Flocking to the Festival

It's a party for all of those with wings, fly'n in to check out things.
We're gathering here to sample seeds, to eat and chat, our superdeeds!

Those with fur have arrived now, too; they're mess'n with our motley crew.
A conspirancy of ravens alights with a shout; big and bright, can't keep them out.

The red-headed woodpecker sounds the call; time to head to the shopping mall!
We'll clean out the feeder, avoid the cats; dispute the corn with intentsive combat.

When noontime arrives with a glimpse of sun; we'll take a rest from greedy fun.
Though branches are frosted, our bellies are filled; our thanks expressed by our heart-warmed trill.

And the little dog laughed

Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, the other orange cat seemed morose.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, the food dishes stared blandly.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, the yard felt lonely.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, every pile of leaves looked like an orange cat.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, we began to think the worst.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, we walked in the cold yard and called his name.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, the other orange cat followed us like a puppy.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, the little dog in the house wondered why everyone had left her to roam the living room, blindly.
Without the one-eyed cat on the porch, we stood in the midst of the front yard and petted the other orange cat to satisfaction.
We also headed back to the warmth of the house, thinking of canned tuna for the remaining orange cat.
The one-eyed cat on the porch asked "tuna?"
The one-eyed cat!
We asked the one-eyed cat: "Where were you?"
He purred. The other orange cat purred and mentioned "tuna?"
The one-eyed cat on the porch and the other orange cat split a can of tuna between them.
Both cats on the porch continued to purr but neither commented on the one-eyed cat's absence.
The little dog in the house bumped into the sofa.
The other orange cat and the one-eyed cat on the porch peered in the window, since habits are hard to break.
The cats on the porch noticed the little dog on the sofa and the bright TV.
The cats on the porch turned their backs to face the yard.
The little dog in the house realized she was no longer alone; she fell off the sofa.
And the little dog laughed to be surrounded by love.

Holiday Haiku

A foggy night driving in,
Christmas lights shine bright.
Holidays hug warmly.

Superior Tom

You strut away, your feathers held high
Subservient lady friends giving the eye.
And as you preen we surely know
That you're the star of this little show.

Monarch of the barn, stud of the walk
You flap your wings, you talk the talk.
A snobby gobble, beard raised in distain,
You turn your back, your intent is plain.

Your posture assumes the best of you
With arrogance as it's only clue.
Today you rock! Tomorrow you roll...
I'm sure you'll taste good with a cranberry mold.

Homecoming or Dancing Thru Chaos

It's all in good fun. Homecoming that is. Homecoming at my school is like walking into an insane asylum on the day the caretakers lock themselves into a padded cell. Classes of this year and of next year, and so on, chant and cheer their way thru the halls and the school day. Dressed in each day's designated apparel they appear to be united in appearance as well as in their lunacy.
It's all good fun. Teaching is not necessarily put on the back-burner; it's just made more difficult as the students hyper their way from one class period to the next. Lunchtime is filled with cheers, chants, skits and acrobatics not normally tolerated in the staid cafetorium.
It's all in good fun. Competition to win the 'spirit stick', a dowel rod dressed up in the school colors with a image of the school mascot on top, is ferocious. Paper flags are made and waved. Cloth banners are decorated. Flyers are posted on walls and lockers. Classroom doors are garbed with each day's character symbols. The doors become portals of sweet academic interludes to be interchanged with crowded halls of pep.
It's all in good fun. For five days the festivities ensue. Focus is on Friday's Homecoming Game; those games played on Tuesday and Wednesday are forgotten. Focus is on which class can show the most school spirit - all by itself. Focus is on the anticipation of the BIG GAME. All other games are forgotten. All academia is replaced with a single minded goal.
The goal? To stay awake and alert until the very end. Until the stroke of midnight at the Homecoming Dance after the BIG GAME. To remain spirited to the very end.
What do we learn during Homecoming Week? Brotherhood? Cooperation? How to raise our voices in unison? How to march together or put on an entertaining skit? How to paint a flag or a banner? How to survive the chaos?
It's all in good fun. We learn to have fun. Together. We cheer, we chant, we skit, we pep rally, we elect queens and we play a game. Then we dance.
After it's all over, the next week, the next year and the years after we realize. We danced thru the chaos. And it was all in good fun.

A permanent addition

I think I'd like a butterfly

to hover on my neck

Or maybe a green dragonfly

to dance upon my pec.

I've opted for a self design

to grace my sweetest ankle

and kanje lights upon my arm,

it's meaning never rankles.

A new addition teases me

with glimpses of romance,

Long lasting artwork it should be,

to the body part enhance.

