The Schizo Poem

This simple poem had several incarnations within a single day. So many that I didn't even save all the drafts. In the end I like the original version best, with a few minor revisions. It may be silly to explain the gist of the poem in the last line. It may seem as if I'm insulting the intelligence of the reader, but I'm not trying to, that's just my style of writing. It's a natural pattern and flow that has existed in my poems for many years. (For another nifty example see Prescribed Burn). Well, no sense in changing the formula this late in the game. Silly or not, here goes...

You, sharp and jagged
like rocky cliffs perilously perched above the sea.
A lone rugged lighthouse,
seen but out of reach.
You winked at me.
And I know you feel my energy
like waves crashing over rocks,

unmoved but smoothed with time.
My love is wearing you down,
admit it. ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

When I decided to change it completely, this is one of the little gems I came up with:

sharp and jagged rocky cliffs
perilously perched above the sea
a lone rugged lighthouse
seen but out of reach
delicately carved seashells
swirling in the foamy tide
waves crashing over rock
unmoved but smoothed with time ~

What?? and Blah. zzzzzzzz. It managed to suck even worse than the first poem. The moral of the story kids: it's okay to reach for improvement and greatness, but don't lose yourself in the process or try to be something you're not. Lesson learned.

"Bad" Poetry

After reading several "bad" poetry sites that attempt to humorously lambaste the writing efforts of poor, unsuspecting amateur poets from around the world wide web, I'm more convinced than ever that my writing would be torn to shreds by most critics. But as I was reading (keeping an eye out for my own name!) and even chuckling along at times, I couldn't help but feel these "critics" were missing the bigger picture. Have these snobby academic scholars been standing up on their platforms and behind their podiums, laughing at their own jokes for too long? They seem to have completely missed the fact that very few of these writers sat down in front of a keyboard with aspirations of becoming the next Browning or Frost. If these were published authors looking to be taken seriously, I could forgive some of their harshness. But for the most part these are regular people, like you or me, who simply put their thoughts and feelings into words and hit "send" putting them out into the world. A brave thing to do, in my opinion. For most of them, and myself, writing is an outlet and an enjoyable hobby, nothing more. And sometimes, even if an author didn't spend years and hundreds of thousands of dollars learning what a poem should and shouldn't be, their writing can still evoke feeling and affect others in a positive way. Yes, it's true! One of the biggest rewards I get from writing is to hear that my writing has inspired, moved, or helped someone else in some way. I'll take that over a positive review from an "expert" critic any day!

Furthermore, these long-winded "professors", clearly in love with the sound of their own voices, went beyond dissecting and flambeing the poems to ridiculing the authors themselves, while chortling loudly with great satisfaction. Isn't this a simple case of tearing someone down in order to build oneself up? Isn't this something bullies do on the playground in 2nd grade out of their own insecurities? Well, if making fun of others makes these "adults" feel better about themselves, then I truly feel sorry for them. As an aside, I realize I'm using a lot of quotation marks in this post, but that's nothing compared to the mental air quotes this topic conjures for me. So this is me holding back on the quotation marks, k?

Hey, I'm no saint! Oh, no. I've been known to pee my pants laughing at American Idol audition footage. But in my defense, I didn't ridicule them publicly and I always applauded their courage. So here's my response to the "experts" who feel the need to flame, for what it's worth. It's not an original idea, but one that bears repeating because it's oh-so-true:

Dance, even if you're no Astaire!
Sing, even if you're no Pavarotti!
Act, even if you're no Streep!
Write, even if you're no Shakespeare!
Paint, even if you're no Monet!
Use the voice God gave you, and do so as if no one is listening.

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling" - Oscar Wilde

Oh, Oscar was there ever silence in your house? You just have to chime in on everything!

Do You?

Do you know me?

Do you feel me?

Do you need me?

Like flowers need the sun,

bending and curving to reach its light?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Will you love me forever?

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Poetry Diary

I came across these tonight. I wrote them between 2000-2003. I was not in a very good place when I wrote the first one. Reading the next two you can see the progression to a little healthier place. That's one thing I love about writing poetry, it documents where I am mentally and emotionally at any given time, sometimes even better than a diary ever could.

And Now...

Now, the look upon his face is like sunshine,
it warms my sheltered heart.
Now, his soft kisses are like whispers,
they reach the very core of my emotion.
Now, his loving words are like gifts,
they stay locked in my soul to be treasured.
Now he finally sees me, Now he finally appreciates me,
Now he finally wants me, the way I've always wanted him.
And now I am torn
between his cruelty and his tender smile ~


Just a Moment

for a brief but beautiful moment
I closed my eyes
distantly I felt the swirl of chaos around me
the melee of my own tumbling thoughts and emotions
but I was magically untouched by any of it
deliciously detached and free in that moment
overcome by an inner calm
all residue of worry evaporated
and I remembered,
life is really good ~


Solitude

outside alone, silent snow
drifts through the still night air
landing softly all around,
I hear only the sound of my breathing
and I feel alive

there's a full moon tonight,
snow flakes sparkle
like a galaxy of twinkling stars,
the white earth glows with
a fresh blanket of heaven's kisses

Sometimes it's when I'm most alone,
that I'm certain I am not ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

He Lived Loudly

He lived loudly,
and with great pride!
He injected energy into everyone around him
with fervent smiles and handshakes, funny stories,
and a unique exuberance for life.
People for miles in every direction knew his name.

