Green Eggs And Ham.

Every time I sit down with
the intention of writing poetry,
the words go skipping about
and become naughty children 
who like to hide from me.
So I just write down the lazier,
more elderly words that stump on past;
they're easier to catch
because of their walkers and wheelchairs.

Even the down jacket on my cappuccino is laughing at me.

All right, fine. 
It's not even a cappuccino.
It's a mocha.
I just thought cappuccinos sounded smarter than mochas.

But the metallic-neon-orange copy
of Green Eggs and Ham
isn't laughing.
(Even if the words "party edition"
are printed on her cover.)

She knows how difficult those 
fresh-faced words can be
when they're hiding from the pen.

Green Eggs and Ham knows that the birthing process
can be hell on earth for that
person-behind-the-pen,
especially if all he wants to do is trade poetry for bread.
If those words were my livelihood,
I very well may have starved long ago, 
even if only due to my need to hide with those damn words.

How cruel, those words!

Once I finally do pin them down,
I hide them again.
They rarely see the daylight of outside eyes.

And now Green Eggs and Ham is laughing at me.

"Why bother chasing them," she says, 
"if you're only just collecting them like a mad old woman and her cats?"

"I'm shy," I say.

"If you keep too many of them in one home," she says,
"they'll fester.
Wither.
Die.
You'll abuse them."

"But they're not cats," I say.
"They're words."

"Nevertheless," she says,
"You wouldn't do that to cats.
So why do it to your words?"

"I don't even like cats!" I say.
"And neither do you!"

"You're right," she says.
"I only like mice, foxes, and goats.
But you know I'm right."

Green Eggs and Ham is still teaching me lessons after all these years
and I'm starting to resent her for it.
I wrap my scarf ever the more tightly around my neck
and submit to the truth I find in her pages.

I'll find a way to love these words enough to set them free.
I can't hold on to children forever, you know.
No one can.
Someday they'll grow up and I'll have to watch them leave.
To find their purpose in this world.
I can't wait to see what they decide to do.


-Miranda

Dialogue Poetry From This Morning

For those of you who don't know this about me yet: I like to listen to the things people say. These things can be profound or hysterical, depending on the day. One of my favorite writing activities is to plunk myself down in a public place - usually a coffee shop or a diner - to pull out a pen and a notebook, and to listen. While I listen, the pen starts moving, recording a sentence from this table, and then a sentence from that table, and then perhaps a sentence from the waiter. Soon enough, I find myself with what I have come to refer to as "Dialogue Poetry" - a conversation between two people, named A and B for your convenience, stitched together from the pieces of conversations occurring nearby. Today's Dialogue Poem comes to you from my stop for an Americano at a coffee shop called The French Press over in Lakewood.


A: You just gotta watch out.
B: Is she...?
A: Really?
B: Ebay.
A: I'd just had a meeting with Phil.
B: She said that she didn't know this guy.
A: You've been exonerated.
B: Yeah, she was up all night.
A: Well that's always a plus.
B: She was kidding, right?
A: But I asked first.
B: We could be a team on this.
A: I'm not completely insensitive.
B: I know that!
A: Don't wake me up before the sun is out.
B: Oh, so you're gonna be like that now?
A: I was one point away from third.
B:  Who could you respect for that?
A: I don't know.
B: I mean, I've always been friends with her.
A: He builds shoes.
B: Dude, those aren't shoes.
A: They're sandbags.
B: They make my mom sleep weird.
A: He coughed in my face numerous times.
B: Yeah, I like that.
A: It's senseless to pump myself full of chemicals.
B: Preserved in mercury?
A: My body won't do its job.
B: But that's exactly how vaccines work.
A: That's just silly.
B: It's cold in there, too.
A: Not after what happened in '76.
B: It was a HUGE epidemic.
A: It never happened.
B: That's the best way to go, man.
A: And if you do get sick?
B: That's a weird situation.
A: Breakfast on that wall over there.
B: That's not what I'm saying.
A: Is that French toast?
B: There is a lot going on inside that situation.
A: Could be.
B: It's kind of one of those things.
A: Are you gonna take a deduction?
B: I was just gonna get it to make Mom happy.
A: They wouldn't inject mercury intravenously.
B: It's probably infamous walnuts.
A: Do you eat tunafish?
B: Shut up about the mercury!
A: We were talkin' to him when we had dinner with him.
B: Don't you even start that.
A: That'd be so bad for you!
B: Oh, you are a FOOL.
A: You know what it probably is?
B: ....Breakfast?

The apartment band...it is really coming together!

Miranda, edit and add names as you notice omissions or inaccuracies!

Andre the saxophone
Clarence the electric fiddle
Connie the concert ukulele
Eugene the soprano ukulele
Arlo the mandolin
Allen the A-key harmonica
Beatrice Flauten the b-flat-key harmonica
Conrad the C-key harmonica
Dexter the D--key harmonica
Edgar the E-key harmonica
Franklin the F-key harmonica
George the G-key harmonica
Miranda the huzoo
Mario's Worst Nightmare the trumpet kazoo

Unnamed egg shakers
Unnamed recorder
Unnamed tin-whistle
Unnamed SPOONS!!!

We still need...
A banjo
A bass
A piano
A guitar
A washboard
Timpani.

Frohe Weinachten!

Christmas Eve with the Baxters is never, ever dull. At this very moment, the regular four of us are spending time up in the frozen, wind-beaten expanses of Wyoming with Grandma Baxter - Dad's mom. When we arrived, we were informed that while we were here, we would be "at her mercy" regarding dinners. She has planned out every meal with regard to what she has been craving. Luckily for all of us, she's been craving all of our favorite German foods - cabbage rolls, sauerbraten with spätzle and red cabbage, German potato salad - and it's all been to die for. And lucky me! I was permitted to be in the kitchen when it all happened so I could try to reproduce the recipes at home!