So what to do, to plan it out,

to create a unique expression,

I'm stymied here, I cannot decide

on this most permanent addition.

With apologies to Mr. Carroll - A complaint to the Dow

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things. Of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. Of why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings." 

Lewis Carroll

I only know what I've been told

and what I read in the papers.

I only know I'm growing old and lack the time for capers.

I only know I'm less than rich

and soon to be more poor.

I only know they talk too much. I find them all to bore.

I only wish that I could see

an answer to my question.

Should I stay or should I sell? Both pills give indigestion.

The Card

Ratzo had not cleaned out the back of his home cave in at least six years and since he had decided to remodel, well, he just felt it was time to throw a few things away. This was very hard for the old rat since he was a packrat by nature.

As he scooted the roll-top desk to another wall several papers were left lying in disarray on the dust-bunnied floor. The bright primary colors on the front of the card caught his eye just as he was about to scoop them all to the trash.

It was a card. A birthday card as a matter of fact. The front had two mice wearing baby blue jackets and scarlet shoes waving and waving small yellow flags.

Inside. He opened the card carefully so as not to break the fold. And inside. Inside were more mice running with flags gleefully flitting in the breeze. Letters on each flag spelled out H A P P Y  B I R T H D A Y ! The greeting's poem had several words underlined. The signature was practically indistinguishable. And then he saw it. In one corner was written a year. It was 1986. Over it was another year and below 1986 was a line. It had been subtracted from the other. This time he had difficulty reading the numbers because they had been smeared, looked like cake or cake frosting.

Ratzo peered a little closer. It didn't make sense, but the top year seemed to 2008, this year. And under the line, well, it looked very much like a 22.

It confused Ratzo. Hmmm, he thought, 22 years. He noticed that the underlined words said "You are terrific!" and "Have a Great Day!"

At that point Ratzo began to chuckle. Not only was he having a Great Day, but he had had a Great Twenty-Two Years and today was turning into a Really Great Day.

Hmmm, he pondered, I guess birthday wishes really do come true, particularly when the wishes are wished for you with love.

Convention Night Haiku

Convention speeches;

Two names stand out from the crowd.

Ben and Jerry's. Yum.

Short sheets

It is four o'clock in the afternoon and she turns over from her nap to discover that the sheets have wrapped themselves around her feet. Afternoon naps are a physical activity, she thinks, and meticulously slides her left foot out of the soft tangle and kicks at the hand-stitched heirloom quality cotton quilt.

It does not budge. The breeze from the ceiling fan tickles her bare leg and she kicks at the quilt again, forgetting that her right foot is still tangled in the 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet. The quilt does not budge, but she does. Momentum from her kick spins her shoulders off the mattress and she finds herself wedged between the nightstand and the heavy, oh, so firm, Sealy; head down with an excellent view of the electric power strip where her cell phone recharger is plugged in for afternoon revitalization.

It is then that she notices that her arms are also tangled in the sheet. Except for that devilish left foot, pretty much all of her is either tangled up in bedclothes or stuck between the antique mahogany nightstand with the weighty marble top and the oh, so firm, Sealy.

It is then that she notices the spider, poised in observation of her right eyeball, about 3 inches below her cheek, clinging to the lovely 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet. The cotton sheet that wraps her lovingly and holds her tightly like a beau from the old movies.

The spider does not look pleased. Neither is she and she tries to turn her head, ever so slightly, to inhale quietly and then to exhale forcefully to blow the spider away.

This forceful exhalation of breath works momentarily. The spider swings backwards into an arc that sends it down again and beyond its starting point. It swings like an acrobat with a short skitter up its web and lands, perhaps, in her hair.

At least she thinks it landed in her hair. She can't see it and doesn't feel it. But she knows. She knows it has landed just above that eyebrow in that soft patch of hair that always falls into her eyes. That soft patch of hair that she always has to comb back with her hand.

Except her hand, well, her hands, both of them, are stuck with her arms, are tangled in the soft Egyptian cotton bed sheet; she is wrapped in the 600 threadcount so gently, so tightly in that sheet. That sheet is holding her wedged upside down between the antique mahogany nightstand and the oh, so firm, Sealy. 

Her arms! Her hands! She struggles to be free. She slips further down between the nightstand the mattress. And now, she can feel the wayward spider making its way around her head, in-between the hairs down to her neck.

She kicks with that devilish left foot! The rest of her follows the momentum and she tumbles the rest of the way off of the bed. Her head and shoulders are still somewhat stuck in that no man's land between the nightstand and the mattress.

