Try, Try Again

An early draft of "Some Women"

What an honor to be included in this group of Pushcart Prize nominees. Thank you to the editors of OyeDrum Magazine!

Lion in the Living Room – Monica Raymond

Et Tu – Liz Ramirez

Kayla Schwab – Great Expectations

Yu Müller – equidistant

Linda Ferguson – Some Women

The First Fib – Piper Courtenay

Happy New Year, Happy Reading!

Looking for ways to stretch your mind and imagination in the new year? These two wildly creative collections will get you there!

The Catalog of Small Contentments by Carolyn Martin

The Poetry Box, 2021

Carolyn Martin has done it again. 

In her sixth poetry collection, her words prance, dream and and sing. Through conversations with the sky, musings about Monet, and appreciation for an antic ant that offers critiques of Martin's writing, we enter a world that's both imaginative and also entirely relatable. The collection includes heartrending poems such as "Music to Disappear By," in which her dying father asks her "to record/his melody before it disappears," as well as the bouncy, life-affirming "Dear Type-A Friend," where Martin asserts she's "newly funemployed" and plans "to gadabout" a universe full of infinite possibility. 

To purchase a copy, you can click here.

Callie Comes of Age by Dale Champlin

Cirque Press, 2021

Think you don't like poetry? Think again. This pageturning coming-of-age and character-driven thriller redefines the meaning of what poetry can be. With a gutsy heroine and a rugged landscape that's so vivid you can smell the sage and feel the "dry heaves of hills," Callie Comes of Age took my breath away. Dale Champlin, who has always struck me as being a magician as much as a writer, fills her book with a dark secret, a sense of danger and delirious pleasure.

You can purchase this novel/poetry collection here.

The Poetry Box LIVE

 I'm looking forward to joining these amazing writers for a reading on January 8!

Holiday Romance

 

Santa Meets the Tooth Fairy*

 

They meet at a party

and the attraction is instant,

surprising them as much as anyone—

what, with his wide-belted girth and crinkled eyes

and her spun-sugar hair and silver-veined wings.

Within moments of being introduced, she takes his hand

and leads him to a moonlit room, empty except for a bed

covered by a single snowy blanket. Softly,

he shuts the door, and the floor tilts

under her dainty feet.



They share a sense of humor about their situation.

When he promises not to take her on his lap

and ask her what she wants,

she trills, then touches his cheek,

sending small licks of flame through his frost-bitten skin,

even before her fingertips travel

under miles of plush red velvet

to feel his heart beat.


Afterward, he says he'll drive her home,

but she straightens an iridescent strap on her slender shoulder

and reminds him she still has work to do.

One last kiss, and she’s gone,

so quickly he feels like a boy

who’s just learned his toy train came from the mall,

not the North Pole.



Later, as she’s lifting the pillow of a sleeping child,

she catches the scent of soot and scotch and pine trees on her skin,

and she, who always works in silence,

hears a sigh

escape from her own ribs.

At the same moment, he’s riding across the sky

with a pair of soft leather reins in his hands

when he’s suddenly engulfed

by the fragrance of an orchid that blooms

just one night a year.

"Santa Meets the Tooth Fairy" was originally published in Fiction at Work  

Wigging Out

Hello.

How is life for you?

Floods and fires: Is the world unhinged?

A few years ago Gold Man Review published my short story, "A True Gift," a surreal piece about wigs, a hostile audience and an ego as extravagant as wildfire. Inspired by unsettling events (political strife and climate change), it felt so good to write this. Like I could laugh in the face of chaos

A True Gift   by Linda Ferguson*

Just as I was about to give my speech the lights went off, so I stood there in the dark auditorium, and quickly came up with a witty line to say when the power came back on.

And let there be light – that’s what I’d say.

I could already feel the warmth of my audience’s response, my approval ratings skyrocketing.

Beautiful.

But when the lights did come on, I forgot all about my clever line and stared dumbfounded because – prepare yourself, this is odd – everyone in the audience was now wearing a wig.

Before, there’d been the usual array of hairdos – the balding heads, the braids and buns, the mohawks, the faux hawks, the perms, the buzz cuts. Now all of those were suddenly gone and replaced with wigs in one of two styles: blond spun sugar and a polished black cap.