He lived softly,
when it came to children,
wiping tears and holding hands.
And not just his own children --
from miles around they flocked
to his warm and generous spirit,
full of humor, tinged with mischief.

He lived hard,
stretching his body to the very limits,
until finally it began to fail him.
But everything kept whirring by
as he was in the decrescendo of his life.
And when he rarely left the house,
the world began to forget.

And then, when there was nothing more to say...
He quietly left.

And life roared on
and the world forgot,
but we did not.

We did not. ~

In loving memory...

Raymond "Shorty" Simons
5/3/24 - 10/8/05

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

My Love for Josh Groban... and Cake

I've loved Josh Groban for years now. And believe it or not, (and no disrespect to the "Grobanites" out there) it has little to do with his dreamy brown eyes, curly locks, and charming, charismatic personality.

Those things are great, sure, but just sugary icing on an already perfectly sweet cake. (And of little consequence since I'm never going to meet the guy.)

The Sweet Cake...

What I am able to fully appreciate about Mr. Groban is:
- his musical genius (yes, I said genius)
- what he stands for
- who he is as an artist
- his global vision and compassion
- the risks he takes
- the songs he writes
- the music he makes
- the causes he supports
and so on and so on...

But most important of all, I'm profoundly in love with his singing voice. If his big heart is the pinnacle of his beauty as a human being, then his big voice is its instrument. There are very few people who can bring me the kind of chills one gets when they know they are hearing the voice of God. The music of Mozart has this effect on me. Andrea Bocelli’s voice sometimes brings me tears as well as goose bumps. There are a few others too, but at the top of this list is Josh Groban, who's so humble that he'd be sure to disagree.

A la mode...

Whether he realizes it or not, his gorgeous music is such an important contribution to this world. It’s inspiring. It’s a reminder of things that are lovely in life, and that reminder alone can give hope and comfort during depressing times. Not to mention how he uses it to directly help others with his foundation, getting involved with just about every charity and relief effort out there. All the while, enriching lives by sharing his amazing gift. I hope he continues to do so for years and years to come.

...Oh, and did I mention he appeared on the dear-to-my-heart TV show Glee twice? That's a double-scoop bonus!

Okay, I'll stop gushing now. Why am I suddenly hungry for cake and ice cream? Strange. Anyway, here are a few of Groban's many delicious recordings. Enjoy!

The Gateway to Angelou

I was introduced to the writing of the great American author and poet, Maya Angelou, the same way I suspect most people are - high school English class. The autobiographical "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" wasn't an instant favorite of mine, but it intrigued me a little. While the rest of the seemingly bored and aloof class moved on to Shakespeare's Macbeth, Angelou's words were still tumbling around in my head. I think I needed time to digest them and read them again before the full gravity of their meaning struck me. Then my interest and curiosity overfloweth.

So, I went to the library after school and checked out everything they had in her name. One book did become an instant favorite, it was a complete collection of her poems in hardcover. I read it that night, returned it the next day, and bought my own copy. Sadly, my Macbeth essay only received a C+ or so (low for this enthusiastic fan of English). And I loved Macbeth, I really did. I even memorized my lines when we had to recite a scene in small groups in front of the class, something no one else bothered to do. But I put in sloppy effort on the essay because I was up that night reading Angelou's poems. I should have at least received extra credit or something, right? ha!

The book of poems had an image of a colorful patchwork quilt on the dust jacket. It also had its very own space on my crowded nightstand. Over time it took a beating from my clumsiness though; if it were possible for liquid to have a magnetic mate, it would be that book. But like my favorite pair of jeans it was just lovingly worn-in, a familiar comfort I was attached to.

Some time later, when I was perhaps 19 years old, I read in the Star Tribune that Ms. Angelou was going to do a book signing at a book store in Minneapolis. Oh, Joy! I practically leaped out of my seat. She was like a hero and role model to me, getting me through my difficult teenage years. And having been born the same year as my grandma, another important female role model in my life, she was like a second grandmother to me. So, the opportunity to actually meet her and get her autograph on that book sent me over the moon! Almost as much as NKOTB did in junior high. Almost. (I'm not afraid to admit, I pierced eardrums over Jordan.) I daydreamed possible scenarios of the intelligent conversation Ms. Angelou and I would surely have. I gazed at the blank inside cover of "the book", as it shall be hereforth known as, and envisioned some nice words of encouragement along with her signature in her pretty handwriting. How cool would that be?!! The adult me is still a little giddy at the thought.

The next week dragged by and when Saturday finally came I sprang out of bed at the crack of dawn. While my friends were sleeping in or hungover (or both) I drove myself and "the book" downtown in my '76 Chevy Malibu, incidentally manufactured the same year I was born. Now, I'm a country girl and I generally refuse to drive downtown because I hate doing it and I'm bad at it, so this was true devotion here, folks. I got lost of course, and this set me back a good 45 minutes. But eventually I found the store and a parking spot. By the time I was done with a sad attempt at parallel parking, fiddling with the parking meter that was a foreign object to me, and hoofing it 5 blocks, the line of autograph-seekers had wound around the corner and down the street. Great.

