Updated: Nov 24, 2022
In the spirit of National Poetry Month, I’d like to ask you if you’ve heard the one about the artichoke? It was written by Joe Hutchison, who was Colorado’s Poet Laureate from 2014 to 2019. It goes like this:
Artichoke - “O heart weighed down by so many wings.”
I'm not quite sure why this tickles me so. Maybe because it reminds me that poetry is for everyone. Poems don’t have to be lofty and academic to make an impact.
With that in mind, and to celebrate this month of poetry, I reached out to several friends and invited them to contribute their personal work to this month’s post. My request included two caveats—(1) each poem should be short and (2) each should be accompanied by a picture or drawing created by the poet or one of their loved ones.
What fun I had with this! Dare I say, some of my friends don’t follow directions too well? And—surprise, surprise!—most of my family ignored my request completely. Oh, well. Or, to sum it up in the more poetic words of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh: “Oh, bother.”
For now, please enjoy a few haikus (written in a three-line, 5-7-5 syllable pattern) others have shared with me, along with their personal photos and, in some cases, comments.
The haiku above, Childhood, comes from a long-time friend who is passionate about poetry. K.B. (aka Kathy) obtained her Ph.D. from the writing program at Georgia State University. She has taught poetry, published her own works, and produces an ongoing weekly radio program called Melodically Challenged. Yes, it’s poetry-centric, but it also features some fun indie music that ties to each episode's theme. Check out her website at www.melodicallychallenged.org. Or find her on FaceBook under the same name.
One Dose or Two Dose, above, is by Gurleen Roberts, the most creative DrPH I know. She is passionate about public health—can you tell? But she’s also a wonderful friend, a quality-improvement guru, an excellent writer, a lover of adventure, and a gifted professional photographer. You can find her work @gurleen_photos on Instagram.
Deborah Potts Fronzak provided Brother and Lilies for this project. A beloved, but now retired, preschool teacher, she continues to teach piano. When not busy with her music, or volunteering her time and treasures as a political activist, Debbie also enjoys birding, baking, photography, family...the list goes on. She’s a true Renaissance woman if ever there was one.
The poem and photo above should be called Great, don’t you think? It comes from Vicky Carter, who sent it with this note: “I have a stubbornly literal way of thinking, and poetry doesn’t come easily.” Good thing she’s always game to try new things because this is, well, great. A retired educator, Vicky now works with the elderly. She enjoys Yoga, watercolor painting, and her grandchildren (whom I love, too).
Bob J., who wrote Perfect, is a retired Dow Corning executive who now works as Managing Principal at Summit Growth Solutions, LLC. When I reached out to him about this project, he laughed, confessing he hasn’t written a poem since third grade. Never one to duck a challenge—he skydives with his daughter, still skis the moguls, and dabbles with oils—Bob delivered.
JE Mundy II is a tech professional with a big heart and a knack for writing. He enjoys the outdoors, Crimson Tide football, Dolly Parton...let’s just say, Joe loves life. At the top of his list of favorites comes family, as evidenced in his poem and photo, Generations. Check out some of Joe’s past essays—and a couple delicious-looking recipes—at www.yardtherapy.blogspot.com.
The poem above (written by Kerry Coulter with an accompanying photo by Vickie Ransbottom) marks the place where the rules get bent on this post. I reached out to Vickie, who often shares some incredible photos on FaceBook. When I invited her to participate in this project, the poetry part made her balk. She did, however, reach out to her friend Kerry, who agreed to share his poem Rise and Shine to go with one of Vickie’s pics. Thank you both!
After more messaging with Vickie, I learned she has over 7,000 (!) pictures she has created and posted on Flickr. She sent me the link, and since we’d already bent the rules, I asked if I could write a poem for the photo above. That’s how Innocence evolved. To see more of Vickie’s pics, go to Flickr.com - VickieRans. Or contact her at (404) 556-9593 to learn more about her work.
