Photo by Laura K. Deal
Photo by Johanne LaRoque
By Johanne LaRoque
When you were a tiny oval thing
Adhering to a leaf
Were you afraid
Of those seeking you to eat?
The ants, ladybugs and wasps…
Could they see your shape of round
Hiding in your growing ground?
What about when you grew bigger
Had stripes of different colors
Could you move fast?
Did you travel under cover
Of leaves, stems and branches?
Did your heart leap startled
Each time you shed your skin
To keep up with
The body you were growing in?
Were you afraid
Of being snatched
By Birds, reptiles or amphibians?
What about tall, spindly insects
Poised in piety?
Their gaze would fill the bravest with anxiety.
And when your chrysalis was thinning
With the growing of your maturity…
Was your heart filled with fear?
Did your body ache from pain
Leaving the comfort and security…
Of being tightly wrapped?
Or did your spirit know
That you would emerge in beauty
Complete, transformed and able to fly?
By Cynthia Swan
Driving from my son’s home to my own
After a late night babysitting my grandson,
I drop into the stream of my thoughts, glide through a reverie,
Passing miles of houses, people at home doing people things.
Moving from couch to bed, eating chocolate, brushing teeth,
Tucking in the smallest child, glancing at the check book,
Turning out the light.
Traveling countless times between point A and B,
Day after day, night after night, week after week
Knowing the path as well as any Ant on the counter late at night
Quiet except for songs of survival
Punctuated by intent to arrive home with food for the family.
By Johanne LaRocque
His coffee tastes of freshly tarred driveway
Burning nostrils, stinging eyes, feeding
Tendrils of bitterness sprouting from
Inky black grounds of hate settled in the bowl of his soul
A self-proclaimed old navy man
The smell of his fear rises like evening tide in the
Volume of TV hate talk, checks to right –wing groups
And the violence of words fired,
Small scud missiles riding hearing aid whistles
Designed to destroy their targets
An old navy man who used to be somebody in this town
Now visible only to himself
Roaming the stacks of papers, magazines,
Broken tools, and machinery piled with years of dust
All these years. Old is old. The future is here. No time left.
He used to define himself in the light of a billboard marquee
Selling a great new product that everyone could name and point to
Time and demolition have stripped away all controls
There is nothing left but the sound of his shuffle and slide of his walker
Echoing in an empty lot that people drive by without even noticing
The well is running dry and he feels exposed,
Raw, naked, his illness now showing for everyone to see
What he wouldn’t give for that familiar volcanic power inside to rise
So he could shake up the world like he used to
But it’s growing dark behind filmy eyes, sight is dimming,
From not so far away, drawing near,
Night, sails set to the sky approaches
Dark beckons, humming that familiar tune Anchors Aweigh!
Photo by Johanne LaRoque
After a successful launch in 2013, the Waking the Dreamer Within Festival is back! You’ll find workshops on dreams, art, writing, movement, and more. I’ll be offering a creative writing session, a poetry workshop, and will be moderating a open-mic poetry night on Friday, October 17. You can sign up for the whole weekend or go a la carte. I hope to see you there!
All of the colors you see here…and some you don’t…will be available for you to choose from!
Introduction to Yarn Baskets
Offered by Laura K. Deal
In this class, you’ll learn the basics of yarn baskets by creating a business-card basket similar to the one above in size and shape. The color’s up to you!
Make your own colorful, supple, and durable business card basket and enjoy the company of other creators!
Choose from a wide variety of colors. All materials provided.
Saturday, June 28, 2014, 1-5 p.m.
$30 or sign up with a friend and pay $25 each — Class size is limited for personal instruction. Exact number depends on level of experience of students.
Sign up by emailing Laura: info (at) firstchurchofmetaphor (dot) org to arrange payment to hold your place in class. I hope to see you there!
By Laura K. Deal
On this cold, wet, snowy Mother’s Day,
my daughters study for their final exams,
taking their education seriously,
with the background awareness
that not everyone on the planet
shares this privilege. I hold them
in gratitude and pride, for the ways they’ve
blossomed because of, and despite,
my quirks and foibles as a human mom.
Next to this joy in my heart, the grievous shadow
of hundreds of Nigerian schoolgirls stolen
from their school to be kept and sold into slavery,
their mothers shocked and grieving.
Sweet innocence, taken by the devil,
girls targeted because of their desire
to learn, to grow their own power in the world
through thought and education.
Heartbroken mothers, terrified daughters,
and all I can do is add my voice
to the demand that someone save them.
My outrage is necessary, but never enough.
What else can I do from my side of the world?
I carry those girls and their families
in my praising, grieving heart as I
venture out into wet spring snow
to shake the first few inches
from the tarps covering the spring garden,
the ones my husband and I draped
over tomato cages and secured with clothespins,
to protect the tender buds and slender stalks
of my iris and peonies, because
the weight of Gaia’s weeping could easily break them,
and the freeze might nip their potential beauty
in the bud.
I’ll be offering copies of The Newcomer’s Guide to the Invisible Realm as well as my yarn baskets! I’ll be there in person on Sunday afternoon, and I hope to see you there!