Playing Ball

Okay, I got reminded to do something this week. I've been in Tulsa most of the week for a church conference. At one point, I ended up with free time in the (fabulous) youth area. They had one of those semi-portable basketball hoops set up in one corner and two teenagers were shooting baskets. Both boys appeared to have Downs Syndrome. Both were having the best time, coaching and cheering each other with every shot.

I was watching them, getting a lot of joy from just watching them have fun. Soon, they were casting shy glances at me. After several minutes, they invited me to join them. Now, I suck at shooting baskets. I told them I wasn't very good at all, that I'd probably be in the way. They told me it was okay, they'd help me.

I was instantly humbled. And as we played there in the youth room, so many different things happened. My tension that had hit me rather suddenly at the start of the week melted away. As I said, I was humbled being coached on the best way to shoot the ball. And we laughed and had such a good time. It was awesome.

And then, when we sat down for a break, before going back to our respective posts for the conference, I wrote for them.

Unabashed smiles, eyes
watching the ball -- swissssshhhh--REBOUND!
Reminds me to play.

I didn't manage to get their names. It wasn't important, you know? But they did so much for me.

Thievin'

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Thief," which can go just about anywhere.

I've been thinking a lot about stealing things the last few days, even before seeing this prompt. The last few weeks have been crazy, I can describe several things that have happened and thoughts I've had as stealing.

Wow, that last sentence is awful. Maybe I'll go back to it. Probably not.

Anyway, I need to give a run-down. I'm big into listing things right now, and have made dozens of lists for everything. I migh as well continue it here.

1. I work through the summer. I teach summer school, professional development classes, and do a bunch for my church job. I realized that this summer I've packed too much in. I've stolen my own time away. Away from deadlines, working. Time to relax. I figured it out, the first week of summer was the only full week I was not required to do anything or be anywhere.
2. I've met a guy--I've commented on him in other posts. He's 'The Man.' He's amazing. I really don't have other words to describe him. It's been a long time since my attention has been drawn to a guy like this--and I don't mean just paying attention to him, I mean my thoughts are drawn to him. I think he's definitely starting to steal my heart...he's already managed to steal my mind.
3. Earlier this week, my peace was stolen. I don't want to go into details for several reasons. Stealing my peace...I just don't know how to wrap my head around it. It happened so suddenly, so violently that it took me a couple days to sort it out for myself. But you know who's managing to help restore it? The Man, whether he knows that's what he's doing or not.

Hm..maybe that's all, then. I guess it just feels like so much more.

I realize it doesn't really fit the prompt. Oh well, I don't tend to follow the rules well anyway.

Angels and Devils

It's a bit ironic that this week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is sex.. The Man (read "the man in my life"), and I had a playful conversation last week that produced this gem of a line (hope he doesn't mind me sharing!):

I think your naughty little devil and my innocent little angel need to have a meeting of the minds.

A few days, some twisting and turning...and then the prompt showing up, brought me from there to here.

“Girl, what you doin’?”
Damn the angel.
Ignore her, close my mind.
Wander.
Need your breath on my neck.

“Girl, you’re delicious,”
The devil speaks.
Touch you, lose myself.
Revel.
Steal the warmth from your touch.

“Please, don’t stop.”
Quiet words for
a devil from his angel.
Hunger.
Taste your kiss, and give in.

I've never written any poetry that even hints at sex. I don't really know why, possibly lack of inspiration.

Teehee..The Man should take that statement as a compliment.

I commented last week that not everything we write has to be visceral. I think sometimes I have to be reminded that visceral doesn't have to mean 'gut wrenching.' It can simply refer to the butterflies that swarm with a touch. Ooh, there's an image--butterflies swarming. Hm...


Check out Poetry Thursday for other poetry contributions.

Teehee

So this week, we're supposed to find humor (according to the--totally optional--prompt at Poetry Thursday).

I don't write humorous poetry. Well, not any for public consumption (Don't we all play with limericks now and again? Or is that just me? Don't answer that.). And, in thinking about this prompt, I struggled. I can't think of any particularly humorous poetry--that was meant to be funny--I've read in years. There's my lame excuse for finally getting around to posting this week.

So, I got to thinking about the poetry I used when I taught elementary school. When working with third graders, one doesn't use Poe or Dickinson to teach poetry. Instead, you find Shel Silverstein (see link below) or Jack Prelutsky and you let them giggle their little heads clean off. Then you can do silly things like sharing some Frost or Whitman--the lighter stuff, of course.

I remember being introduced to Shel Silverstein's poetry. It was second grade and we read "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor." It chronicles being eaten alive by a massive snake, starting with the toes and ending with the nose. It's hilarious! And it's the only poem I've ever memorized for school that I can still recite perfectly--and that was, ugh, almost 23 years ago. I use it now to show new interpers in my speech classes how to own the poetry they are reading.