But I didn't come this far to give up now, hell no. Even my line neighbor's rancid morning breath couldn't dissuade me. I stood there for what seemed like hours and hours as the line inched forward at an agonizing pace. During this time we were briefed on the rules, what we could and couldn't do and say to Ms. Angelou, etc. - but all I recall hearing was "A new purchase is required to receive an autograph." My heart sunk as I looked down at the stained and tattered book in my hands that would never pass for new. I dug through my purse for every little coin I could find, but McDonald's didn't pay much and after feeding my gas-guzzler and the parking meter from Hades, I had a whopping $5 left. Here my memory gets a little fuzzy... my next clear memory was the announcement that she was nearing the end of the signing, but if she didn't get to us we could still go inside and make purchases, of course. Of course! Because I always wait in line 2 1/2 hours to buy a wall calendar! What a racket. I began to doubt if she was even in there. It was another blow, but I decided I wasn't giving up; I clung to the narrowest of hopes.

Then, all of a sudden I was there. I was the very first person in the outdoor line! The building entrance was a mere 3 feet away and things were looking up. Then came what seemed the final blow, they announced they were ending the autograph line. No one standing outside the store would get an autograph today because she was tired and had somewhere to be. I was the cut-off person! Of course. The pimple-faced guardian of the "Gateway to Angelou" must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he said that I could still give it a try. So I went in and bought a small copy of her inaugural poem and got in the autograph line anyway. I got a few glimpses of her but she left before I could get the autograph. *weep*

Wasted:
$3 for gas money (this was the 90's)
$2 to feed a parking meter I didn't know was free on the weekends
$5 for a copy of a poem I already owned
4 hours of my life (on a Saturday, no less)

Crushed:
My dream of meeting the living legend and poetic heroine whose writing I leaned on and courage I admired.

Even though it wasn't personal at all and she wasn't even aware of my existence, it felt personal to the emotionally fragile teenager I was. My feelings were hurt and I was angry. "The book" was chucked into the nightstand drawer. And even though I knew it wasn't really anyone's fault, my feelings about the incident and her were a little on the bitter side for years.

I've since forgiven Maya Angelou. But never have I stood in another line for a book signing. In fact, I hate all long lines and avoid them at all costs. The pay-off is rarely worth the wait anyway. I'll still drive downtown if the occasion is special enough, for instance Twins games. I'm still really bad at it and get lost while looking for parking ramps because I'm afraid to parallel park. Today "The book" and printing of the inaugural poem are somewhere in Seattle, hopefully comforting and inspiring someone else. I left them behind when I moved back to Minnesota last year. I didn't have enough room in my little Ford Focus so my books were sacrificed. Even my complete Anne Rice collection in hard cover *sob*. Thank goodness for libraries. I don't need to own books anymore, it seems I never have the space to store them anyway. But there's one book I do wish I would have hung onto, can you guess which one?

Ms. Angelou, if you're reading this, you are the very essence and embodiment of feminine strength, wisdom, and grace. You are phenomenal and I treasure the gifts you've given me. I still carry with me the messages and lessons, if not the books themselves. In my imagination "Letter to My Daughter" was written just for me. I am your daughter, but one of millions. And your life has touched and affected ours in ways you will never comprehend. So, thank you and God Bless. (And I still want that autograph!)

No doubt she's a regular reader of this blog, lol. Okay, long story over. Here's my hands-down favorite of her poems. Besides the obvious awesomeness of the message, I love the rhythm. I swear that woman has a natural symbiosis with words and rhythm.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

A Poet is Born!

*chuckle* Ummm, yeah. Anyway, these are a few of my earliest poems, written between grades 8-12. I was studying the classic poets in English class and reading Stephen King and Anne Rice in my free time. Their influences show. I'm actually shocked at how half-way decent and seemingly mature some of these are. Some were even a little too mature to share on here, if you know what I mean. Ahhh, high school. Unfortunately, my writing really hasn't advanced much since then because I've been focused on other things.

Beauty

beauty’s glimmer in the eye
beauty in the cloudless sky
beauty in a fragile rose
in wild earth gently beauty grows

now everywhere I go, I look to catch a glance
of fleeting beauty’s timeless grace and mesmerizing dance
I thought I heard it in a song once
but that was long ago,
and now and then it calls my name
in hollow winds that blow

finally I go to seek
beauty on the mountain’s peak
and there I see through dark below,
in tiny houses, beauty’s glow ~


Spring's Joy!

