Surrounded by the Energy of Creating

     I love being surrounded by books and thoughts of literature during the cold of winter! There is a magic with reading the written word, and a definite magic with writing words down and learning to arrange them, toss them out or recreate them into a totally new piece of writing.  

     So, teaching my first poetry combined with photography class at the local State Fair Community College has been the impetus for additional ideas in furthering my literary prowess. Not only am I teaching and hoping I'm encouraging creativity in the students, but as usual the students always encourage me to reach higher and dream bigger and create more. With this class, I am combining my love for reading and writing poetry with my first love of photography and art.

      For one assignment, I had each student select a 4-x-6-inch photo. The photos were turned upside down so they couldn't see their selection until everyone had one. The stories behind the photos weren't revealed to the students, but they were asked to write a poem using their photo for inspiration. Not an easy task, since the photos were not generic but each unique in their own way, as you can see below.

      For one student the photo above, an abstracted hosta flower I created for an art show in Los Angeles, became a very humorous poem for children about a monster cabbage who came, along with its veggy cohorts, to terrorize a fictitious town. What a wonderful imagination booster!!  

     The photo to the right, was created with two red dog food bowls at each side, a green baby bib in the center and a dryer sheet box on top. I shot it using a slow shutter speed while moving the camera. It was then further manipulated in Photoshop to create the feathering that you see now. The student who received this photo was a surgeon, who saw it as possibly an explosion but also connections in the brain. To me, I see feathery flowers, probably because a major part of my photography has been garden photos for magazines. That makes sense. We each see differently based on our life's experience. 

     This photo of a homeless man holding a soda can  (face not shown here) because of his weary eyes, red bearded face and hard working hands, became to one student, the inspiration for a poem about an archaeologist at a prehistoric dig site! 

     

     And the photo below of a dying geranium laying in the snow, prompted one student to originally ponder writing a poem about death and shadows. Instead, she did a full circle and wrote a lovely soulful piece about a dancer.

     "She dances...The Spirit flows through her like a a vessel of love." 

          One of the assignments, writing without the sense of sight, left us all pondering the idea of which sense we would be most willing to give up. This assignment inspired me to write a poem also, "Oboe Sonata." The poem began as an exercise and became so much more. As I wrote it, I began to hear an oboe playing in the wind. That's when the poem "turned" and morphed into an audio rendition based on a musical piece I love called "Gabriel's Oboe," from "The Mission " by Ennio Morricone and played by cellist Yo-Yo Ma.

"...music floats on the wind, the rise and fall like a living creature

breathing, wind chime-like soft sadness,

singing of lives not lived, a melancholy enchanter

with butter smooth measures,

oboe sonata,

Gabriel's Oboe,

like angel voices,

ascending heavenward

   on the breezes of my youth."

     Our human imaginations are ever fluid and evolving so no matter where inspiration comes from it's essential to a creative person's being. I hope to continue to inspire and be inspired over and over again. Not only during the cold winter months surrounded by books and words and art, but surrounded by people, year around, who love to create, who are filled with the energy of learning!

My Father's Boots, Connected Me to My Roots

     How often when growing up do we believe we know more than our parents, or for some reason they are an embarrassment to us? For me, it took a trip to Nashville, Tn., at the age of 50, 25 years after my dad passed away, for me to come full circle with the feelings I had about his cowboy boots and the person he was.
     In late September, last year, I went to a workshop with spoken word artist Minton Sparks. She told us that the ground we were born over, comes up through us and out of us as writers. I guess that's the first time I really appreciated where I came from. Before that time, I felt it was not consequential to who I became as an adult.
     Although my family was very dysfunctional, we loved each other in our own way. One of my earliest memories is of wanting to be a cowgirl. Mom and Dad bought me a cowgirl outfit and boots to go alone with it. There was also a cowgirl hat that I kept attached to my bouncing head with a drawstring. At the age of three, I thought I was in style and very proud to have my picture made in this western getup.
     But soon, when I was four, mom began to go to church and I went along. Dad didn't attend very often. So, I began to see that other men wore dress shoes, not cowboy boots. This became an embarrassment to me that my Dad never wore dress shoes.
     It was much later in my life that I realized, he came from Colorado and the West--it was who he was. Many years later I fell in love with the West, the mountains, the canyons, the rocks and the deserts, many years later I would wear cowboy boots. Many years later I would understand where he came from, his roots and the reasons he was who he was.
     Recently I was privileged to read a poem I'd written at the Minton Sparks workshop at our local Spofest--a public presentation and performance of poets, writers and musicians. Below is my poem "Daddy's Boots," and some thoughts on my mom and dad:
      

