Again ... without further adieu ... the writing piece ...
I hate scrubbing the shower. I will seek out other chores to do before I will scrub that blasted tub … and by searching out other chores, I mean, I will rid my entire refrigerator of every fuzzy, slimy, unidentifiable item, cheerfully, before tackling the shower. That’s just how much I hate the job.
It hurts my back … it’s messy … I get water all over the place … I must beat Maddie the Cat back every other second because caustic shower cleaner is something she’s obsessed with (along with a lengthy list of other abnormal, slightly psychotic feline behaviors she displays).
Don’t get me wrong. I love a clean shower. I like the fresh smell … the sparkling walls … the secure feeling of knowing that I’m not exposing myself to untold bacteria. But for whatever reason, it takes an internal struggle for many days before I finally break down and break out the scratchy sponge.
The same thing could be said of my relationship to poetry. I certainly enjoy reading it, and I love to teach countless reading strategies with poetry. However, ask me to write one, and I start whining about the task … it’s too hard … it’s too confining … it’s not what I like to do … it makes my head hurt to think about similes and metaphors and lyrical language … and … but … waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa …..
However, today, I decided to be a good sport about it. I determined to grit my teeth and make something out of the jumble of words that dribbled from my whiny brain.
The smell of the Airhead reminded me of Karmel Korn Alice’s, a sweets shop in Mackinaw City, that has the best caramel corn IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. An earlier conversation with Ricki swirled together with my scent memory, and, all of a sudden, I was transported back to the countless summers I spent with my family at my grandparents’ cottage Up North (that’s northern Michigan for those unversed in Michigan-speak) . I was reminded of the evenings spent watching the sunset over Carp Lake- because no two are ever alike — and before I knew it, words were pouring out on my paper, and I was writing poetry. It wasn’t good, but it was poetry, and it was a precious memory of my grandmother and mosquitoes and bonfires and the scent of sun block mixed with a distant call of a loon. My heart ached to be back there and to have just one more moment to hear her grandma-isms …
Today, I finally scrubbed the proverbial shower, and it wasn’t too bad. It’s not the best household job I do. But, as my grandfather always said, “a man on a fast-trotting horse won’t notice.”
So, here’s to poetry and trying it on for size and for fast-trotting horses …
Oranges, yellows, purples, blues … wait, burnt sienna? spreading
across an endless horizon of soft ripples.
Smack! Another mosquito gone.
Crackling embers …
Sticky s’mores …
One, two, three,