I traveled the woods and field on the loveliest of days;
white blossoms and bird songs lead me on my way.
Brother blue jay, sister skylark, you have nothing over me;
for at the end of this long journey, my love’s sweet face I’ll see! ~


Winter

bare trees, thick snow
power lines against the pale gray sky
buds on bushes await the sun
to blossom once again ~


Wings of Hope

I saw a star fall and it gave me hope.
I heard a baby cry and it gave me hope.
rocks, clouds, and trees have not these things...
earth, sky, and forest have not these wings! ~


Passing

I leave a trail of my footsteps through time
places I have been, people I have known
all linked together by a mysterious force
a destiny I never understood
but now it all merges in a miraculous realization
as I take my last breath in this life ~


The Dance

rhythm like a heartbeat pulsates through the room
and they dance
happy souls absorb the music, theirs to keep forever
to remember the good times and set them free
as they look around the room, this is what they see

voices dance and feet sing, hands touch and hearts ring
with ecstasy at every glance across the dance floor
eyes flirt and hips sway, hearts mingle and minds play
with the possibility there could be more in store ~


Hold Me

hold me tonight, please don’t let go
your eyes reflect the candles glow
gentle music fills the air
but with your touch cannot compare

how I love to be with you
you surely know why this is true;
you’ll always be a friend of mine
even if love we lose in time

hold me again before you go
my love, my friend, only now I know
how it feels to be loved by one
with all the warmth of the summer sun ~


The Nightmare

it began when I was ten, still has yet to end
it waits until I safely sleep, then every night it thinly creeps
underneath my bedroom door, crawls beneath my sheets
clawing and inching it’s way to my head
to weave it’s dark, evil plot of dread
it invades my innocent dreams
leaving a trail of slime in my bed ~


The Other Side of Night

sweet flavors of the night reach out to me
colors, textures of the day, a distant memory
the path I’ve chosen is of the dark, the dark where I belong
free of mortal coil, free to sing my timeless song
take my hand and come along, a good time you’ll receive
once you feel the pulse of night, you’ll never want to leave ~


Night Song

branches of a willow struggle in the wind
there is no moon tonight
outside my window something stirs
the earth is still with fright
a strange silence fills my ears
the cricket chirps have ceased
a ferocious wind is all I hear
ready for it’s feast ~


Falling

daytime mocks me, the night is my enemy
with disturbing dreams I wrestle in bed
haunted by images of the past and
fearful of what lies ahead
a victim of gravity, I plummet in darkness
with nothing soft to break my fall
in fact, it is beginning to seem as though
I will never land at all ~


I'll Know

church bells are ringing
you've begun to cry
I hear your private thoughts and feel your sorrows
don't think you're alone in this world
I would take offense
you know you'll always have me in a sense
close your eyes and feel my presence
just as I feel yours
I'll guard you on your journey to my world
don't waste your thoughts on self-pity or the past, for I'll know if you do
find hope for the future and take care of yourself,
I'll be watching you ~


Pandora

crystal soul
light penetrates
the raw beauty of her form
beckons the deepest desires in him
she stands in the open
looking up at the jealous moon
even the stars glare with envy
at her unnatural glow

she has already sensed
his vital presence
his longing
subdued for the moment,
he turns to leave
but feels he cannot
strange sensation
he closes his eyes

perfect stillness
darkness penetrates
the tender flesh of the neck
suddenly wounded
from behind, her strong body
presses against his
he surrenders to the comfort
and serenity of her embrace

sweet bliss
tender kiss
he is forever safe in her arms ~

Author's Notes:
At the time I wrote "I'll Know" I thought it was incredibly touching and emotional. Now it looks a little creepy - "I hear your private thoughts" - "I'll be watching you". How is being stalked by their dead loved one going to give someone in mourning comfort? lol

et cetera

As this useless stuff comes to me I just write it down.

Be careful what you pour your love into and how you pour it, there's always back splash.

If ever I became a fully-functioning person who kept it all together, I fear I would cease to be me. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be a writer.

I may be beyond repair, but one person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

Poetry may be better at shining light on problems than fixing them, but it would be a mistake to think poetry is without merit or purpose. In the chaos of life, something must light the way.

to create a deep canyon takes time
for thousands of years waters flow over the stone
wearing it, smoothing it, shaping it
so it is with beautiful writing
the words flow over us time and again
-- or rather we flow over them
molding with care so they become
what they were always meant to be

When you write there is the sound that each word makes as it falls against another word, and there is also the sound of silence in between the words.
- Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Prescribed Burn

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
meteors blazing through the night
in panic how they scatter

Run! I don’t need you
digging deep and meaning well

your tears can't quench the fire in these skies
you only fan it with your fear
you can't stop the pain that's burning me alive
so let me burn

of all the things you couldn't be...
if you can’t be still and bear the heat
then leave

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
I don’t need for you to fix me
I need for you to love me,
in spite of all the things that need repair ~


Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Author's note:
I wrote this last night. At first I loved it, then I hated it, then I loved it again. Now I've just surrendered to it. As my mom would say, it is what it is. It was I who wrote it so here it stays, love it or hate it.

People of the Great Spirit, I Honor You

As soon as I clicked "PUBLISH POST" I couldn't help but feel my last posting had inadvertently slighted the native peoples of this great land and I want to address it. I was looking at it more from a writing standpoint than anything. While I do appreciate the pioneering spirit of my European ancestors - their fortitude to survive, their courage to blaze trails in search of a better life for themselves and their children - I haven't forgotten that it was some of those same "Pioneers" from the Whitman poem who stole from, raped, and ravaged this land, its people, and wildlife for profit. Of all people who've called this land their home, the Native American Indians have understood it best and respected it most. To do them honor and balance the karmic energy of this blog, I'd like to do another mash-up, this time using some famous Native American poems, prayers, and quotes.

