on some part to find the mystery writer's tucked in a back corner donning black jackets with unlit cigs dangling precociously from their tight-lipped mouths, romance writers seductively lounging with heaving bosom's, and perhaps a literary novelist sitting front row, whose nose would be held high enough to look down on me. I'm not exactly sure what I expected strolling into the writing world, but it certainly wasn't what I found. I was nervous. I was feeling neophyte, unpublished, a stray dog...

" In The Lap " - because no matter what I reach out to touch with my fiery fingers, I know where I reach from. Grounded in the lap of security, contentment, privilege and love. Still, I save my right to complain. And I will complain. And I will change my mind. Often. Optimistic enough to think it an open mind as opposed to hypocrisy . Still, I save my right to be a hypocrite . In the lap I will be when my mind wanders. I just pray it will continue to return. Still, I save my right to be crazy. Writing is a cathartic art where creativity feels like an exhale of breath that I can float away on. Something intrinsic and personal made open to the universe, like a spread of wings on a thought. Someone may catch, someone may connect, and that's why I read. Why I write? Because I can't seem not to. It relaxes me more than gin and listens to me like a friend. It expunges tears and wrings out emotion. It may not be worth mentioning, or reading to some at a...