Eyes on the Prize

When I was in school, the county fair was a summer fixture on the family calendar. Sure, my sister and I rode a few rides, and we went to hear the evening music, which in those days (I feel so old using that phrase) were part of your entry fee, unlike today’s overpriced concerts that seem separate from the fair. We even talked my parents into the annual funnel cake–although never tooth-rotting cotton candy and candied apples. But most of the hours we spent at the fair were in the barnlike exhibition buildings. My mom always volunteered to sit in the cavernous spaces, greeting visitors and ensuring the “do not touch” rule was observed. And she–and later my sister and I–always had entries: quilts and crafts, paintings and jewelry, collections and food.

Every summer, my sister and I added more ribbons to mass dangling from bookshelf brackets: blue up front, with red and then white stashed at the back of the line. The occasional rosette-topped special award would be hung separately, collecting dust in a place of honor. I’m not sure where any of those ribbons are now, but I still have–and use–the battered copy of the Ball Blue Book: The Guide to Home Canning and Freezing I won for one year’s entry of preserves.

Opening Day

Peek through an open doorway
The little girl thinks museum
surprised flimsy metal walls
concrete floor and rickety steps
lead to juried collections
If older she would think science lab
neat lines of jars
contents embalmed in colorful liquid
closer to specimens than art

The curator/lab technician turns
Quick; don’t look!
She knows from gray curls
and flowered apron
this woman will call her dearie
take her hand
force a slow, guided tour

Strapped sandals slap concrete
scurry down rows
eager to return to straw-lined pens
fuzzy noses and arched ears
frying dough and sticky fruit
twirling lights and teenage screams
Oh to walk among them
bright strip of color
pinned to green jumper
Red? even blue?
Perhaps topped with a rose
so big Ferris wheel riders could spot it

Slow to search shelves
Small fingers tap small jars
tagged and classified
contents red and purple and peach
then my name
my jam
my prize!
Snatch the blue ribbon
slip through jean-clad legs
unfurl, wave with pride

This poem was written for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics challenge. The challenge: Write a fun fair poem. Thanks, Claudia!

If I Had a Boat

I readily admit it—I’m a bad artist. I easily let life get in the way of my art. This is my excuse for the lack of activity on this blog. But the good news is that a stagnant site has prompted me to think about what I want to achieve by sharing my work here. Thanks to this blog, I’ve been connected with an incredible international network of talented poets who gently yet thoroughly rip apart pieces I am struggling to finish. That group gives me the freedom to post raw, fresh-from-the-pen poems here—a prospect that ranges from scary to numbing depending on my frame of mind. But on the best of days my frame of mind tells me that working to create art rather than waiting for it to spontaneously appear is exactly what I need.

So that’s the latest phase of the JulieBook. Fortunately, poet friends again come to my rescue by offering ideas, challenges, and prompts that encourage me to explore major keys and minor variations. Some might be insipid, others overwrought, but the new motto is “Words will flow.”

Here’s the first attempt, written for the dVerse Poets Pub Poetics challenge:

If I Had a Boat
The twitch master rises
knowing races start
long before launch
Brown Dog is prepared
visualizing his course
He pauses only to gulp food
that keeps crankiness
and distraction at bay
wishing his human
would offer pizza and beer
but willing to settle for kibble
if it means arriving first in the yard

Rigged for release
Brown Dog hovers
staring at his future
He jockeys for position
eager to take the lead
hoping his stupid human
won’t drive him off the line

No air horn here
Door creaks
clasp snaps
and he crosses over at full speed
heading for the mark
seeking clean air

He tacks to port
Shiny object
squirrel
or strategic course change?
His line pulls flat and taunt
as he beats upwind
to lay the line

Back on starboard
he comes in too tight
squashing momentum
before accelerating downwind
ears full

Heeled over
he rounds the pin
and trims his sails
for his final run
tail high as he crosses an invisible line

Clearly his race is run

He eases to cruising speed
grabbing a final loop
leisurely sniffing out the best wind
before heading to port
course set for home

The challenge: Pick a craft, trade, job and to think about the specific verbs (or really any words) associated with the craft…. Then, write about something completely different, incorporating, if you can, some of those specific strong technical verbs.

Enjoy.
Julie

Falling back [poem: Mountain Standard Time]

For some reason, I struggle more with the fall time change since moving to Montana than I ever have in other places. I think it’s because we’re on the cusp of a time zone and far enough north that time seems to move more quickly as the days shorten and darkness hits us on both ends. So when that time change comes, I think a bit of the hibernation instinct kicks in.

Yes, winter here is a time for fresh powder turns, long shuffles through quiet woods, and beer slushies around bonfires, but it’s also the time of hunkering indoors, with dinner parties and toasty woodstoves. This piece tells how I felt about the extra hour this year. I’ll be giving it a debut reading Thursday, Dec. 22, at The Cottage Inn, so come indoors and cozy up to the fireplace with a cool brew in hand.

Mountain Standard Time

Time has changed
setting my morning back
on its heels, leaving space
into which an impossible gift
one more hour
can wedge between rising
and nightfall

Time. More Time
So plea the overwhelmed
cry the underprepared
Now it sneaks in, cruelly avoiding
all missions
demanding: Savor me
Don’t reset ignorant clocks
Eat sweetbread and pears as planned
Move through chores and meals and routines as
though nothing has changed
certainly not Time

But late sun
threatens to reveal myth
cuts across stubbled fields
with a glow only encountered when
air frosts breath
Against crackling amber
blank sky looks white until I
face powdered-sugar ridges
perched above caramel tamaracks
flowing sweetly through
green-black lodgepole pines

Hands refuse
to still, unwilling to
waste this golden hour
but then relax, let every minute
slip through gloved
fingers with no regrets

—Julie Laing