(Please note, I did not author and do not own this material, I have simply compiled and arranged it. Try as I might I could not get the footnotes to work properly. The sources are below, in order, but without corresponding line numbers. Sorry, I tried!)

Angela's Native American Mash-up

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.

I can dance
below the surface
upon the rocky sand
I shall dangle near
the river bottom
suspended, floating free
like the embryo
I used to be.

Oh Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds
And whose breath gives life to everyone,
Hear me.
I come to you as one of your many children;
I am weak... I am small...I need your wisdom
and your strength.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever
behold the red and purple sunsets.
Make my hands respect the things you have made,
and make my ears sharp so I may hear your voice.
Make me wise, so that I may understand what you
have taught my people and
The lessons you have hidden in each leaf and each rock.
I ask for wisdom and strength,
Not to be superior to my brothers, but to be able
to fight my greatest enemy, myself.
Make me ever ready to come before you with
clean hands and a straight eye,
So as life fades away as a fading sunset,
My spirit may come to you without shame.

Great Spirit, we send greetings and thanks for the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is still around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest words of greetings and thanks to the Creator. Now our minds are one. Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring. There is no death. Only a change of worlds.
One does not sell the land people walk on. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The time will soon be here when my grandchild will long for the cry of a loon, the flash of a salmon, the whisper of spruce needles, or the screech of an eagle. But he will not make friends with any of these creatures and when his heart aches with longing he will curse me

Great Spirit,
give us hearts to understand;
Never to take from creation's beauty more than we give;
Never to destroy wantonly for the furtherance of greed;
Never to deny to give our hands for the building of earth's beauty;
Never to take from her what we cannot use.
Give us hearts to understand
That to destroy earth's music is to create confusion;
That to wreck her appearance is to blind us to beauty;
That to callously pollute her fragrance is to make a house of stench;
That as we care for her she will care for us.
We have forgotten who we are.
We have sought only our own security.
We have exploited simply for our own ends.
We have distorted our knowledge.
We have abused our power.
Great Spirit, whose dry lands thirst,
help us to find the way to refresh your lands.
Great Spirit, whose waters are choked with debris and pollution,
help us to find the way to cleanse your waters.
Great Spirit, whose beautiful earth grows ugly with mis-use,
help us to find the way to restore beauty to your handiwork.
Great Spirit, whose creatures are being destroyed,
help us to find a way to replenish them.
Great Spirit, whose gifts to us are being lost
in selfishness and corruption,
help us to find the way to restore our humanity.~
Sources:
Chief Seattle
From a Haudenosaunee “Thanksgiving” Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
A poem by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Ojibwa Prayer
From a Haudenosaunee "Thanksgiving" Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
Chief Seattle
Crazy Horse, Sept. 23, 1875
From “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (A Native American Elder)
Chief Dan George
A Native American Prayer, origins unknown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I understand the need to grow and advance civilization, but why at such reckless speeds? I understand the desire to prosper, but at what cost? There must be balance. Harmony and balance are as essential to life as air and water. Even the squirrels in my backyard understand this. They know if they do too much damage, Mother Nature will step in and keep them in line. So, who is keeping us in line? We, the arrogant, rebellious teenagers, must be grating Her very last nerve.

- Angela Friberg 7/2/10

Patriotic Inspirations

In the spirit of the upcoming Independence Day celebrations, or what the spirit is supposed to be anyway, I discuss a few of my writing inspirations.

O Pioneers!

First, I saw the glorious 1992 Hallmark Hall of Fame movie starring Jessica Lange - and loved, loved, loved it. This lead me to read the 1913 Willa Cather novel it was adapted from. Ms. Cather's writing had a beautifully familiar feeling to it, like coming home. She has a gift for the descriptive, vivid and poetic, and touches on truths we didn't know we knew. Finally, I re-discovered the Walt Whitman poem from 1865 which had inspired her. That which I had studied and dismissed in high school. But reading it again through different eyes, I saw Whitman's ideals, his passion and fervor, expertly brought to life on the page. (If anyone should be a presidential speech writer, it's this guy.) In fact, I'd have to say of all the poems I've read, this one feels the most exciting and alive. Maybe it's just all the quotation marks. Kidding. There's a reason Levi chose it for their ad campaign. I'm glad they did because it's now been exposed, with a cool image, to the younger generation. Something that just doesn't happen in English class, I'm afraid. Unless your English teacher happens to be Robin Williams.

For those who haven't yet experienced all the O Pioneers! goodness, I will pass along the inspiration by doing a little medley just for you, combining some favorite bits and pieces from the novel and poem*. Think of it as a mash-up like they do on Glee.

Angela's O Pioneers! Mash-up

The Genius of the Divide, the great, free spirit which breathes across it, must have bent lower than it ever bent to a human will before. The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Fresh and strong the world we seize. Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways. We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, the grain so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d. We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while. Pioneers! O pioneers!

There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they have never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same notes for thousands of years. All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Now for a couple more treats I present the movie trailer and the Levi's TV commercial:


Now go forth and party -- barbecue meats, drink alcoholic beverages, have picnics at the lake, bonfires at the cabin, and enjoy aerial fireworks displays -- you youthful pioneers of this great land!

