truth or...

They stood together holding tight hands
darkness surrounded them, shrouding his secrets
she extends him unchecked trust (whispering:
"Dare I offer my heart's confidence?")
a question asked under starless sky
a gentle squeeze was his reply

"I love you" he told her
more with fists than soft words
kisses left in blue black etchings
his escalating adoration confirmed in each
and she, Covergirl, hides the memories
creating in foundation perfection's greatest lie


After each nightmare, returns a gentle dream
"Never again," he whispers, breath brushing
She flinches at danger's close proximity - -
too afraid to seek her freedom,
alone she cowers in unsafe home - -
forever seems a terrible burden now
and death, a lover's last gift
But she's no use for presents
"Never again" she echoes his words:
mourning truths. She dares to leave.

** note: a work in progress... something's missing, incomplete...

Blink. Click.

Panning the room,
my eyes settle softly
on each spirit here
her hair, a wild mane - -
oh how beautiful it frames her face
round with curves, rich with laughter
- - a waiting portrait for unworthy lens;
and she, of the caramel skin
and thick twisted locks
hers, a chisled face
reminiscent of native roots
still climbing, growing strong in her;
and still another inviting smile
captures my gaze, welcomes connection.
Countless faces, I catch myself soaking in,
staring at diverse wealth of beauty.
The room, a treasure of individuality
encased in one space
I see a portrait in each eye blink.
Can I stop in this moment with a click?

6.19.11

*inspired by Continuous Fire conference

Six Word Fridays: Kind (and Macro, too)

Mother Nature you've not been kind
in nurturing your beloved terrestrial family
Your attitude is unforgivingly vengeful now
And in your wake is destruction
Countless have been your violent screams
Punctuated by a stomping of feet
as your great gown sweeps excitedly
(rustling up winds in fervored dance)
You've spat at us; juvenile retaliation
twisted winds like curls of hair
shaken us from comfort, broken dreams
Yet in your tantrum - - raging fits - -
have inspired our compassion for others

This kind of parenting is not...

kind

***

I've mentioned that, of late, my 60mm Macro lens has pretty much been my go to for daily use.  When I first took it out the box (after scrimping and saving and waiting on Uncle Sam's return), I was amazed to see that its macro capability was not its only value.  I really thought the lens was exclusive to close up photography.  As it turns out, it's pretty good at portraits.





But then, I still really love how well it surprises me whenever I set out on "safari."  Take this image, for example:





I'd no idea that the bee I was following (who was so intent on gathering his pollen that he ignored my close trailing), was carrying a passenger on his wing.  I doubt he knew he was giving flights.  He was oblivious to his surroundings as he alighted each bloom, stuck out his tongue (?), and then flitted to another bloom.  I must've looked pretty weird to the other parents waiting in the car pick up line for their kids to be released.  There I was completely out of my car, camera pointing to wild flowers while I crouched low to the grass in complete concentration (and Ya ran back and forth nearest the exterior of the library keeping himself entertained while repeating, "Mommy, it's hot. So hot!"). 

Perhaps at this point I need to invest in a bumper sticker that embraces the "Weirdo Will Shoot Anything" behaviors I've adopted so readily?

In his shoes

Someday soon, you'll be all grown up
Not a baby, not a big boy
A man
You've got amazing shoes to fill
(when you claim the title)
In your heritage are kings
holding their courts on thrones of authority
Tuskegee Airmen
Soldiers
prisoners of war, prisoners of circumstance
biding time and preparing for freedom
Educators
passing on history, knowledge, wisdom
Pastors, Deacons, Congregants
praying in faith, believing in Him
Fathers
Brothers
Uncles
cherishing family ties of blood and of love
Friends
lending shoulders, listening ears, and confidence

But for now, my little one?
play, dream, discover, enjoy
your time is coming soon enough



I.H.F.: Vivid and Bright

A bright smile. A bright child. A bright future.

Colorful gloves. Vibrant love.

Purple tough. Black rough.

Yellow shy.

Teal appeal.

She's the real deal.

Spirit shines.

Glad she's mine.



Six Word Fridays: Preposition's Near

A morning poem before work...