And it was that poem, 10 years later that I thought about when my high school creative writing teacher told us to quit writing about our imagined angst and have fun with what we were doing. She pointed out that yes, words should speak to you in ways other than just mere language, but not everything we write has to be so visceral. Some things can appeal to just your funny bone.

I think that's probably also when I made the connection between poetry and music. I'd always known that, in essence, lyrics are just poetry, but I'd never really connected that the effect words-put-to-music had on me could be found in words on paper. It opened up a whole new world for me and my writing.

Sure, I still don't write funny poetry. But I stopped being so caught up in my perceived distress (which I can tell you now was really non-existent) and just wrote.

I never would've thought a rhyme about a kid being eaten by a constrictor could have such an effect on my writing self. I mean, come 'on, it's aimed at kids, right????

See some neat things and hear some audio recordings of a few poems.
Shel Silverstein
I about flipped when I did a search for this site. In the site engine blurb, the main link says "Shel Silverstein - the Official Site for Kids - Choose Speed." I did a doubletake and quickly clicked on it--it wanted the viewer to choose high or low bandwidth. That was NOT my first thought!

And to see this week's other offerings, visit Poetry Thursday.

Just one requirement

Hotels. They're a necessary evils. Obviously, I have to have somewhere to stay when I leave town, hence the necessary part.

Evil because they 'rub' at all kinds of things that bother me. Showers are goofy--too hot, too cold, and the shower curtains try to envelope you. Two few channels on the TV and a remote that rarely makes sense. An alarm clock it takes a 6 year old to set. Never enough towels, etc.

Ugh.

I do like to stay in nice ones. When I need a base to decompress in, it's nice to come back to a well-apportioned room and relax. Tough for me to do that in the local motel.

I spent all last week in a pretty good hotel. Nice pillows, microwave and minifridge in the room. Starbuck's coffee packs for the in-room coffee maker. (That rocked). Free internet access and everything. It was so nice.

Last night, I stayed at a hotel in Austin. Great location, really nice place...view of the driveway. Internet access was available in every room, for an additional $10. Parking was available, for an additional $10. $18 if you used valet parking. The room wasn't ready when I tried to check in (granted, I was 2 hours before check in time, but I'd called ahead for the

But the bed was awesome. There was a little decorative pillow that said "Sweet Dreams," and they were. That's the best hotel bed I've ever slept in and I'm a bed connoisseur. It had just the right amount of support, great pillows, mmm..wonderful. I drifted right off. It was amazing.

So...that's my one requirement. I'll deal with anything else, but gimme a great bed.

Read some more offerings at Sunday Scribblings.

Confession or Catharsis?

Things are not as they
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.

I wrote the above haiku after a very difficult few months in my life. My world was topsy-turvy, and I was discovering that my perfect little bubble had popped. Nothing I had done, intentionally or otherwise, had initiated the chain of events, but I was left feeling hollow.

I'd come to the realization that everything my parents had taught me was a little tainted by a pseudo-perfection. Well, maybe not everything, but quite a bit was now questionable. The haiku was not so much confessional, as putting my state of mind down on paper.

It took me 6 months to get those 17 syllables worked out. Took me almost that long to admit I was hurting.

For more (completely optional) prompts, visit Poetry Thursday.

Two Peas in a Pod? Let's not. (my 'Sunday Scribblings')

I can remember, rather vividly, when I was in high school being told that a friend and I were "two peas in a pod." I was offended. It was the first time that the phrase had ever incited anger in me. Now, please understand, I love this friend dearly. I admire her for some things she's done in her life. I don't particularly like some of the choices she made while we were growing up. Shortly before someone unknowingly offended me, she'd made a choice I neither agreed with nor supported (there is a difference between agreeing and supporting you know.). We were actually in an argument about the decision she'd made and so, taking offense was likely to be the response anyway. But I was incredibly upset that someone thought that we were truly cut of the same cloth, so to speak. I was nothing like her and didn't want to be thought of that way.

Ever since, I haven't liked that phrase--"two peas in a pod." It may have something to do with me not being enthusiastic about peas. Or the memories of hours spent shelling peas with my grandmother. Or maybe, just maybe, because those pods seem so cramped.

Actually, I think it's because I'd rather be an original. Being just like some other "pea in a pod" implies being just like someone else and that bothers me. I want to think I'm unique, and by golly I want everyone else to think so, too! I know, I know. Inherently, we are all unique. And, for that matter, all peas would be, too. But when was the last time you saw a bowl full of peas, identified one, and then later could indentify the exact same one. Come on, friends, it ain't possible. Unless you mark the pea, but that's cheating.

So, anyway, I don't want to be seen as a pea in a pod, either on my own or in comparison with someone else. Sometimes this desire gets my big mouth in trouble, other times, it endears me to someone worth loving.

To do a little scribbling of your own, and read those of others, click here.