* Excerpts from the novel O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, 1913 and the poem Pioneers, O Pioneers! by Walt Whitman, 1865. I do not own this material, I simply compiled it.

Fumbling

This post is really just me thinking out loud. I'm confused about my writing style. Spewing out my writing insecurities and frustrations helps me process them. And recording it on the blog ensures that I'll be able to come back and find it for future reference. Maybe someone will even stumble upon it and offer advice.

In the past I've been told my writing is mechanically sound but boring, bland, banal, devoid of heart and wit. The only reason this critique is bothering me lately is because I think there's some truth to it. There's no doubt my writing comes from a genuine place in regards to emotion, but it's lacking punch. That's why I keep pushing myself, trying to take it even farther and see what else I'm capable of. I think part of the problem is imagination, I sometimes have trouble seeing outside the box, seeing things through my own eyes and describing them with my own voice instead of imitating others. Maybe I just haven't found my voice yet.

Another issue is my vocabulary. I often use very formal, almost technical language mixed with antiquated, romantic language. I'm also too verbose and repetitive. I have to agree that I can take the most deeply stirring topic and make it sound cold, clinical, uninteresting, zzzzzzzzzzz. The dead poets used formal language and for the most part their writing is still very compelling. I dunno, I'd like to think that I can still stretch my limits and grow as a writer. Because I really enjoy doing it, I just enjoy it a lot more when it's good. Same goes for my singing, it's no fun if it sounds like nails on chalkboard. Like all artistic forms of expression, when it's really good, the timing is right and everything comes together perfectly to create something extraordinary. It gives us chills, it gives others chills. It's a spiritual experience, one we keep chasing and trying to replicate.

So here I am, fumbling in darkness towards the raw and visceral. No matches, no compass - just the words of Angelou, Whitman, and Thoreau for guidance. Words I cling to with fervor.

Everything I need to know I learned from my dog

Preface: Just a fun little post 'cause I was in a silly mood. I would usually put these types of posts on my other blog, but I'm trying to reserve that one for outdoor/hiking/travel stories and photos. And since I have no desire to start a third blog, everything else gets posted here now.

Ticky-Chips (one of many, many nicknames for my Grandma's dog) has latched on to me for dear life and won't let go. And since she's my new little shadow following me everywhere I go, you'll be seeing lots more of her around here.

Lesson #1 - Sometimes it's hot dogs and cheese curds, sometimes it's Kibbles 'n Bits. Deal with it.

Now stop your moping and choke down those kibbles you little turd nugget.

Lesson #2 - Sometimes you get locked in a cage while your friends play outside. Deal with it.

I know-- it's worse than the kibbles. But let's face it, you're going to be in that monkey cage for at least 8 hours so you might as well make the best of it, Ticky-Poo.

Lesson #3 - Sometimes life socks you in the face. Deal with it.

Apparently your way of dealing with it is to lie there and take it. Tee-da-Bear, the sock-sniffing pacifist.

I have a story about this one. A few weeks ago I was lying on the bed watching a movie and it got too warm so I kicked off my socks. An hour or so later I look down and see that. The sock was completely covering her face before she heard me going for the camera and moved a little. She loves to roll around in and cuddle with my dirty clothes, but to just lay there with a sock on your face for an hour? She's kind of a special needs runt of the litter, if you know what I mean.

~ Outtakes ~





The. End.

Thoughts on Humankind 'n Stuff

Just some thoughts that occurred to me while on my walk today.

Sometimes it seems like we've charted a dangerous course for ourselves and would be nearly powerless to stop our own momentum should we want to.

Some people think cockroaches are the ultimate survivalists, I disagree. Did you know there are people (descendants of Black Plague survivors) who have developed natural immunity to HIV/AIDS? Civilizations may rise and fall but human beings will be around until Earth's last gasp and, with our intelligence and ingenuity, likely beyond.

I can honestly say there are more things to dislike about the human race than to like, but our strengths are no less astounding for it.

Mother Nature demands her children devour one another to fuel the cycle of life. Humankind stands out in the brood because we don't merely eat and reproduce-- we imagine, we create.

With the help of evolution we've managed to humanize dogs to the point where it seems inevitable they will one day be able to hold conversations with us.

Hand-to-a-higher-power these thoughts came to me just within the last 3 hours. See, this is what happens when I'm in a writing phase - my mind goes 'round and 'round with useless crap like this until I write it down, and then it finally quiets. For a little while anyway. I'll be happy when this phase ends. Hope my movie watching phase is next, it's much less exhausting.


"Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment, but you humans do not. Instead you multiply, and multiply, until every resource is consumed. The only way for you to survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern... a virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer on this planet. You are a plague, and we... are the cure."

- Agent Smith to Morpheus, The Matrix (1999).

Swallowed Up

Wrapped up in the docile beauty of nature I was taken unaware by its hostility. Droves of flying insects like fighter pilots carry out their merciless attacks amid the suffocating brush. With my evasive maneuvers I manage to cut my hand on a thorn. As I watch the blood trickle down my arm I'm convinced the woods want to utterly devour me. Like the fallen tree, bloated with crawling bugs, covered with a blanket of moss and creeping vine - I fear if I sit still too long I may never get back up.