The long blond strands looked sticky (unfortunate flies that landed there would never launch again) and were molded in perpetual motion – a windswept sculpture perched on people’s heads.

It was something.

And then there was the other wig, which clutched the scalp at the temples and carried a whiff of black licorice.

Standing there with my own hair tucked behind my ears, I felt out of place and wished I’d worn the wig I’d inherited from my grandmother (the cropped russet curls clipped back with an emerald bobby pin). But there was no time for regrets because I still had a presentation to give.

I’m an experienced speaker and although the wig business was strange, I was ready to roll with it. So I plunged right into my speech, only to send the evening lurching completely off the rails. Instead of saying the words I’d practiced, I was talking in a language I didn’t know. This wasn’t Spanish, Icelandic or Quechua; each word was completely unrecognizable to me.

Yet somehow, I was saying something comprehensible to the wig people (the spun sugar and the licorice), all of whom were united in their response.

Picture my winged popularity pierced by an arrow and plunging with rapidity.

You could say my wig-wearing audience was displeased, agitated, riled up, enraged. I saw visible signs of this: lips pinched, temples pulsed, knuckles ground into palms (a mortise and pestle effect) – and I concluded that the speech I was delivering (against my will!) was not the one I had down – the one I’d rehearsed until it rolled off my tongue with the ease of rhyming couplets.

That address would have had the wearer of each wig gleaming with appreciation, but the one I was giving was an irritant.

Times ten.

Times ten million.

Faces turned red, and what began as grumbling quickly developed into a discontent that resembled a galloping herd of iron-clad hooves.

‘This isn’t happening,’ I thought and tried speaking again, but each new syllable I uttered added another splash of gasoline onto a pyre that was already devouring the oxygen in the room.

Someone lobbed a ripe tomato that landed, splat, on my shoulder like an epaulet. One hothead in a licorice wig even threw a can of tomatoes at me. Luckily, I have quick reflexes and ducked. The can just hit the wall behind me then rolled off the stage before I could grab it. Disappointing, certainly, because I had a recipe for a ratatouille that called for canned tomatoes, and now if I wanted to make it, I’d have to stop at the store on my way home, but no matter, I told myself, as people rose from their seats, fists raised.

One was even gripping a pitchfork. Another was looping the end of a rope.

It was clearly time to scoot, so I opened my mouth to briefly thank everyone for coming and almost laughed when I heard the sound I was issuing now: Aaaaaah.

This elongated utterance sighed from the stage speakers and had an instant effect on my audience. Lips softened, fists opened and wigs that had gone askew seemed to straighten of their own accord. I took a chance and opened my mouth again:

 Aaaaaah, I said, and – get this – an aaaaah murmured back from somewhere in the center of the room. Then another one– a baritone – came from the front rows.

Talk about making lemonade. My unfortunate situation had morphed into an opportunity to realize my cherished dream of conducting a choir or a symphony.

Aaaaah, I said, raising my hands, inviting more audience members to join in, and as a wave of aaaaah’s rolled back, I glowed like a kindergartner who’s just earned her first gold star.

Seizing the moment, I motioned to the those sitting on the right side of the room to aaah, and then motioned to those on the left, then scooped my hands to indicate I wanted to hear them aaah all together, and they did, just as I directed!

A pleasant ease descended. Some sank low in their seats and yawned. Children snuggled into their parents’ laps. Others rested their heads on their neighbors’ shoulders, and their neighbors’ arms circled round them amidst a breath of aaaaah’s as peace settled on the room like a soft blue blanket.

And all because of my speech!

This was better than anything I could have planned, I thought, and I tiptoed out the door.

Outside, I was still floating on the sweet cloud of my success, and I decided to walk home despite all the forest fires that had been blazing just outside of the city lately and the smoke that instantly irritated my throat.

The moon was full and orange-red, a bold twin of the setting sun – the air as silent as the looming haze – no car alarm, or ringtone or train horn.

Thanks to my new air conditioning, I’d been able to have the windows to my house closed the entire week, which kept out all but a trace of smoke, and I was looking forward to a cozy evening at home. The perfect way to relish yet another personal triumph.

*First published in Gold Man Review, Fall 2018.