Let me back up a little. If there is a German woman in the kitchen making dinner for more than four people, you'd better stay the hell out of there, or else she'll scream at you until you leave. Most likely chasing you with her biggest, scariest wooden spoon. (This is what I will inevitably become. If I haven't already.) The only way you should ever dare enter a German woman's kitchen is by special request. And for most of us, the honor of such a special request goes something like this: "GET YOUR ASS IN HERE AND PEEL THE POTATOES!"

No wonder the German language always sounds frightening....

I guess I just don't ever feel like I'm at home until someone is shouting at me from the kitchen.

Merry Christmas and Frohe Weinachten to all you lovelies out there. Hope your holidays are significantly less frightening than mine. :-)

Don't forget the pickling spices,
Miranda

Thoughts from a basement in Moorhead, MN

My grandfather is a treasure trove of witty comments, stories of foolish road trips, and delightful Norweigian jokes. Spending time with him and grandma, the straight man to his comic, is a joy.

Grandpa is getting old. Even grandma will be ninety this year. They are slowing down. They both have walkers, grandma has broken numerous bones in a variety of falls, grandpa's eyesight is going. They shouldn't drive or carry things or climb stairs any more. And for the most part, they don't. But that is a new development.

Just a couple of years ago (grandpa was already in his nineties), my parents got a call from this glorious pair: they had two twin beds they hoped to get out of the house. Could we help? Certainly!

Mom packed my three strapping brothers along to carry the furniture up the world's most frighteningly steep staircase out of grandpa & grandma's basement. ...only to find both beds (box springs, frames, mattresses, and several new sets of sheets) waiting to merely be loaded into a vehicle and moved. Grandpa had convince grandma to join in, and the two of them in their white haired, walkered glory had schlepped both bed sets up a precarious flight and through narrow hallways to the garage.

They used to pull all manner of stunts. I've heard the most heart-gladdenning stories from grandpa. And I wish I could remember half of his jokes!

Last February, my mom's father died. My dad's spunky father is the last grandfather in my life. And I am finally realizing, as he and grandma are as well, that he is getting old. He is becoming forgetful. Tonight, he asked me if I have one more year of school yet... And apologized when grandma reminded him that I graduated two years ago.

He is the reason my sense of humor is the way it is. I blame that side of the family for just how Norwiegian I look. My brother can do the most fabulous impressions of grandpa when he tells his stories. And I will miss him and grandma, my beloved comedy team and hug-givers, as soon as I leave to head home (to my parents' home) on Sunday night. They are smile-shapers and life givers, inspirations and cookie bakers, and they remind me of exactly how much love I hope always to leave in my wake.

Grandpa, I want to be just like you when I grow up! (That's why I play the fiddle, don'tcha know!)

Love you, dear hearts!
Marit

"See, what I do for a living is I sit down. I went to school for it, and now I can do it even with my eyes closed. But then, see, I fall over." -Grandpa

Adventuring toward contentment

I'm at home. Sort of. I'm at my parents' house in MN enjoying some relaxation and a nice escape from real life with all its ups and downs and rent. This is a great chance to slow down, kick back, enjoy the moments and smell the flowers. Metaphorically, of course, because a Minnesota winter is decidedly flower-less.

I had great plans to accomplish things -- lots of reading, a load of fiddle practice, all the quality time with parents and brothers that I could ask for. And so far, only the quality time had happened. So why should I be full of discontent and just so ready to move on to the next thing? My time has been nothing but good and I have so much more I can do still... But my poor ol' heart is ever itching for the next place and thing and moment to arrive, sirens wailing.

This quiet Christmas season, I am seeking to find contentment in the moments. In the car with my dad, walking the dog with my mom, packing, visiting relatives, meeting old dear friends for coffee, watching my brothers rehearse, drinking tea on the couch, existing. Simply and gently embracing instants and finding them full of joy. I'm trying to cease my constant desire to rush onward to times ahead and places yet to be met. I wish to be preset and invested here. But I'll see you there soon, Denver apartment family! And I hope to be as present to you then as I aspire to be here and to these dear hearts.

"Investing in a people and a place for a time with full presence and joy" seems easier somehow when the people and place are a future moment. But that lacks the presence entirely...

Thoughts for a Saturday morning.
Cheers!

The Allure of a Blank Notebook.

Over the summer, while I was playing in the woods out in Wisconsin, that Marit of mine sent me a care package full of all of our favorite things. Most of these things were drinkable - hot cocoa, tea, instant coffee - but stuck-in among everything was a blank notebook.

I would describe it as medium-sized for my tastes, with a soft orange cover and an elastic band that will stretch around the whole of it. There's a ribbon on the inside for the convenience of place-marking. The pages are lined, and the brand of notebook is "Piccadilly."

There is something quite thoroughly intoxicating about a blank notebook such as this. Oftentimes I find myself simply holding it, turning it over in my hands, running my fingers through its virgin pages as I salivate at the sheer possibility of it. What sort of treasures will tumble out of my brain, slide down my arm, and burst forth through my fingertips, exploding all over the blankness? What sort of story - as the directionless bastard child of a night of agonizing passion between Ink and Paper - what will it grow up to be?

I wonder about these things a lot every time I pick up a pen to scrawl out my own humble contributions to this world. If you could even call my words "a contribution," as I seldom allow any other eyes to see them. 

Anyway. Back to the novel.

Jasmine Pearls,
Miranda