Wiggling and wiggling, she is able to inch backwards on the plush rose carpet until she is no longer stuck between that hateful, yet oh, so firm, Sealy and that obnoxious mahogany nightstand. She is able to disengage from those nasty 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets. She rubs her cheek. It feels bruised. She sees that her cell phone is no longer plugged into the electric power strip and is blinking with disorientation. She notices that she is still on the floor, lying on her stomach on the plush rose carpet. It welcomes her.

Edging to her knees, she rises to a crouching position and decides to climb back into bed. It is a very nice, oh, so firm, Sealy, after all. And she has not finished her nap.

Inching up, her eyes become level with the top of the bed. There, poised in comfort on the soft 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet, is the spider. They make eye contact. And they know.

The spider jumps. She slaps.

Later as the washer chugs the soft 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets with the hand-stitched heirloom quality quilt around and around with detergent designed for delicate washables, she replugs the cell phone into the electric surge protector.

Something is terribly wrong as it spits fire, sparkling blue tidbits, around her hand, the plug, and the oh, so firm, Sealy. Tiny brown burnt spots appear like magic on the tufted sueded covering.

Tiny brown burnt spots that are suddenly easy to see next to the tiny brown spiders marching over the mattress toward her. Marching from the edge of the antique mahogany nightstand onto the edge of the bed, onto the mattress and toward her singed fingertips.

The plush rose carpet again welcomes her tush as she sits backwards away from the bed.

It's five o'clock in the afternoon. It is not a very good time for a nap.

Friends send me wishes.

My day fills with happiness.

Yes! Happy birthday.

Haiku? God bless you.

Addictive I find it.

Yoda is so proud.

Stopping now, you bet.

More another day I'm sure,

Big sigh now. Relief!

Slam'mn in Central Arkanasas

Went to a really good teacher staff development workshop this week and I've discovered that if you only read the description provided and avoid those talking basic frameworks you can find quite a few really good ones. Not many in the field of art, but plenty are available that can be connected with only a little tweaking.

Such as this one. It was about creativity and how to inspire, teach, encourage, develop...you get the idea. Presented by the audacious W. Clayton Scott, Arkansas poet and high class poetry slammer, it was one of the best yet. Anyway, he made all of us teaches write a couplet about what we love about teaching and what we hate about teaching. Every poem I heard was an absolute gem. Here's mine:

Teaching into time

The time it takes to plan my day

steals my life; eliminates play.

Those bright eyes that question each remark

make me labor until way past dark.

The bells that tone, the kids who scream,

add texture to this walking dream.

I long for summer, for class's end,

only to plan once more to begin.

My days are full of laughter and tears;

I count the hours, but treasure the years.

So there you go! Read poetry out loud. It is sooo much better that way.

A Moment Ago

A screenplay.

Int.Scene-Description

The front yard. It's a wooded area with lots of pines and several large oaks. There is a metal post near the largest oak tree and from one side hangs a small cage with a square of molded birdseed inside. From the other side a large square of molded corn dangles from a bungee cord. The sound of a wind chime is in the distance.

Timothy

What's that? Do you hear something? I hear something. Let's go, Georgie. C'mon, let's go now.

Georgie

Inna minute. I'm not done yet.

Timothy

Meat gets done. We finish. I'm finished. And it's time you finished. C'mon, let's go. It's getting creepy out here.

Shot-Description

A close-up of the large oak next to the bird feeder shows black feathers and long talons clinging to the lowest branches.

Timothy

Geeeeoorgie. Leeeet'sss go. That noise is freaking me out.

Ext. Scene-Description

The bird's claws disappear from the branch and reappear on the square of corn. A wider shot shows the bird hanging from the corn square upside down.

Georgie

This is very good. Look Timothy! Im an acrobat like in the Cirque du Soleil. I'm eatin' and entertain'n all at the same time. Look at me! I'm king of the world! I'm, I'm.....

Timothy

You're a dolt, that's what you are. I see a shadow over there. Can't you see that? Bye, bye, dogface, I'm outta here.

Ext. Scene - Description

The first bird flies away with great flaps of wings while the second gives several loud caws in his direction. His caws create momentum on his upside down perch and he tumbles, landing on his feet in the soft dirt below.

Georgie

Ta Da! HAHAHAHhahaHAHAHAHAHhhaha!

Ext. Scene-Description

The view swings to the porch where an orange tabby cat lounges against the railings. He yawns and one lone paw drifts between the rails.

TAFFY

Stupid birds. "TaDa, TaDa, TaDa." (high voice) "I'm an AK-ROW-BAT..I'm king of the world!" Stupid bird.

