Chiaroscuro Canvas

My love for words started when I was in sixth grade. I can still visualize that tan sand and blue ocean aesthetic notebook with white birds flying across the cover. Creative Writing. This was a new subject for the students in Miss Minniear’s sixth grade class. She instilled the idea of pursuing excellence in all the subjects she taught, but within the area of English in particular…I felt like a sponge. Literature, grammar, poetry, creativity, storytelling, prepositions, alliteration, rhyme, book reports, diagramming sentences…I soaked it all in. After being introduced to the world of creative writing, life seemed to have more meaning and aliveness. Miss Minniear had a tremendous impact on me, and I’ll be forever grateful for her investment in her students and our studies.

I remember our whole class memorizing James Whitcomb Riley’s poem, “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” and collectively dragging out “the rooster’s haaaaaaaallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence” each time we recited it together. I remember the vivid imagery I experienced while reading Carl Sandburg’s very short poem, “Fog.” I even had a short poem of my own published through a writing contest that year, which was a pretty big deal for that twelve-year-old. Those initial feelings of discovery in the power of expression lit a fire within me that has never gone out. I Thoreau-ly enjoyed writing poetry in junior high and high school. I’m also forever grateful for the encouragement from my English teachers in high school and college who helped me develop my voice and told me to keep writing. I still find inspiration in those classic works of literature, especially The Great Gatsby. The color symbolism lit up my internal world, and it’s still my favorite story! While most of what I’ve written since school has been in story or blog format, I have recently felt inspired to dive back into poetry…

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A Bite of Blood Moon Pie

Last week saw me living for nothing but deadlines with my dead beat sky, but this town doesn’t look the same tonight. These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere, and in all my life I don’t know that I ever felt so alive. ~ Switchfoot, “Awakening”

Scene: Midnight ~ that paradoxical hour that divides our sense of time. (“Is it night or is it morning?” Hmm…both.) Happy Blood Moon and Pi Day! I feel like there’s been a lack of social awareness for this grand celestial event which happens to be in congruence with all math lovers’ favorite day of the year. Last year millions of people embarked on trips across the states to view the solar eclipse while sporting eclipse glasses and souvenir t-shirts and indulging in special eclipse-themed snacks. I think this lunar eclipse deserves equal attention. We all should have planned to collectively eat moon pies at 3:14 in the morning, while solving mathematical equations under the crescent of light that will be present during this eclipse. Instead, a few dedicated moon lovers will be turning their gaze and their cameras upward on this “once in a red moon” kind of night…

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Wild Dreaming

Some say it’s the darkest before the dawn…the stormiest before the calm…

Domicile disarray abounds around, but I’m feeling introspective and only slightly sentimental on this rainy afternoon. The organizational demands are just going to have to be patient a little while longer, for alas, the writing mode strikes whenever it fancies. Follow me away into…

…a maze of greenery. And a tangled up enchanted opal apple orchard. It’s a wonder one could ever find one’s way out. A last dance in the moonlight with that dashingly handsome man. There’s something about the way he looked that evening. Wild daydream blue eyes. His voice and smile were so familiar, like I’d known him half my life. Enraptured distant memories came to the forefront of my mind, as the large clock on the castle wall sounded an alarmingly loud alarm. Midnight! And it was just getting good. My heart beat swiftly as he kissed my red lips, brushed my hair back from my rosy cheek, and whispered in my ear, “I’ll see you again.” I made it to the door a fraction before the twelfth stroke. Continue reading “Wild Dreaming”