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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Labyrinth

Dreams feel real while we’re in them. It’s only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange. ~ Inception

It was just another manic Monday of melancholy madness. Except that it wasn’t. It was actually two days in the future. The present can feel like the past when winter merriment gets involved. Ah, the Genesis of a new rotation around the good ol’ Sol. If you and I found ourselves in a conversation post the omega of the most recent full moon, odds are you might find a piece of it woven within this labyrinth of literary lunacy. An idea has been twisting and turning lately. Something I want to create…a belletristic maze within a maze, just so I can revel…nay…get lost in the depth of it. A multi-sensory aesthetic experience.

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Peace, Epiphany, and the Present

“And in despair I bowed my head, there is no peace on earth I said, for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth goodwill to men…”

 “What do you want for Christmas?” It’s the question that starts circulating every Thanksgiving. Would it come across as derisive to ask for peace on earth? Listening to the news on any given day, all I should ask for is peace and an end to human suffering. Maybe it’s ridiculous to think of putting lofty idealistic notions on our Christmas lists and expecting anyone to actually do anything about it. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic. Or maybe I just feel the need to be facetious right now, due to that Christmas exhaustion setting in. It’s the Eve of Christmas, and while I’m currently baking a cake which I’m totally jazzed about, I have a multitude of thoughts running through my mind. And so I shall put the proverbial pen to the paper whilst the aroma of spice fills the space in which I dwell.

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