Conversations in Autumn

Inspired by Kahlil Gibran's poem "The Scarecrow," my adult writing students and I recently wrote about conversations with fall things -- a crabapple, an oak leaf, a pumpkin, a sheath of hay, and a scarecrow -- each of which take on their own personality.

Here are some of the writings by Nathalie Le Breton, Susan Donnelly, Lindy Low Le Coq and Ron Smith. Enjoy! 

 * * *

Fall Musings by Nathalie Le Breton

Once I said to an oak leaf “Did you fall too early?”

She did not respond.

She looked up for a bit at her sisters still perched on dark branches. And then she went rolling, alone, in the wind.

At times she had a few companions. Among them were flamboyant maple leaves, shriveled rose hips, and the crows, always the crows. But mostly she rolled alone in the wind.

Because she never responded, I often wondered if indeed she had fallen too early. But then I thought that some of us do need to fall early, and alone.

Don’t cry. It is not a lonely thing. Actually it is not lonely at all. Remember the maple leaves and the rosehips? And yes the crows! There’re always the crows… They might be odd companions, but while you roll alone they tell it as it is:

“Keep going!”

“Get out of here!”

“What are you looking at?”

“I told you so…”

So you see, the rolling is not so lonely even if you have fallen, maybe, a bit too early.

And sure, I wondered what happened to the oak leaf. Often I even wonder what will happen to me!

Maybe it is now time to imagine the rest of the story, you know, after the falling, after the rolling alone in the wind. She must have felt the rain, and the soft burning, and the rain again. She must have cried. She must have smiled. She must have lived beyond what I could see, beyond what I can even imagine. She must have lived beyond the fall.

About the author: Nathalie Le Breton is a French native speaker who has relocated in the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys exploring a different language as a form of personal discovery and melodic expression. She also enjoys reading poetry and children's books, knitting, drinking tea, and walking slowly through the seasons.

* * *

Walking the Neighborhood in Fall by Susan Donnelly

Once I said to a porch pumpkin, “How does it feel to wait on this cold concrete step for someone to give you a face?”

The mouthless pumpkin replied, “I am only doing what we all do – waiting for others to shape our  expressions.”

I glanced at the afternoon sky then back at his unetched skin and probed further, “But does it hurt to be carved, to feel the sharp edge, wielded in the hands of another, stab into your heart?”

 He said, “Ask yourself.”

I chose not to and went on down the shaded sidewalk pretending I preferred Autumn’s bright red maple leaves to dull orange pumpkins anyway.

Weeks passed; the days grew shorter and the nights colder. Rain pelted from dark skies.

One foggy morning, I walked past the same porch. The same pumpkin sat on the same damp step,

mold kissing his raggedly carved buck teeth. His triangle eye sockets had shrunk in on themselves, and all of his orifices oozed a sickly orange goo.

I approached cautiously and in a whisper asked, “How does dying feel?”

He responded, “You already know.”

About the author: Susan Donnelly, a retired middle-school teacher, walker, and dog lover, is a Portland poet who has studied with Linda Ferguson for a number of years.

* * *

The Kind Crabapple by Lindy Low LeCoq

Photo courtesy of Lindy Low LeCoq

 

Once I happened upon a crabapple tree and said, “How bright and cheery your apples are! May I pick some?”

“Yes, by all means,” the tree replied. “I get tired of seeing them drop onto the pavement and rot away.”

Looking around, I could tell the tree was right. Buckets of its bounty, unable to find fertile

ground, were decaying in all corners of the roadway.

“I see,” I replied. “Thank you for permission. I’ve wanted to pick ripe crabapples for a long time - and here you are - your branches overflowing.”

“Yes, they are a bit,” the tree nodded. “So tell me, what do you want with my sour little pippins?”

“From these I will make an old fashioned pickle, one my grandmother made when I was very young.”

“Pickles? Hmm,” the tree thought for a moment. “You intend to make my tiny tart fruit even more sour?”

“Oh, no,” I assured it. “These apples will be bathed in a brine of cider vinegar, mixed with sugar and spiced with whole cloves and cinnamon sticks. They will absorb the aromatic flavors and fragrance and become delightful confections to accompany meals at my dinner table.”

“You’re sure about that?” The tree asked. “Wouldn’t a jelly be more useful?”

“Perhaps to some, but for my family pickled crabapples are a rare specialty that will brighten our autumn feast of Thanksgiving.”