     Daddy's Boots

Now, daddy loved his boots,

leather cowboy boots,

he shined them with Kiwi polish and a soft cloth,

and a special horsehair brush 

with a wooden handle,

buffing them to a proper shine,

bringing to the room the sent of polish, 

coffee and Prince Albert tobacco.

(I still have his brush,

used by my son to shine his boots.)

But, for all of his love for his boots, I was ashamed of them,

not of their shine, nor the smell of their polished leather,

nor the way the heels

smacked the concrete sidewalk when he came home at night,

but that they were... well, boots...

cowboy boots.

No one in my "World" wore cowboy boots.

I went to church with mama, 

and the men all wore proper leather loafers 

and dress-up laced shoes.

 But daddy came from Colorado,

he'd owned a Palomino,

and a cowboy hat--he loved the West,

he loved the wind and the mountains,

he loved Louis L'amour and John Wayne,

He loved sad country music the kind 

with a nasal twang.

(But all those memories of his past,

were lost to me in the prideful waters of my swirling youth,

because I knew how he was supposed to look,

I knew how he was supposed to act.) 

The day came when he would walk me down the aisle,

I was embarrassed,

because he insisted on wearing cowboy boots--

not proper leather loafers like a church going man would wear!

I was married in the fall and daddy wore his boots--

to my chagrin.

With his tux, 

with his bow-tie

with his cowboy boots he gave me away--much to his chagrin,

and his to sadness at lost opportunities

 and my loss of youth and my leap into adulthood.

And now, so many years later, many years after he's passed on,

I'm traveling, wearing cowboy boots with a skirt and a scarf,

and bangles, driving to Nashville to learn about where I came from,

and the people who made me who I am...

    

Daddy

Western snap shut shirts

Cowboy boots and Khaki pants,

Rolled up jeans,

Black hair, combed backed with a proper duck-bill,

Roll-your-own cigarettes and black coffee,

Prince Albert in a can,

Cans of beer clustered close by,

Country music,

 Home made omelets and fried potatoes,

a welder by trade,

flash burned eyes soothed 

by mama and potato poultices,

Army cook and survivor of WWII,

with mental scars produced by 

walking through Dachau,

Loved to take photographs.

Mama  

Simple cotton dresses, with simple buttons,

 made by a friend,

canvass tennis shoes,

a large purse full of everything anyone could need,

including her full-sized Bible,

Hair grayed much too soon,

pulled back in a bun,

Breakfast rolls and donuts,

Three Musketeers Bars,

Polk greens and watercress,

fried chicken and mashed potatoes,

Instant coffee, diet soda,

a cook in restaurants and maker of giant cream pies,

lover of dogs and children,

believer in God and the "Church,"

never learned to drive,

rider of cabs and the church bus,

A Writer of poems and songs.

     For a video presentation of "Daddy's Boots," please use this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gC-LTmHfC2I&list=UUuBt6CUBHLTQD1amOpvAm1g&index=8&feature=plcp

Little Boo Boo Walks--the Effects of Methamphetamine Addiction

     This coming Saturday, I'll read original poetry at the local Spofest--Celebration of the Spoken Word. I've decided to read a poem, that I haven't read for about a year. The poem below, "Little Boo Boo Walks," is about the effects of methamphetamine addiction not only on the addict, but on the children and surrounding family members. It is to be included in a textbook, that will be published this fall, written by sociologist, George Hendricks, Ph.D., of Methodist University, Fayetteville, N.C.

     Addiction doesn't only effect the user, but has far reaching tentacles. Missouri is, once again, the number one state in the nation for meth lab incidents--"little Boo Boo" is real. She is my granddaughter. Although, the end of this poem hasn't become a reality for her, a family member is a user and she is effected by the fallout. She is safe for now, but misses being with the father she loves. Her sorrow is our family's sorrow, as we watch the decent of someone we love walk into the abyss of darkness. Many other children haven't been as lucky as Boo Boo, but have perished in meth lab explosions or have been badly burned. And, many children are neglected and abused. 