Ext. Scene-Description

A shadow falls across the porch, darkening the cat's lounging area. The last crow takes off with great leaping strides into the air, flapping wings barely grazing several low hanging limbs. The cat, suddenly aware of a disturbance, twists around to avoid the knife, now quivering pointy-end down in the porch's wooden planks. He scrambles off the porch and dashes to a hiding place beneath the porch. The yard is now silent. We hear no bird calls, no wind chime to break the silence, only a belabored rasp of breath and the creak of the wooden slats as the knife is removed.

Peter

Hmmmm. I missed. How unforunate.

Ext. Scene-Description

We see the back of someone, or something large, as it eases into a cheap plastic lawn chair. It's wearing dirty pants that may have once been jeans and a dark blood red t-shirt with sweat patterns permanently etched into the cotton. The back of the head reveals dirty hair, matted and with streaks of color, the kind a pre-teen would use, bright fushia and lime green. The woven plastic of the lawn chair sags with the weight placed in it. Bits of clothing peek through the woven strips of blue.

Peter

I can't believe I missed. I should be punished.

Ext. Scene-Description

Our view pulls back as the shadows grow darker. Silhouetted on the porch, the figure in the lawn chair holds up his left hand and using the knife, deftly slices off the top of his middle finger. It falls to the porch, rolls between the wooden boards, and drops to the soft earth below.

Taffy

Yes!

Ext. Scene-Description

We see a flash of orange as the cat jumps from his hiding place to grab the tasty morsel. He runs toward the trees carrying the still seeping partial digit in his mouth. Bits of flesh and blood drop onto the lawn and splatter his soft fur. Caws of warning overhead do not deter the cat's progress from under the porch to the openness of the yard.

Peter

Oh, yes.

Ext. Scene-Description

The dark figure stands and waves. Droplets from his bleeding finger stain the wooden slats, decorate the bushes with ornamental orbs and sizzle wherever they strike. The cat runs. The cat runs with the meaty finger into the darkness of the yard. One of the crows dives toward the cat, trying to snatch the tidbit from the cat's mouth. As the darkness swallows the cat, the finger and the giant crow, a loud burp, akin to a thunderclap is heard. The bird feeder shakes, dropping hundreds of kernels of corn upon the ground. A faint smoke or a grey mist wafts away, dissipating in the pines. The cat and his prize are gone. Laying on the grass under the bird feeder, amidst the scattered corn is one black feather, the tip glowing red in the twilight.

The figure on the porch stands up and gives a sharp whistle. Out from under the quince bush comes the orange cat. He stalks to the porch and with very little ceremony, drops the saliva drenched fingertip on the top step. He waits, tail twitching.

Peter

Oh, oh yes. That will do just fine.

Ext. Scene-Description

The figure picks up his missing digit and with hot, stinky breath he sticks it back onto his filthy hand, licking around the edges sealing it on. Now it is cleaner at the wound site than under the fingernail.

Peter

(Nods) You understand, right? Eatn', that's an okay thing. Entertain'n, that's another. (deep breath)

Mock'n. That's bad, you know it's bad, a bad thing. (deep breath) You been told.

But missin' your mark - an easy mark - or stealin'...those two things, they're just wrong. It'll get you punished. Punished. Each and every time.

Ext. Scene-Description

The dark figure turns, shuffles into the house. The cat waits, tail twitching. Then he turns. A small gray squirrel is picking up the kernels of corn one after another, cramming as many into his cheeks as possible. Seeing the cat, he stops still as a statue. Nervous, he drops several kernels of corn.

Taffy

Missing some kernels, eh? But not stealing, are we? No, I certainly hope not. Because that would be wrong. That would get you punished.....

Timothy

Run, Eddie, RUN!

Ext.Scene-Description

There is a flash of fluffy, furry tail, a glimpse of black feathers. The orange cat settles on the warm step for a nap. A moment ago, the woods grew silent with only the sound of the wind chime interrupting the breeze. Alone in the house, he waits.

Silverthreads and the Twenty-Three Passwords

A short story.

Silverthreads is sitting quietly at her computer busily surfing the net, when suddenly in the midst of downloading email, the colorful 17" diameter screen blinks at her and demands that the password for the email connection be re-entered into the small box provided.

This is not an easy request for poor Silverthreads as this particular mailbox originated several years ago when both she and the internet were much younger. Times were simple then. No one cared what your private password was, no one sought it out, no one, not even your spouse, cared enough to write it down. It was entered once, when an account was set up, and then easily forgotten, inscribed in binary language somewhere in the bowels of the most recent Chip.

Chip is usually quite handy, like Batman's butler Alfred. He always has just the right word for the right site within his grasp and serves it up nattily, without fanfare. Not this time. Apparently the email site is undergoing some sort of traumatic overhaul and needs the owner of the account to actually Do Something. Chip is only the hired help, after all.