“I see,” the tree said softly.  “Well you have carte blanche - pick away!”

Small, large, medium some bruised and blemished, I picked along the underside of the tree until my bag bulged, and oodles of crabapples were still left hanging.

“Thank you, dear tree,” I said as I hoisted the gift and turned to leave. “I may be back later, and for sure I’ll see you again next year.”

“That would be lovely. I enjoy having my pippins go to good use. The bees work diligently in spring to pollinate my pretty pink blossoms, I bask all summer in sun and drink the rains when they come so that in autumn I have a harvest for all who will partake.”

“Bless you, and when you smell the scent of roasting turkey waft upon the breeze around here, know that I will be serving your generous offering at my family’s gathering.”

“That’s a comfort - thank you.”

Photo Courtesy of Lindy Low LeCoq

About the author: After 30 years of counseling young adults, Lindy Low LeCoq now focuses her energy on writing, photography and landscape gardening. Her work has appeared in The Poeming Pigeon: In the News, Postcards, Poems & Prose and Plum Tree Tavern. https://lindylecoq.com/author/lindyllll/

* * *

Sheaf, a Sketch by Ron Smith

A sheaf of hay stood opposite me on the other side of a farmer's barbed wire fence as I trod the road, hardly more than a trail, really just a rut, between Creswell and Saginaw.  Though identical to other bundles of hay, standing in a row like sentries along the fence, there was something singular about this sheaf of harvest.  It seemed larger than the others, perhaps only because it was the one closest to me;  it's straw yellowness seemed fresher and brighter than it's brethren straw, perhaps for no other reason than that a ray of sun pierced the morning's clouds, and fell on this favored sheaf, and none of the others.  For these reasons, because I was uncertain of my location and needed direction, and there was no one else around, I addressed the proud bundle of straw:

"I say there, ye, upright bundle of hay, who will provide sustenance for your master's livestock, ye who reflect the sun's gold in your reflected hue, ye, who know your place and purpose, can ya help me out?  I'm not familiar with this road, see, and am almost lost:  is this the road to Saginaw?"

Unaccustomed to being addressed by passersby, and painfully shy, the bundle of straw mutely looked to it's brethren hay bundles for support.  They, some wiser, gave ascent for the bundle to answer:

"Honored - sir, though - I am -  butasheafofhay . . . and - will - soon - find - my - parts inthebelliesof horses - and - asses, - I - can - state - with - certainty,"  so shy, they could barely continue, "with - certainty, - you - are - headedtoSaginaw."   

from The Idler's Sketchbook  10/16/2021

About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs. 

* * *

A Chafing Chat by Susan Donnelly

Once I said to a scarecrow, “Straw is so prickly, do you itch all of the time?”

The stuffed figure tilted his oversized head – perhaps to ease some discomfort or perhaps to see my face better, and replied, “Yes, of course; we all do, just for different reasons.”

From Pandemic to Protest -- a New Anthology

What an honor to have my poem "Crown Thy Good" included in The Poetry Box's From Pandemic to Protest, a collection of work by poets from around the globe trying to make sense of the events of 2020.

You can read more about the anthology and also purchase a copy by clicking here.

Soul Poet Society

Thank you to Soul Poet Society for including four of my poems in their anthology Quintessence: Aspects of the Soul.

This book is packed with gems by poets from all over the globe. You can click here to buy a copy.

In Good Company

 

I still can't quite believe my good fortune. 

I'm so grateful to have this opportunity to join the conversation of our community through poetry! Thank you, as always, to my fellow writers who continue to help me along this journey. 

And, of course, thank you to Shawn Aveningo Sanders and Robert Sanders of The Poetry Box for this honor!

Woof! A Work in Progress

My students and I were writing how-to poetry and prose last week: How to Be a Carrot, How to Let Things Go, How to Be a Bumblebee.