As long as we’re bending the rules, above is part of a gorgeous poem from Kay Ryle. She posted a longer version on FaceBook and was gracious to allow me to publish this partial. Chartreuse is a treat to the senses, and I do mean all of them. The full poem touches on so many things Kay is all about – beauty, nature, the garden, faith. Thank you, Kay, for agreeing to share. This is lovely.
And now may I tell you the story behind Agnes’s poem, Procrastination? She wrote it to honor her friend Glen, whom she drove to chemo treatments for months, and who anticipated visiting Agnes’s garden this summer. Glen died on February 20, 2021. At her service, her nephew said she always claimed, “Cardinals appear when angels are near.” The next day as Agnes journaled, she looked out the window and saw a beautiful cardinal. “It was as if Glen was telling me not to fret for not calling her more and that now she’s free to see my garden whenever she’d like.” Thanks for sharing such a special tribute, Agnes.
Anticipation (above) is a work by KDM, a dear friend with a knack for home and garden design, celebrating family, and spoiling her friends with kindness, great meals, and special gatherings. KDM’s poem (like Agnes’s) is a Tanka, a longer version of haiku written in a five-line, 5-7-5-7-7 syllable pattern. The poem needs no explanation, but don’t let her fool you: KDM has a killer green thumb.
Another friend who sometimes goes by KareBare also shared a Tanka. Again, this one (above) is self-explanatory, although I should add that I failed to credit KareBare with providing the picture as well as the poem. It’s a stunner. Makes me miss the beach, too. So here’s to you, Sister-Who’s-More-Like-a-Friend: I hope you get to visit your happy place soon.
So far most of the poems shared here have been fairly light and happy. But poetry runs the gamut, from Shakespeare and Dickinson to Dr. Seuss and Dylan (Dylan Thomas, sure...but Bob Dylan too). Some poems are written for a more literary palette, while others, like Artichoke, are intentionally short and fun, easier to digest. Still others, like The Hill We Climb, written and recited by Amanda Gorman at the 2021 Presidential Inauguration, make us think about important societal issues like race and oppression, feminism and marginalization. In other words, poetry isn't always breezy and filled with good cheer.
The poem above, Empathy, takes a dive into the shadows, but often Tankas do. I wrote it after my friend Lynnette sent two pictures she treasures. “I can send you photos that are meaningful to me,” she said, “but I'm lousy at poetry.” I didn’t push her to write, even though she’s a very fine writer. Instead, I let Lynnette’s photos speak to me, reminding me that time passes, love is endless, and tomorrow isn’t promised. With her permission, I crafted a poem to go with her photos. It pulls from her personal family story, which she shared in my post of June 2020. Love you, Lynnette. Thanks for your grace and openness to sharing and your patience with my questions.
Short haikus, too, can sometimes be dark. That doesn’t make them any less beautiful. For the poem Death, K.B. Kincer once again shares raw emotion through her words, this time in memory of her son, Robert Vincent Morea III. Kathy took the picture of Birmingham skies that accompanies the poem on the anniversary of his death. Born with Cystic Fibrosis, Bobby lived a full and active life. (I still remember how he relished being part of marching band during his high school years.) He received a double-lung transplant in the early 2000s. Enjoying good health, he founded Melodically Challenged in May 2006 while attending Georgia State University. He contracted an infection shortly after he began the show and passed away on June 20, 2006.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the poems shared throughout this post. Now that you’ve refreshed yourself on haiku, why not write one yourself to commemorate International Haiku Writing Day, which falls on April 17. Need some help? The picture above was taken by Vickie Ransbottom. She sent it to me along with this note: “The horse’s name is Winterhawk. To me, this is the one that needs a poem!”
Up for the challenge? Why not take a stab and send me your best? It's not about pulling together a masterpiece. It's about doing something creative, shaking things up to the point you feel just slightly more alive.
To close on a light note, I wanted to share one more variation on the haiku. It’s called a lune, and, as illustrated above, it has a three-line, 5-3-5 rhyming pattern. Sorry, all, this form is new to me, and I couldn’t resist. It's not like I ever promised you I could write good poetry. But hot damn, I’ve had me some fun with this post. I'm grateful to (and impressed by) the generous souls who contributed. And to think it all started with one tickling Artichoke.
