Sprinkles on a Chocolate Earth

...taken from a fastwrite during the "Homeschoolers 3-week class series" about 'spring.'

I drive the way I always do through the narrow, car-parked corridors of Bloomington streets...prepared.  For opening car doors, stray cats, wandering students, baby-wearing dads, or the occasional couch on curb.  Prepared either to dodge, or feast my eyes - elaborate lawns turned wildspace, artscape grass ornaments, band on a front porch .  My little black Honda, Loretta, is miniature and swift, perfect.

Today, the five-month grey, cobalt frame of winter stains my retina.  Passing pokey knee knobs of trees with skeletal branches over and over, I sigh.  I drive the way I always do.  Until I don't.  A lawn blanket of perky spring crocus strips all co-ordinated efforts.  My car drives towards them as if being pulled, lured by the Siren's songs.

They've got all the crocuses in town!

Tiny violet miracles, effervecent magic like sprinkles on a chocolate earth.  I turn the wheel just in time to remember, I'm still driving.  The stranger's yard survives a near collision.

It'd be sad to drive over all those flowers.

It's a wonder that each time the spring face says hello, it's a wonder.  Even though I've heard it's story before.  I love this about spring, how it lifts us out of expectation, scatters our vision like puzzle pieces into a new, oh yeah.  Prepared?

-Refreshing life is always alive beneath the surface waiting to spring

Allison
for the PGM

Crazy (A poem for Connemara)

Because we're all getting our Irish on this week, here's a poem from my trip to Ireland in the Fall of 2103, written for one of the most beautiful landscapes I know:

Crazy

I am crazy in love with Connemara:
striped granite mountains hulking in fog or cloud,
alien boglands grown over with improbably yellow gorse
filled with flat silver water ruffling in salt wind,
curve after curve after inlet of
fine white sand, or tiny bits of coral, or round lavender rocks,
fuschia, montbretia, hawthorn
long low strands or rounded hills or cliff-edged roads
mix-and-match combinations
each as perfect as the next
with rainbow sheep sprinkled over all.

If I lived in one of those thick white cottages
("Bungalow for Sale" says the hand-lettered sign)
I'd spend my days looking out windows
at the sea, at the bog, at the sky,
lost in wonder.

So when I see a man walking his dog of an evening
his hair silver, or brown, or red, long clomping stride,
hands shoved deep into pockets,
I want to ask, are you married?
Can I kiss you?
Marrying into one of those cottages
seeming in this moment
like the most wonderful thing,
the fulfillment of every desire.

And if he is married, well,
maybe I'd kiss him anyway
because Connemara is so beautiful
and this
is a perfect day.

–– Mary Pat Lynch

Slainté!

What a Gift!

Voluptuous body filled out

every square inch

of her sweater and jeans.

Red raspberry lipstick

begged for a kiss,

juicy on full luscious lips.

The caramel skinned mama

was decked out as sexy

as prison rules would allow.

She had an easy way

with her curly haired toddler,

laughed and made playful games

of prison inconvenience:

“Hop up here, baby!

“Hold on to Tigger!

“One, two....three!”

She jumped her

from floor to counter top—

the four foot high partition

dividing visitors

from guards.

Her manicured fingers

glittered silver and blue

as she gently screwed backs

from tiny gold hoops

that pierced her daughter's

perfect butter bean ears.

“No hurry, baby.

“You're being so patient.

“There, that does it.

“Whee! Jump back down!”

Milk chocolate skin,

dark chocolate eyes,

delightful gourmet confection

dressed up in rainbow colors,

fancy yellow bow

flared out at the back—

the lively child charmed everyone

with her innocent smile

as she skipped and sang

in her own little world.

Mama stowed miniature earrings

and her own dazzling jewels

in a gray metal locker

with purse, sunglasses, and keys.

When her daughter kissed Tigger

and laid him on top,

I blinked back tears.

And when she slammed the locker door

with a jolting “Clang!”—

everyone laughed,

even the guards.

“Okay, strong girl,

“let's go see Daddy!”

Spread-eagle frisked

and metal detector scanned,

we parted ways

after passing through

two more check-point gates.

 “He's going to be one happy papa!”

I called.

She nodded and smiled,

eyes bright, full of love,

full of confidence and pride

as she carried her beauty

 and her baby

through the caged-in walk

  toward the man inside. 

                                                            Glenda Breeden

                                                                 February  2015

Spinning Toward the Stars

Spinning Toward the Stars

Fumble for the light, and you’ll be stark awake, but the vision will be fading, slipping out of reach.   Denise Levertov Writing in the Dark

How many years did I spend fumbling for the light? And which light? I think I mostly fumbled because it wasn’t my light for which I searched. It was someone else’s idea of what my life light should be. As I look back, I think I fumbled or pretended I couldn’t find the switch because I didn’t want to bathe in a light that wasn’t mine.

There were times when I blindly walked into the not me light, blinking at its harshness and wondering how I got drawn into its chilly circle. It was magnetically uncomfortable, hard to pull away.  But I kept pulling away and fumbling until I was exhausted. Family and friends looked at me suspiciously as I twisted and turned. What is she doing? Why is she changing? They whispered fearfully to each other. She’s not cooperating like she always has. This can’t be good, they hissed.

But it was good. What appeared as uncontrolled spinning to them was life saving for me. Spinning toward my own light. No fumbling for the switch, no more faux light. It had always been within reach. 

My light was creamy, warm, embracing and allowed me to shine, a star in a universe of my own design.  Brilliant.

Rebekah for the Poplar Grove Muse