Here's one I'm working on:

How to Live with a New Puppy

Prepare to be unprepared

to forget to do the basics (shower, stretch, breathe)

prepare to forget the pleasure of ironing a shirt and reading beneath a tree

prepare for dainty nails to rake your shins and seventh-octave barks to shatter the champagne flutes of your inner ear

prepare to be hung upside down and shaken like dice in a cup so that keys and coins fly out of your pockets, so that the beads of your girlhood necklace finally break free from their 50-year-old string and tumble to the unswept floor to mingle with bits of dried grass and kibbledust

prepare for everything to come loose, for words like lunch and sleep to become as abstract as infinity or world peace

prepare for even your teeth to unmoor and rattle to the fir floor, leaving you to gum the puppy’s silky ears like a newborn infant seeking love as much as sustenance with its warm, blind mouth.

Improv

Something nice happened a few weeks ago.

A stranger who likes our poetry post slipped a book of their own poems through our mail slot. Inside the book was a handwritten note from the author, Taylor L. Ciambra:

"Hello! Thank you for sharing poems with the neighborhood! It always makes my day when I see a new poem up during a walk or jog. I want to share my poems with you as a way to show gratitude. I hope you enjoy them!"

Bowled over by this gift, I wanted to show my gratitude in turn. I took words from their poems (breadcrumbs, beard, motorcycle, heels, flannel) as well as the title of the book, Away with Words, and wove them into a freewrite/poem. Then I posted it for Ciambra alongside one of their poems to see the next time they jog by. I titled my writing "Improv" because Ciambra's bio says they're a "theatre maker and writer." The ending refers to a popular improv game that asks participants to work together, accepting each other's ideas and keeping a conversation alive. No script required.

Once again I'm reminded that writing is as much about conversation and connection as anything. May we all be joyful participants in organic exchanges with friends and strangers alike.

Improv

           for Taylor L. Ciambra

Away with words

      A way with words

with sentences

and similes

      dressed in hiking boots,

      not heels and stockings

A way

     to weigh

moments

     to follow breadcrumbs

               to bandaids,

                   sleeping bags,

                        and beards

Your words

       the salt breeze on (y)our

              bare neck, whiff

                     of sugar and of smoke --

one shoulder cocked

    inside a leather coat,

              one shoulder nestled

                      in a flannel robe.

                 Away with words

A way with words

                A word:

                     Yes

                or two:

                     Yes, and...

In Their Shoes

Many thanks to the Oregon Poetry Association for awarding my poem "From the Journals of Rumpelstiltskin" first place in their spring Members Only category.

You can read the poem here, as well as wonderfully evocative works by Melody Wilson and Suzy Harris.

I've written a few fictional journal poems, including "From the Imaginary Journals of Venetia Burney," which was published in The Wild Word, as well as a series about a kidnapped heiress, which is part of my forthcoming collection from Finishing Line Press. 

As a fiction writer, I find persona poems let me have my cake and eat it too. You get to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes, while using the juicy, concentrated language of poetry. If you're stuck for a new writing idea, you might give this a whirl. Simply pick a character (real or fictional) and let your imagination run wild. 

Lone Rock, Oregon -- prose by Ron Smith

The other day my online writing class took inspiration from the first line of Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa: "I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills."

My friend Ron Smith wrote this story in response to the prompt. I love the way he skillfully captures the beauty of a place he had to leave behind. What an act of generosity to let us see Lonerock through his eyes.

 

Lonerock, Oregon

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon, one hundred and seventy-five miles east of Portland, from 1999 until 2005, when I sold it to Boyd Harris, the realtor.

Situated in the approximate center of the Columbia River Gorge basin in Eastern Oregon, Lonerock is located twenty-two miles southeast of Condon, Oregon. It is customary to think of Eastern Oregon as mostly flat or rugged wasteland, supporting little vegetation, home only to jack rabbits and people who want to get away from it all.  However, Lonerock nestles in a gentle ravine, with surrounding clusters of low pine and cedar.

The last several miles to Lonerock are traveled on a narrow, descending gravel road, the hamlet seeming toylike and far away, huddled in the ravine in the shimmering distance. Closer, rising from the small group of dwellings and long-empty storefronts, a stiletto steeple rises above a perfectly maintained white New England style church.

As you cross a small bridge over a part-time creek and enter the small town, population twenty-six, the chief attraction of Lonerock and the source of its name appears, a huge lone rock, egglike, half the size of the church it roosts next to, deposited about seventy-five thousand years ago during the last ice age.