Don't forget, write a haiku for Saturday. Pass it along if you're inclined. I'd love to see it.
Until next time...cheers ~ J
Updated: Nov 24, 2022
(NOTE: This post is in commemoration of Women’s History Month, which officially ends today. Unofficially, I say let the celebrations continue. It’s never too late to toast the history of women who have made a difference, especially our mothers and our grandmothers...and the ones who came before them.)
Women’s History month has been around since 1995. Its purpose? To celebrate the contributions and special achievements of women over the course of our country’s history. Its shame? The fact that it’s needed at all. But it is. Even in 2021.
Maybe you’ve heard the saying, “You’ve come along way, baby.” This was the slogan for a 1960s ad campaign that associated smoking Virginia Slims cigarettes with being chic and liberated, confident and modern. The campaign capitalized on the nation’s second-wave feminism movement, which, no longer needing to focus on voting rights or property rights for women, advocated for reproductive rights and changes in custody and divorce law. Oh, yeah. Cheers to women. We’d come a long way since the first wave of the movement.
That second-wave feminism movement lasted into the 1980s, during which time I worked for a small management consulting firm in Boulder, Colorado. Our office was located near the Boulder Country Club, where we would sometimes take clients for a business meal. On occasion, the president would treat the whole staff to lunch there. I remember two such occasions, and I remember them through the lens of today—this last day of Women’s History Month - 2021.
The first lunch occurred on what is now known as Administrative Professionals Day. Back then it was called Secretary Appreciation Day, and that was the purpose of our lunch—to celebrate the great work done by the administrative professionals on our staff. Upon being seated, I watched the hostess give every woman in our party a rose. When she came to me, I politely declined. After all, I wasn’t a secretary or administrative assistant. I was a Certified Management Consultant, a designation I’d worked my tail off to achieve. I didn’t say as much to the hostess but tried to decline graciously, thinking she’d understand and move on. She didn’t. Instead, she insisted I take the rose, saying, “We consider today a wonderful opportunity to celebrate all women.”
The other lunch I recall occurred on a Tuesday. I don’t remember what was special about that particular Tuesday except for this: I learned it was Ladies’ Day on the golf course. “What day is Men’s Day?” I asked earnestly, not intending to make my boss squirm. He did, though, and that’s how I learned there wasn’t a need for a Men’s Day. Every other day but Tuesday was already theirs.
And therein lies the reason for having a Woman’s History Month. It’s needed, baby. It’s still needed.
Our textbooks remind us our nation was founded by lots of white men. As a whole, I have nothing against white men. It just seems wrong to only celebrate them—at the exclusion of others who have also made a difference. For the same reason we need Black History Month in February, we need Women’s History month in March. For the purpose of inclusion. For now, at least.
During Women’s History month, we get to revel in the history of women who made great contributions to our country. When I was younger, we celebrated Louisa May Alcott, Clara Barton, and Rosa Parks. My granddaughter’s list will expand to include Mae C. Jemison, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Kamala Harris. I love ‘em all. And these names barely get the party started, but that’s okay. The list will continue to grow.
But you know who we continue to forget to celebrate? The everyday woman. The woman who doesn’t make history but who keeps it churning. The woman who packs lunches and wipes runny noses and hopes her brain isn’t turning to mush. Or perhaps the everyday woman is the one who works two jobs to feed her family...or the one who collects unemployment because she can’t find even one job to feed her family. The everyday woman is probably just as exhausted as the woman we consider extraordinary—you know, that woman whose name gets celebrated in history because she got things moving and shaking.
Yet rarely do we celebrate the woman who is not a mover-and-a-shaker. And to that I say, shame on us.
So, to celebrate everyday women everywhere—and in honor of the everyday girls we’re raising—here are some adages to ponder. They come from extraordinary women—or, as I like to think of them, everyday women who just happen to be wearing extra special bling.
Ever hear any of these?