Near the majestic evergreens, behind there

is another world not like mine

there, near the emerald crawling ivy

(and the ubiquitous weeds that tenaciously thrive),

beauty beneath the level of sight

is beckoning to me: "Pause. Look."

Most often I ignore silent pleading

living, instead, in the egotistical hustle

of an all about me world

Sometimes, though, when outside pressures crush

I sit under there, nearer to nature

and that parallel world that called:

"Look. Enjoy. Dream." It's there behind

my here and now, nearest calm 

and I find (inside) my peace

(I so very nearly missed it)

It gets me sometimes

I am the invisible woman.
Blink, and you'll miss me completely.
That reunion? I was there.
Birthday party? Yes, there too.
Lazy day outside at the park? Uh huh, there.
But I stopped sticking my finger in front of my lens a long time ago.
Maybe I should start adding it to the composition.
A fingerprint to say "Rachelle was here."
I am the invisible woman.
It gets me sometimes.
Especially when I know that someday I wont be here.
And it'll be like I never was.

***

A debt of gratitude to Mom for snatching up my camera today and giving me myself.

Just me

Us.

Determined, concentrated faces.

Twirling a bit too much.

Bliss, a portrait.

Six Words: Inviting Joy

edges of her age worn lips

lift ever so slightly upwards suddenly

eyes, having seen years of heartache - -

scrimping on fullfilling desire [always responsible]

ignoring inner yearning to follow protocol

accepting adult obligations, foresaking all whimsy

saving energy to pursue elusive success

growing older in eye blink time --

now those eyes shimmer;  excitement renewed:

little girl at play [she reminisces]

holds loosely to lace and spins

whirling once-stationary winds in circles

giddy with merriment of simple play

hair tossled, eyes closed, head skyward

dizzy'd, she staggers and drops to knees

legs akimbo, laughter echoing against buildings 

then, rising slowly, palms smooth dress

and skipping (subtly) away toward womanhood.

once she knew such carefree joy

abundant pleasure in passionate, spontaneous play

where'd that little girl skip off?

she wonders momentarily, widening her smile

eyes twinkling, head dropping back, then

twirling slowly on ancient, unsteady legs:

invites back the spirit of yesterday.

Rambler

penned Friday, May 20, 2011

Have you ever sat down to pen something and felt so incredibly inarticulate that you just gave up writing?
I wonder sometimes why - with all the vocabulary jammed in my head from years of school and reading - I find myself at a loss.
There is Silence, deafening silence that crushes hopes of freeing thoughts that if contained, torture.
The blank page, or screen these days, likes to taunt and tease. A sort of 'ha! I've got you stumped, clueless, defenseless against my powers to block expressions.'
I long for a way to release what is pent up in my head - that which swirls around ferociously in my subconscious and peaks out momentarily like a lightening strikes in my dreams. Perhaps there is no escape to be found in tossing out misshapen shards of partially formed... nothings.
If shared, will they come together in absolute clarity like one of those 1000 piece puzzles made of pointalist paintings that only reveals itself when viewed whole and from a distance?
This is my plight.
A flawless page, a blinking cursor on pristine screen.
And I fear that if nothing ever tarnished this canvas, I'll forever be nagged by what if.
Somehow there must be a legacy of words to leave behind when my voice can no longer be heard.

Doubt

Doubt creeps toward me threatening to suffocate –
too often he is powerful
and fighting him off leaves me tired.
Oh, sweet beginnings…
but sweeter still the triumphs of overcoming doubt
in the middle
on my climb
to reach an end!

Six Words Friday: CHARMED

Simply mezmerized in your mere presence
transfixed to every flutter, every flitter

bumbling from delicate bloom to bloom
unaware are you of how charmed - -
how your precision work draws attention
a twitching of fuzzy legs pollinating

charming the flowers into creating life
you remain oblivious to entranced spectators
humbly, you finish duties and fly.



Mommy

Life began by waking up and loving my mother's face. - George Eliot

She knows my deepest secrets.

She shares my sorrows.

She celebrates my triumphs.

She feels my pain.

She nurses my wounds.

She senses my soul.

She cheers when the world is ridiculing.

She protects me.

She lets me go.

She cherishes.

She teaches.

She prays.

She loves.

Her smile brightens dreary days.