Thought of the Day

Most young people look at life the same way they look at fiction - like the bulk of it is bland filler, mere prelude to the juicy scenes. It's the wise who are able to savor the quiet, subtle moments.

Leave it to me to somehow relate it to food. The thought came to me just now while watching a silly teen movie, thrumming my fingers waiting for the two characters I like to finally get it on. Still waiting... and... they hugged, that's it. Gosh darnit. I suppose the flick had some redeeming qualities, though I can't think of any at the moment

It's a very, very Mad World

It's a bright, sunny day and I'm inside listening to Adam Lambert's studio version of "Mad World" on repeat. It's a hauntingly beautiful version of the song and I just feel like listening to it right now. No other reason in particular. Maybe it's because The Twins lost today, who knows.

I've always been a fan of Tears for Fears, but it wasn't until I heard the Michael Andrews/Gary Jules version of "Mad World" in one of my favorite movies, Donnie Darko (2005 Director's Cut is best), that the simple, melancholy lyrics and melody really gripped me. It's a genius song and a genius movie with a genius soundtrack (Like most people I tend to be overly generous in my use of the word "genius", but in this case it's fitting). Being 7 years old when the song was originally released, there was no way I could fully comprehend or feel Orzabal's lyrics. Now that I'm 34 with a mountain of life experience behind me, they cut like a warm knife through butter.

In my teenage years I wrote songs on the piano in very much the same vein without even realizing just how similar the melodies and lyrics were. I now see "Mad World" as the epitome of what I've been trying to create for years. It's as if Orzabal looked through time and saw inside me, saw what I was trying to do, and with the creation of his divine masterpiece proclaimed, "This is how it's done.". Maybe he saw some hidden places inside all of us. Just brilliant. Then Michael Andrews teamed with Gary Jules to come up with an even more stunning version of the song for Donnie Darko. Oh, and then this kid named Adam Lambert came along with a unique vocal performance that managed to take the song to even more vulnerable and touching depths. How can a seemingly simple song be so incredibly poignant? Just call me Salieri at this point. I was clearly absent the day God was passing out all the genius genes because I didn't get any, but that's okay, I'm thoroughly enjoying the products of other people's.

Here are both Adam's American Idol version and the version from the Donnie Darko soundtrack. Go ahead and put them on repeat, it's good therapy. Scroll down for lyrics.

FYI...Links tend to break over time so if the audio files don't play you can just go to playlist.com and listen to these songs there. It's a free music search engine that streams audio content from all over the web. I use it all the time. And no, I don't get a kick-back for saying that. I'd need to have a heck of a lot more hits on my blog for that to happen.

Mad World
by Roland Orzabal of Tears for Fears

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World

The True Calling of Oscar Wilde

Preface: This post was originally outlined in my mind to discuss how reading my old writing had revealed that on some level I wanted to be known, poignantly quoted, and remembered for my writing one day - like Oscar Wilde or something. But as I started writing the post it quickly turned into a different type of self-discovery when I realized that my true calling has always been teaching. Strange how things never seem to work out the way we plan.

I've been going through some of my old writing lately and came across something titled "A Variety of Poems & Wisdom", apparently compilations of short poems and personal quotations in two volumes *chuckle*. Reading them takes me back in time. Thoughts and feelings flood in and grab hold to their former places, momentarily dragging me back to the person I once was. I usually wrote for myself, rarely sharing my writing with anyone. Yet looking at some of the stuff I wrote I now recall a sense of expectation or hope, for lack of a better word, that someone would one day read my words and gain something from them.

But I never aspired to make a living out of writing. In fact, I never aspired to be anything in particular. Unlike the young boy who dreams of being an astronaut or the little girl who wants to be a lawyer and nothing else, I never knew what I wanted to be. I was too busy listening to The Beatles at deafening volumes in my headphones to hear my calling. But in junior high I was made to take an aptitude test and the results indicated I should be a nurse or doctor. So I was sent to The North Memorial Trauma Explorers at the age of 13 and became involved with them and various other emergency medical organizations for many years. It wasn't a calling but rather an opportunity presented to me. I liked it and was good at it so, what the heck, I went with it. Over the next 20 years I worked in a variety of fields, but none were completely fulfilling and it was obvious that I had missed my true calling, or simply didn't have one.

But now, writing this and looking back on my life I can see something, a pattern jumps out at me. For as far back as I can remember I think I felt a deep tug towards teaching. Many children grow up emulating their teachers, but I was more enthusiastic* about it than most (*read "obsessed"). I remember dressing up in over-sized ruffled blouses and floor-length skirts, and of course accessorizing with bangle bracelets, long beaded necklaces, and eyeglass frames with missing lenses. I'd improvise a pointer with a back-scratcher or whatever stick I could find, and pace the room giving long, eloquent lectures to my imaginary pupils. Recently I cleaned out our old playroom and found "grade books" where I recorded my students' marks. Sadly, my handwriting hasn't changed much since then.