I figure, if a girl wants to be a legend, she should go ahead and be one. – Calamity Jane
Never apologize for being sensitive or emotional. Let this be a sign that you’ve got a big heart and aren’t afraid to let others see it. Showing your emotions is a sign of strength.” – Brigitte Nicole
Women belong in all places where decisions are being made. – Ruth Bader Ginsburg
If they don’t invite you to the table, bring a folding chair. – Shirley Chisolm
Don’t waste your energy trying to change opinions. Do your thing, and don’t care if they like it. – Tina Fey
“After all those years as a woman hearing, ‘not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not that enough,’ almost overnight I woke up one morning and thought, ‘I am enough.’” –Anna Quindlen
I want every little girl who’s told she’s bossy to be told instead she has leadership skills. – Sheryl Sandberg
Instead of telling bossy girls (or bossy children in general) that they have leadership skills, we should guide them on what it means to be a leader. – Lily Snyder
In the 1990s we entered the third-wave feminism movement, which continues today and aims to embrace a broader range of women with a diverse set of identities. So, yes, we women have come a long way. On the glib side, I no longer automatically receive a rose if I dine out on Administrative Professionals Day. But in a more serious light, we still have a ways to go. On many fronts. And not just relating to women.
But today I am talking to and about women. Today I remind women everywhere: Your stories are unique and amazing. They’ll be lost if not passed along. If lost, how will we really know what a long and marvelous way we’ve come?
So please, everyday women, share your extraordinary histories. In writing. Around the campfire. When you’re talking to your children and grandchildren around the dinner table. Or even online.
Celebrate your stories.
Because they’re needed, baby. Oh, yeah. They’re still needed. Cheers ~ J
Ever think about heaven? I mean, enough so to get hung up on the physicality of it all? For instance, could there be actual stairs leading to heaven? Here on earth, we’d have to worry about ACA guidelines. But in heaven, everyone’s healthy and whole, able to tackle that stairway without a hitch. Right? Then again, maybe in heaven, we’re more like spirits, formed into very un-earthlike orbs but with beautiful spirits.
Me? I've thought about heaven a lot lately, no doubt more irreverently than some might like.
My heavenly musings started mid-February, when the winter storms hit much of the country. Here in Georgia, we escaped real snow, but we did experience some vicariously. As Rice and I sat in front of the fire, scanning FaceBook pics posted by friends out in Elsa Land, we had two very different reactions. Me: “It’s so incredibly beautiful.” Him: “I don’t miss that one damned bit.”
Okay, I’ll grant him the snow has its downsides. In the Michigan of our college years, the snow could get old and dirty and ugly when plowed into piles to clear the roads for safety. Then during our young married years, the Colorado commutes could get pretty wretched, what with the black ice and whipping winds. And I think that those are the parts of winter Rice remembers.
But I recall another face of winter, one where there’s sledding and making snow angels and warming up with hot chocolate. One where white pops from the mountaintops after the clouds clear from a storm.
“Wouldn’t it be cool,” I mused, “if there was a place where you could experience the outdoor wonders of winter, but only for as long as you wanted? So after ten minutes of it, you could walk back into your balmy backyard in springtime if you chose. Wouldn’t it be great if that’s how heaven was, a bunch of rooms or oases you could travel to and from at will?”
"Hmmmmmm," Rice replied.
I didn’t press for more conversation. But my mind didn’t stop. I decided right then that if heaven has more than one room, one of those should be devoted to Seasons.
Like seven of ten Americans, I believe heaven exists. Most people’s visions of heaven—or any sort of afterlife—are rooted in their faith. I’m no different. Raised a Christian, specifically a Lutheran, I was taught to take comfort that heaven awaits me. And I do find comfort in that. But who knows?
In addition to the question of if there’s a heaven, there’s a stickier question of exactly who gets in? Most Christians believe the way into heaven is by accepting Christ as the Savior. But there’s a catch. That would mean only Christians get into heaven. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to go to a place like that. (Of course, my conservative Christian roots are screaming: “Heresy, Jan!”)
Heaven. In my mind, it’s an inclusive place. I mean, think about animals. Do they get into heaven? My daughter Alex theorizes that any creature that dreams has a place in paradise. But...is it the same heaven all the rest of us go to? (I suspect a few people in my family would opt for animal heaven over people heaven if it came down to having to choose.)