Her spirit nourishes mine.

Her adventures become my journeys.

Her guidance saves me from myself.

Her friendship knows no boundaries.

She gave me life.

She gives me life.

Igbo-American princess

I don't need a Disney princess

to decorate my shelf

none of them can compare

to her royal wealth

her reign is supreme in my heart

with regal grace,

intrinsic poise --

a subtle sovereignty

laurel intertwines her spirit

and unmasked beauty is her face

spunky and determined

she dreams immensly big

a connoisseur of capability

with demure intelligence 

she is this mother's monarch

a real life princess just being herself. 

**Photos taken Easter Sunday 4.24.11**

A note: Chi, you don't like this dress... simply because it's pink. I thought the orange glow would appease you - -and it did, except that I'm not letting you cut off the pink layer as you've requested.  I'll let you pick the fashion next time, love, I promise.

Opening my eyes

Oh, inspire me!
Let me breathe life into my images.
Open my creative eyes
so that I can see something new -
always there
but now visible.
Clarify the blur.
I'm feeling a little stumped.
there's darkness in this pause
I've shot everything around me
at least once
most times more
(ask my babies, they'll agree)
I need this now
the ability to renew my lightchasing
to arouse my desire
to create something fresh
in this life I've been blessed with -
oh, I want this.

Did I mention it is National Poetry Month?  I've taken on the Poem-A-Day challenge.  And inside my little black writer's notebook (which is, at the moment, hiding from me), are poems and word links.  Though I stumbled on my sestina, I've pushed on. It's my feeble attempt at the creative. 

Check out the RED Dress Club Weekend Link up.

Six Words: Go!

At the start

Foot tense, firm against the block

finger tips radiating with pent-up energy

I wait, anxiety morphing into adrenaline

Muscles taut, anticipating the future frenzy

Eyes looking to the horizon ahead

Ears peaked toward the official's arm

(extended from him, gun pointed out)

My pulsing heart quickens, expecting it

electric - the crowd intensly leans, charged

and...then...the..sound...Get...Set... 



Writing Workshop: Hope

It starts as a small tremble

Earth quivers, her brown blanket begins to split

carelessly it is tossed side to side

slowly, cracks widen

deep etchings, like wrinkles, spread

tired, she shakes, coughs;

suddenly, age sets in with violent fury

she rebels against herself,

feeling defeated, she sags - -

the skies open up, cries tears she longs to shed

but cannot

pools of sorrow fill her wounds,

nourish her with empathy and support

and from each wrinkle grows

new life

small, timid sprouts appear

soon, lush and green abounds

replacing the forelorn and barren space

her spirits renew

she will rejuvinate

she draws in wisdom of experience

she lives on

more determined:

there is hope

3.23.11 ( a work in progress)

photos taken using my 60mm Macro lens, natural light.

I love that - almost overnight - the beginnings of spring have arrived.
* Written for MamaKat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop

Sleep...lazy...too hard

The students today are working on cinquain poems (which, I've learned, are also called Diamante poems because of the shape the words form).  Yes, it's poetry time again.

I've always thought that poetry - whose only requirement is that it convey experience or recreate emotion - is a freeing art.  It's one of those genres of literature that accepts flaws and perfection without bias.  Rules can be closely followed or tossed aside with carefree disdain.  There is no real right or wrong - and words give light to the human experience. Ahhh.

To the point with it. Wait.  Was there a point?

Oh, yeah.

Today I modeled several cinquains to my students.  I wrote off the top of my head. They're rough, and certainly not amazing, but how many drafts are?

Children

our future

dreaming, growing, learning

bounding with great potential

gifts

Camera

third eye

capturing, freezing, preserving

remembering what minds forgot

historian

Now the interesting thing about this form of poetry is that each line has guidelines - albeit loosely adhered to by poets, but they exist.

The first line is one word, the subject of the poem.

The second line, two words describing the subject.

The third line, three action words (verbs).

The fourth line is a phrase of four words.

The fifth, and final, line is a synonym or figurative reference to the subject in line one. 

Simple enough? Nope.

Typically five of every 30 students botch line three.  They're in high school and don't know what a verb is...

Another two or three mess up on line four, as they've no clear concept of a phrase.