It is a mystery why people don't flock to this spectacle, but all the better that they don't. If a log truck isn't passing through or the sheep aren't quarrelling, there is a quiet in Lonerock that was such a revelation to this Portlander.  The stars at night are so clear, numerous and bright that they seem artificial if you are not ready for them.

I had a cabin in Lonerock, Oregon for six years, no rude hut, twin sinks in the bathroom (his and hers), the pride of Madden Street, but the maintenance at that distance became too difficult so I let it go. I've never been back.     

 

About the author: 

Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs. 

Celery Tanka -- by Deborah Lee

Isn't it wondrous how an artist can say so much with just a few lines?

A tanka is a Japanese poetic form where every word in its short five lines counts. Enjoy this one by Deborah Lee, who proves you can truly write in a meaningful way about anything...even celery.

Celery Tanka

by Deborah Lee

 

I remember a

Class about Waldorf Salad.

The teacher was handsome.

I think of mom when I cut 

Celery; she loved the heart.

About the author: Deborah is a writer, musician, and a longtime resident of Portland, Oregon. 

An Award-Winning Anthology!

Congratulations to d. ellis phelps and her Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, which won two prizes for its anthology purifying wind.

The book earned first place in the editorial category and at the state level in the National Federation of Press Women's contest.

I'm so honored that my lyric essay "No Place Like It" is a part of this collection!

You can click here to order a copy of the book.

A New Anthology from the Oregon Poetry Association!

Thank you to Dale Champlin and the Oregon Poetry Association for including my poem "Pandemic Mary" in their new anthology, /pān/dé/mïk/ 2020.

The book includes poems by some of my favorite local writers, including Dale Champlin, Suzy Harris, Sherri Levine, Carolyn Martin, Collette Tennant, Emmett Wheatfall and many others! 

I'm especially thrilled that the amazing Susan Donnelly has two poems in this collection. We met in one of my classes about three years ago, and I continue to be in awe of her image-rich writing. Congratulations to all the poets...not only on their publication, but for continuing to grapple with this crisis through their writing. 

You can click here to purchase a copy of the book.

The Sketch -- Poem and Drawing by Linda Ann Fraser

 What a joy to share this delicately probing poem and drawing by my dear friend Linda Ann Fraser.

The Sketch

 

Who is this person

who collects books and

loves black cats?

Where do I find her?

Is it in her white hair,

the glasses she wears?

Just where does this woman

reside?

It takes all these pieces

and more to make her

complete.

How should she be labeled?

She can’t be.

She is still becoming, pieces

are still missing like blank

holes in a jigsaw puzzle.

Some pieces will never

be found.

She doesn’t need them

to be whole. 

She is becoming

something else, something magic.

About the author:

Linda Ann Wilson’s interest in poetry and writing began as a senior in Ellensburg, Washington. Early marriage and raising three girls took a toll on writing but creativity thrived as she sewed for her daughters. After the girls grew up, sewing merged into cloth art dolls and drawing. She thought the dolls needed stories. When grandchildren wanted family stories, she found Linda Ferguson’s writing class. This class has encouraged Linda Ann to keep writing and during the COVID shut down, writing has kept her sane.

Song for Some Women

Thanks so much to Mia Savant for sharing my poem "Song for Some Women" on her Online Open Mic today! You can read the poem here.

You: A Poetry/Prose Hybrid by Liz Samuels

Although we haven't met in person for a year, my amazing students still inspire, delight and astonish each other each week by exploring their creative depths online.

Thank you to Liz Samuels for sharing this piece that pulses with all the scents and sounds and sights of life.

You

by Liz Samuels

A week later, but with the remnants of Valentine love lingering in the Willamette Valley, mist blankets fields of grass, sunbeams emerge, tiny droplets sparkle turquoise, lavender and chartreuse, and I get to spend this day with you.

 

I don perfect attire for mid February,

deep pocketed jeans and

Pendleton plaid shirt, sheepskin vest and

waders with soles meant for clinging to mud.

I can't take my eyes off your rounded belly as I twist the lid off a cumbersome thermos of steel, pour a stream of hot coffee from its tower, into it,

then take one quick gulp of that steaming brew.

As the air fills with the richness of fresh roasted beans,

I rub dry, eyes. Purple vessels protrude beneath them after a sleepless night.

The barn is cold but bearable and I only shiver a little.

Dim light gives way to sun beginning to show its face. A rooster crows.