Oh, heaven. You dazzle us in songs and books, paintings and quotes. Respected evangelist Billy Graham said, “My home is in heaven. I’m just traveling through this world.” English theoretical physicist, cosmologist, and author Stephen Hawking said, "There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.”
When it comes to heaven, I sure hope Reverend Graham is right. But who really knows?
For just a little stretch during February, I allowed myself to over-think it. The more I mused about heaven, the more I got to wondering what it would look like for me, if I could pick my own magical door of entry.
For starters, I kind of like that blueprint I referenced earlier, the layout for a paradise of many different rooms, or oases. Remember the room I mentioned called Seasons? Definitely, that would be part of my heaven. Next, I’d include a room called Cities. People who know me will probably laugh out loud at that. In life, I avoid large cities like, well, the plague. I find metro areas crowded and dirty, loud and rodent-infested. Getting safely to and from the city often involves mass transportation, which brings on claustrophobia and feelings of being out of control. Yet.... Cities contain riches that can’t be found anywhere else. Restaurants where the food is sublime and varied, the diners colorful and culturally diverse. Old cemeteries and architecture that tell tales of years and lives long passed. Galleries and museums and shops that awaken every one of the senses. Yes, getting to and from big cities can be hell. But experiencing the riches inside the city? Heaven. So I suppose one room of my heaven would feature Cities. Of course, I’d also like a room called Countryside. But would that be a stand-alone or all-inclusive place? In other words, would Countryside have sub-rooms of woodlands and lakes and oceanfronts? And what about room-rooms? You know, more traditional rooms like libraries and kitchens? Heaven without a library wouldn’t seem like heaven to me. Much lower on my list would be a big fancy-ass kitchen—even one that gives new meaning to the term self-cleaning. But Rice might love that. So maybe in my heaven, Rice could cook for me in his Kitchen, and we could dine together in my Library, and between those rooms would lie our Wine Cellar. (We’d definitely have to share that room.)
Fun aside, I’m glad I don’t get a hand in designing my own rooms of heaven. For one thing, I’m sure I’d fret about what I might be forgetting. For instance, did I build in a room called Creative Arts? Or one for Love and Rest? And what about a room called Family? You know, a room for loved ones to gather without tension or arguments. A room where there’s no tug-of-war as to which family to visit come holiday time. Or whether to send kids to school in these lingering days of COVID.
In truth, I believe what awaits in heaven is so much grander than any human imaginings. That’s a very traditional Christian way of thinking, and I own it. But I also find solace in the lessons of Chinese philosopher Confucius. Especially this one: “We must not focus on the afterlife, of which we know so little. Instead we must focus on everyday life.”
Come to think of it, that’s where most of these heavenly ruminations of mine came from. Everyday life. Life today, life yesterday. Memories stoked by some random FaceBook pictures of snow.
A specific recollection.
One of my favorite memories of snow involves cross-country skiing with a friend named Kim. She and I would drive into one of the woodland canyons around Boulder, park the car, and hit the trails. The oneness I felt with nature during those treks was sublime. I think those memories may be what started me thinking about heaven.
They got me thinking about Kim, too, all these thirty years later. So I Googled her. When her name popped up, so did the word Obituary. I swallowed back a gasp and searched longer, discovering that Kim hadn’t passed. Her husband Jeff had. Young and vibrant. Crazy healthy. And then gone...too soon. Oh, how I suddenly wished I could visit with Kim and Jeff, just one more time.
So maybe I would like to add one more room to my heaven. Certainly an Old Friends’ Spot in the clouds would be apt.
Then again, Confucius might see things differently. He might point out there’s an Old Friends’ Spot accessible to me here and now. The cost is a ticket. The ticket is a memory.
So excuse me while I take a breather to access my own Old Friends’ Spot. It’s right here. Deep in the love-filled lining of my still beating heart.
P.S. I forgot to mention, in my heaven, carbs and calories don’t count.
Cheers ~ J
