At the end of last week I found myself at the Friday Five Hundred hosted by Lighthouse. It is a free -write hour filled with collective energy and comfy chairs followed by a craft seminar in the Grotto on hard back seats. The Lighthouse graciously provides snacks and beverages for this informal gathering of wordsmiths and while I was in the kitchen refilling my water bottle I saw that white board again. Different assignment, different day, but still a voluminous list of to-do's for the lucky poets who made it in.
I've had a busy summer and September hasn't cooled off or slowed down for me. My daughter had a baby in late July. I was with her for a few weeks and had a front row seat for the birth. I lived on baby time for the next couple of weeks and found myself falling in love with my granddaughter while simultaneously suffering from an extreme lack of sleep and energy. I'm more sane now, but I am still traveling to help Mom and baby out as much as possible between my own life and obligations.
As I type I'm halfway through a short house sitting stint for my son. He and his wife depend on me twice per year to take care of the watering, the garden and OG. That's Original Granddog. Missy was my first, followed by my son's now almost three year old and this summer's precious pink addition. All told three mammals that I love and enjoy spending time with.
Reflection... I think my Higher Power knew I wasn't ready. The instructors had their own reasons for the rejection letter - lack of classes and workshops at Lighthouse being mentioned - but my HP did for me what I couldn't do for myself. Not commit to a BIG responsibility and financial investment when so much is going on in my life right now. Plus I am taking the comments about workshops and education seriously and have signed up with one of the Poetry Collective instructors for an eight week course. This way she can put my name to my face. I'll be able to ascertain if I like her teaching style.
For a while I also bemoaned that I wasn't winning contests with the Poetry Society of Colorado. That changed this past weekend with a second place ribbon on the theme of Religion. I wrote from my heart, and even though my poem had a Jewish core, it did win the #2 position in a sea of Christian based entries. And a $15.00 stipend to boot! Sweet.
This confirmed I have work to do, and the work I've done is being noticed. I need to stay focused. I can write. I can string together enough couplets to have a contest submission. I also read two of my pieces aloud at the Member Open Mic. One was about free love and promiscuity; the other about thugs deserving to die. Tough subject matter. No mic for me - I am learning to project my voice. Not just opine on the page, but perform on a stage.
Which leads me to this. I am one of three poets selected to participate in Denver Startup Week. We will be on stage (I said I am ready) with old school typewriters. The idea is to listen to a pitch and translate it into a takeaway poem for the attendee. I am psyched! We can also mosey up to the mic on stage in the middle of Downtown Denver and perform our original works! Sweet. Did I mention I am psyched? And terrified!!
When I was a kid people used to say when a door closes, a window opens. To me a window represents clarity. Opportunity. Flinging one wide open and flying high. That's how I feel right now. A magical moment for me to be quick on my feet, interact with grown-ups. Spread my poetic wings and try something new. Put myself out there. Be vulnerable. Be myself.
Time to Write,
My Second Place Finisher:
Kiddush
My Mother forgot to teach me Kiddush
Chicken soup eaten, unblessed in her house
She did remember to impart the magic of matzo balls
Her secret to the lightest, fluffiest dumplings
My parents neglected religion
No Bat Mitzvah for the girls
Too American, somehow
I never had an Oneg Shabbat in my honor
My Father helped build the temple
Though not with a hammer or sweat
His tools were moxie and determination
He put ham in our scrambled eggs
My only memory of him standing at the stove
Feeding his children
My own children only know Judaism
Through food and Hanukkah candles
Hamentashen means Purim
Passover; Matzo Brei
My mother’s soup trick works today
At altitude, in thin air
Far from the streets of her childhood
Once paved with gold, now littered with human ash
I forgot to teach my children about G-d
How their bellies will only truly be filled
When spirituality is their daily diet
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