Chip is also not cooperating. Where is the damn thing? He can't find it! He pretends he never knew it in the first place. A new tab opens the home page of the email account. (At least he remembers how to navigate the net.)

After several tries, the account decides for Silverthreads. "Let's just create a new password, plug it where it needs to be and be done with it."

The first word she types is the word she uses EVERYWHERE. She knows this is NOT SAFE, but this is a word she can easily pluck from her mind and, besides, it's easy to type.

"Weak," says the account software. "Recommend using capital letters and numbers."

The second try. "Too Short," says the account software. "Must be at least 8 letters or more."

The third try. "This password is already in use," says the account software. Huh? How in the world could someone else have used Silverthreads'  favorite stuffed animal's name spelled like she pronounced it when she was three?

Unlike Goldilocks who only had to test three chairs and three bowls and three beds in order to find the one that was just right, Silverthreads tests twenty-three passwords before she finds one that fits. It has more than 8 letters, two capital letters and a number to make a word. The word isn't one often noticed around Silverthreads' home. It isn't the name of the dog or of the cat. It isn't a favorite toy or the maiden name of grandma's great-grandmother.

It's a word that was lying there on the desk all the time. In plain view. It's a word that should please good ole Chip. It's a word that even the most picky of all email accounts can love. It's a word that can be used again and again on all sorts of Internet accounts; it's just that good.

 It's a word that Silverthreads has already forgotten. Lucky for her, she has a little notebook labeled PassW0rds. Lucky for her, she wrote it down.

Welcome to the very First Blog!

It's a rainy summer Saturday in the heart of rural Arkansas and obvious boredom leads me to create a blog. After all, all the cool kids have one.

I'm interrupted in this endeavor by frustrated murmurs, all right - screams, from my husband who seeks to hang speakers on the living room walls. I have suggested asymmetrical placement of the speaker boxes. I'm guessing by his response that this is not preferable. My logic says that since we plan to remove the living room wall, thus opening up the hallway and creating a more open floor plan (hey, I do not watch HGTV without picking up something), we should place the other speaker box on the back wall so we don't have to punch an additional hole in the ceiling and move it eventually. The first speaker box is on the wall on the front window side of the house. Putting the second one on the back wall will create asymmetrical balance. Symmetry could arrive by placing it directly across from the first one. Hmmmm. Which will he choose? How soon do we plan to demolish a wall (a possible load bearing wall)? Which is better audio-wise?

I've never objected to anything a little bit askew. Adds interest. One side can be different and yet mesh with the other to create a pleasing whole. Look at many of my artworks. Look at where I live. Look at the classes I teach. We definitely like to mesh differences in many different ways.

The rain has stopped and on the bird feeder perch two American Crows. I didn't know crows could climb a pole, but there they are, clinging to the middle pole and practicing Cirque du Soleil moves to reach the end of a bungee cord for the molded corn and sunflower seed prize. Other members of the murderous family wait their turn on top of the old swingset. "Caw, caw," one vocalizes. Two squirrels, the comedic interlude of this act, jump from the tree to the bird feeder from the top. This shakes the pole, shakes off the two crows in mid-performance, and startles the others who swoop away from the swingset into the pine trees. More caws. The squirrels cling asymmetrically to the seed mold, one on the top right and the other from the bottom left. The seed mold swings. The pole swings. The squirrel on top swings off. He lands on the ground pretending it was intentional. His cheeks are symmetrically filled with corn and sunflower seeds. The other squirrel is hiding on the far side of the oak tree trunk. The crows have noticed me at the window and flap between the trees to the neighbor's yard, kernels of corn in their beaks. There is a great deal of balance in the front yard today, even if one side is different than the other.

And thinking of that I notice the two identical bird seed feeders, hanging on either side of the other feeding pole. Both were hung carefully by my husband who sees to it that both are always equally filled with sunflower seeds. Both have the same design, same pattern and same color. Except sometime today, with all the bustling acrobatics, someone has hung on the perch rim of the one on the right a little too long or a little too heavily. It's kind of wobbly-angled, rakish. Now the matching feeders are asymmetrical. Do I mention this to the man who refills the seeds regularly? Will he notice before they require refilling?

He did mount the speakers asymmetrically. He manages to even up just about everything in our life that needs to be balanced. He also plans intentional asymmetrical designs for bird feeders and for hanging bungee seed-bells for my afternoon's entertainment.

It's a rainy Saturday afternoon in the heart of rural Arkansas. Cool kids who have blogs and those that don't should come hang out. We're not bored, we're just a little askew.