     For those families who may need information or help with a loved one addicted to meth, The Sedalia, Missouri Chapter of Mother's against Meth-amphetamine (MAMa) has a new Executive Director, Claudia Kays. She can be contacted on Facebook at: Mother's against Meth-amphetamine Mo. Chapter, or by calling 660-202-9619.

     The national MAMa website, http://www.mamasite.net, provides additional resources can direct anyone needing information to state chapters for help with this devastating drug.

Little Boo Boo Walks

Boo Boo walks, little toes bare through the morning grass,

no one knows she's flown the coop.

Everyone just lets her pass.

Dew collects on her small bare feet, 

but Boo Boo doesn't mind she's free to walk through the Easter grass

and smiling butter flowers.

She stops to etch her toes in the gravelly gravel, 

making fun designs,

smelling the fresh morning breeze,

chubby rose checks flushing with the freedom of the winding road,

eyes blue as pastel robin's eggs,

seeing deeper than anyone thinks.

Little Boo Boo walks through the grass for close to a mile,

no one sees Boo Boo pass,

she's so small, 

a chubby cherub dressed in clothes from the thrift-store mall. 

She pads through the puddles of newly fallen rain,

and walks along the storm drain,

blonde curls creeping around her moistened face,

chubby hands pushing them out of place.

Until she reaches the city street, buzzing with cars and trucks,

and big yellow school buses all busy to get someplace.

Now little Boo Boo stands at the intersection of her life,

she pauses and lifts a pensive finger to her lips,

blue eyes scanning the busy scene,

taking in the surge of life, little Boo Boo standing sight unseen,

in the world of big adults she's not noticed in her pink thrift suit.

Back at home the house is abuzz, 

with the frantic activity of it's members, 

measuring and stirring and talking and tweaking and moving and calculating money in their heads.

(Everyone's been awake for weeks, moving endlessly in a crystal daze.)

Frantic, not of the missing Boo Boo, but of scoring the next sell and the next fix

the next never coming down off the ultimate high,

seeing visions, never eating, building a tower and tearing it down.

Boo Boo's daddy, that lusty pirate, whose ship crashed in the chemical sea,

laughs real hearty with his-comrades-in-arms,

"This batch is the best ever, just wait and see!"

Tattooed with skulls and death,

he lefts his fist to heaven saluting the demon gods of ice and flames.

But who is this lusty pirate?  Someone's son who lost his way...

A boy who set sail way to soon, one that used to play baseball, and skate on the lagoon.

The boy who sang the strains of Ava Maria, but replaced it with a death metal growl.

He loved to help in mama's kitchen, but now cooks his own speedy stew, 

it's worth money too. 

Boo Boo was his life's blood,

his special angel, the savior of his soul,

the one that would help him escape the demon dungeon,

 he'd built as his fate, 

 and when she was born he vowed to never let her down,

but that crystal sea came calling, wooing with it's lust,

His will power was lost,

so into it's deceiving light he drew,

leaving Boo Boo as an after thought,

the only one who could guide him through.

Now Boo Boo's standing at the intersection of her life,

she takes a step into the traffic seeking the other side,

where the flowers are blooming and a puppy barks

where the side walk travels on up the grassy knoll.

And as her pensive blue eyes look toward the horizon,

all the cars have come to a complete stop,

shock written across each occupant's face, 

each sits motionless as a tiny, 

curly haired, welfare angel toddles across the asphalt,

bare footed, her pink outfit wet from the morning dew. 

Then as Boo Boo reaches mid-stride,

a terrific explosion lights up the morning sky,

flames and smoke lap the spring air,

devouring the home that Boo Boo shared  

with that lusty pirate, the apple of her eye,

the tattooed daddy who loved her once,

 before the ice froze him to a flame. 

Little Boo Boo walks across the now quiet street

to the distant wail of fire trucks and police,

placing each foot step into a new destiny,

a homeless child, 

looking for her daddy,

will she ever know the man he was supposed to be?