And then several eliminate the fifth line (probably satisfied with figuring out the whole verb Identification process).

E., who sluggishly wanders into class in a trance, long legs barely contained under his desk and backpack still on his back when he sits down for his 60 minute first period nap, has to be told directly to take notes.  He then scribbles the first subject (line) down, as I required everyone to use "school."  He then spends the next 20 minutes sketching flowers and rockets in the margin of his paper.  When I get a chance to pull him aside for one on one, we slowly finish the poem by me feeding him words to choose from.  Poem two? I tell him to write about something he likes to do.  Topic: SLEEP.  Oh yeah, I said he was a lively one.  Third poem? He's the subject.  For line two he writes one word: lazy. 

At this point I'm thinking, "Give it up, teach. He's just not planning to try."

But I'm stubborn, so I force him through all four poems.  Then I ask about yesterday's assignment, couplets and quatrains.  "Too hard." Ohhh-kaaaay. Fifteen minutes later, we've got several lists of rhyming words. And he's not willing to help me get further.  I make him pick two that rhyme. Play. Day.  And then, he's done. "E., what do you like to play?" Now, I'm waiting for him to say "catch up on my sleep," but he says, instead, "basketball." And nothing else. I push him through two couplets before daring myself to re-explain quatrains and rhyme scheme. I see a coy smile in the corners of his mouth and realize he's getting it. He leaves, then, with my directive to work on the (now late) quatrains and share his difficulties and successes tomorrow.

We shall see...

And later, following my sheltered ESOL English class (after a student is stopped from pulverizing her male classmate as she walks out of class): "But miss! Ugghh! He gets into my nerves !

(oh, I love fractured American idioms).

SOAR - a poem

Dear God,

It's me.

Rachelle. 

Daughter.

Mother.

Teacher.

Dreamer.

Wanna-be Photographer.

I'm tired.

Tired of waiting to make it happen.

Tired of standing at the edge of this cliff and wanting to test my wings. 

Tired of thinking "what if…"

          my wings aren't strong enough?

          I fail?

          I'm not good enough?

Can I spread my wings, take this leap of faith?

Will you be the wind beneath my wings?

And if not, will You provide someone who can?

I'm looking out at the future before me.

My camera is poised to shoot.

My eyes are scoping the scene.

I feel inspired…

                   inspired to…

                             ruffle up these feathers a bit in the wind…

                                      and SOAR.

A poetic example created for my students...

I'm gearing up for the new school year.  I'm told I'll have five classes of 10th graders.  Oh, it's that lovely age of about 16 years - where most students exemplify their sophomore status [wise fool].  They're all used to the school and think they have the teachers pegged.  They know the disciplinary system (and often know how to avert reprocussions).  It's quite an interesting school year for most of them, and as their classroom teacher, it's always a 9-month melodramatic sitcom. 

So here's one of the poems I penned as an example for my new charges:

Her laugh is quite a bit haughty

Most often when she is naughty

The tricks she plays on enemies

Then prays "forgiveness my Lord, please."

And hopes at her end for mercy.

Her games continue until she

Went on attack vindictively

Spreading lies with such careless ease –

Venomous lies. Only truth frees

But her damages dealt harshly

And victims seek justice, you see?

Fought her words victoriously

Labeled her lies, shunned her comp'ny

Gave her not one shred of mercy

Venomous lies - - only truth frees.

The idea is that they'll write their own poetry with focus on one or two techniques for each piece they craft.  It doesn't have to be perfect, but it's a lot easier to show a student's voice than jumping into essay writing is...  We'll fumble through several specific forms of poetry and each student will develop a portfolio of their work.

Quilting

Patches added in memory of lives lived

Love connecting each memento with a golden thread

          Woven between the photos, quips, and remembered moments

My family quilt is beginning to unravel - -

Slowly, and with dignity, it has accepted the wrath of time and distance

Tattered remnants remain in places where there once was happiness

The thread of gold made for fools, now tarnished green by envy, regret, and hatred

Little things once easily forgotten now clip already loosened threads

And patches of our history are severed from the collection

What of this tattered remnant can I pass on to the generations to come that need its warmth?  

RAJ 11/25/09