 

The first time you gave birth

you feared you might drown in that swollen river,

didn't know what to make of it.

Make that both of us.

Now we float on its waves

though ready for that unexpected curve.

 

You

have given us babies

most of your life,

only lost a few,

one, a tiny triplet too weak to live

though his two siblings wobbled, then grew.

As I watch you, I am hopeful

the straw beneath you feels soft

and my

words soothe.

 

The cock crows an encore, past the break of dawn,

and at that moment

I see the hoof of a lamb, blood and goo

ooze out of your bright pink opening.

It's a black one, the opposite color of you.

You, oblivious some humans

have given black sheep an unwarranted rap,

you push it all the way out. Then comes another, this one the light of day marbled with midnight splotch

 

That seems to be the extent of it.

 

Your two little lambs coated in licorice down snuggle against your white chocolate wool,

nuzzle their way to the sweet smell of colostrum,

latch on to the pointed teats of your engorged sacs and the suckling begins.

You are an old hand at this.

 

Now rain drenches the grass. So does the sun.

How many more years will I be right here

to relish this time by your side

and you, ewe, bring your little lambs

into the warm arms of winter ending?

A rainbow arches across gray tinted blue, to me a sign these births will not be our last, that you will continue to provide cheese, milk, wool and lamb. On this day I give you my promise that I will do my best not to gouge you with clippers when I shear you, that your blood will not spill, on my watch, that I'll try not to mind when you almost knock me over when you rub up against me with the weight of your body, eager for that bucket of fodder. Today I promise to think of you every day as divine, for to me on this day there is only one ewe.

About the author: 

In the summer of 1983, Liz lived on a small farm halfway between Mt. Hood and Portland where she and her husband took care of besides small animals, two forceful and friendly sheep that would often almost knock her over. The first of three children was born the following spring. Thirty-seven years later, they spend their empty nest years living on a floating home on the Columbia in Portland where they're responsible for watching other people's sailboats. Liz began writing for fun in the last few years. Her other passions are singing anything and African dancing.

Seemingly Everlasting Sunshine by Nathalie Le Breton

 

Enjoy this charming and insightful poem by Nathalie Le Breton, whose unique voice exudes light and warmth.

Seemingly Everlasting Sunshine

 

When I was one I couldn’t believe it:

Look at that bright blue sky!

Look at that seemingly everlasting sunshine!

 

When I was two,

sure,

I did see a few clouds.

 

When I was three,

it started raining.

So I grabbed an umbrella.

 

When I was four,

It started pouring.

So I went back inside.

 

When I was five,

I peeked through the window:

Dark pools on the ground.

 

I don’t remember after five,

as I had closed my eyes.

To see again the bright blue sky.

To see again

the seemingly everlasting sunshine.

 

About the Author:

Nathalie Le Breton is a French native speaker who has relocated in the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys exploring a different language as a form of personal discovery and melodic expression. She also enjoys reading poetry and children's books, knitting, drinking tea, and walking slowly through the seasons.

Nancy, Tina and Me

 

When I was seven, my cool older cousin gave me her copy of the Nancy Drew novel The Mysterious Mannequin, and I was hooked. I didn't just love Nancy, I wanted to be her, to have her sharp eyes and calm, clear mind that always got to the truth.

I've been trying to write about Nancy for years, but I struggled to get it right. How to express my fangirl status while also acknowledging that the books are pretty funny, with their formulaic plots, impossibly perfect heroine and outdated stock character sidekicks ("tomboy" George and dithering, "plump" Bess). 

How did I finally tap into my delight in these stories? By making a list of the goofy, delicious language penned by "Carolyn Keene," and then turning that list into a poem. Many thanks to the editors of VoiceCatcher Journal for publishing my poem "Nancy Drew's Fancy" as well as "Sighs of the Mermaid" in their latest issue. 

What's even better than getting published? Getting published alongside your students. Congratulations to the fabulous Tina Klammer, whose poems "Sir Nicholas the Brave" and "This Is What We Know" appear in this issue! And...congratulations to Jaymee Martin, a former student, on the publication of her nonfiction story "Hechizo"!

Here's the table of contents with links to all the current VoiceCatcher writing, including poetry by Shawn Aveningo Sanders and Carolyn Martin.