As my primary areas of interest (and majors in college) changed over the years from Music, to Medicine, to English, to Psychology, etc, etc. I think I pictured myself ultimately teaching in those fields. I never got a teaching degree, but always slid naturally into the mentor/teacher role no matter what type of work I was doing. For extra cash, as a second job, I was a CPR/First Aid Instructor for many years. And in almost every other job I ever held I became a mentor/trainer of some sort, either officially or unofficially. As of right now I am volunteering for the Hennepin County Library system. One of my volunteer roles is as an assistant instructor for computer classes offered to the public. So, looking at the trail of facts and evidence, it overwhelmingly points to the conclusion that I should have gone for that teaching degree. But even without the degree and unbeknownst to me, I've kind of been answering the call to teach by the way I live my life.

So now, getting back on my original train of thought, I share with you some excerpts from "A Variety of Poems & Wisdom", not-so-famous quotes from the girl who didn't want to be a writer but secretly hoped to be well known as one, and who was meant to be a teacher but didn't know it. Enjoy.

Candy without sugar is as pointless as life without love; but life without chocolate is unimaginable.

Whether it be a new car or a lesson learned in life, to gain something valuable we all must pay its price.

It's in discovering what we are truly capable of that we discover who we are.

To live beneath your true potential is to waste a precious gift.

It is when we go through the dark times that we are closest to seeing the light. Growing is just a matter of letting your eyes adjust and your soul expand.

If ever you are doubting your purpose in this world - it is to learn, laugh, love, dream, and to never, ever give up.

We are, every one of us, both student and teacher; the world is our classroom and there is no graduation but for death.

Perfection is boring. To learn, grow, and struggle to improve is what makes life interesting. It's why God gave us flaws.

We are born with all the tools we need to be happy in this life. The trick is to look for them within. Some discover the treasure sooner than others.

Better late than never huh? It seems I always learn something while writing, sometimes the lesson is just more obvious and immediate. I could prattle on but I'm going out to dinner with my gramma and it isn't wise to keep her waiting. (I think I just came up with another golden nugget of wisdom to add to the volumes! hehe)


"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."
Oscar Wilde

5/25/14 - My work still involves teaching. I work with vulnerable adults who have developmental disabilities and I teach them how to live more independent and healthy lives. Every day I'm teaching them something, from the smallest things like how to organize emails or pay a bill online, to cooking from a recipe. All in all though I think they teach me more than I teach them. I've been very depressed this last year and when your mind is enveloped in darkness like that it's hard to be optimistic or grateful. They teach me to be both. A far more important lesson than anything I've ever taught them.  

Inspirational Thought of the Day

The failure of first love does rip something from our core, never to be replaced. But we learn something of ourselves and life in the process, so it's not a complete and total end-of-the-world disaster. It just feels that way for awhile. How long depends on our intestinal fortitude. And by that I mean, the ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol without throwing up.

Author's note:
I wrote this in my early twenties, enough said.

Regress

sometimes I don’t feel that strong
like I’m hanging by a thread of sanity
clinging to old insecurities
weary with transparent weakness
my confidence fails me

sometimes I don’t feel that wise
like I’m starting all over again
memory betrays lessons learned
dropping the guise of maturity
reveals a frightened little girl ~

Copyright ©1999 Angela Schofield

Author's notes:
I wrote this over 10 years ago. I've grown considerably since then and come to realize that the key to overcoming these obstacles is not just to write about them, but to understand that I am not the only one struggling with them. This poem could ring true for even the strongest and most successful of people.

It also helps if you don't languish and wallow about in the pain and misery of life, as I've been so prone to do. I think they refer to it as being "emo" these days. In my time it was just called self-pity. But isn't that a right, nay, requirement of the teenager and/or tortured artist?

Haiku-ing

Haiku! Bless you.
I like to use Haiku as an exercise to flex my creative writing muscles. In the past I've simply picked a random photo from Google images and written a nice Haiku about it. This time I'm going to add a twist to it. My recent post comparing poetry to abstract art got me thinking, there's very little left to the imagination in my poetry and it's always bothered me. My poems are nice and sweet, but in the art world very representational and straightforward. In other words, my trees look exactly like trees. I need to think outside the box a little more, pour more of myself, my point of view, and my interpretation into it.

Below is my inspirational photo, it's of a windmill from the 1890's near Long Island, NY. My challenge today is to first write one of my "normal" Haiku poems. Then I must write another, more abstract Haiku that captures the essence and mood of the photo.

-- If you want to play along, scroll only to the bottom edge of the photo - don't look at my poems or you may be influenced by them. Reminder: Haiku consists of three lines, the syllables of which must be 5, 7, and 5 - in that order. -- Ready, set, go!

Haiku #1
windmill frozen still
grainy shades of black and gray
window to the past

Grade: C-
makes sense, sounds nice, but bland and boring, no emotion, feeling, or originality (I'm beginning to understand why my writing has been referred to as "banal") You could read this poem on its own and come up with an image very similar to the photo it's based upon.

Haiku #2
quietly the blades
stall in shadows to affront
storms of rain and time

Grade: B-
interesting, moody, somewhat original, evocative, with duplicitous meaning. An all-around decent poem.

I'm generally not in favor of grading or rating poems and still believe you should write in a way that pleases you. I only did this exercise to try to push myself to do something different and go beyond the normal and predictable.

The most beautiful words in the English language, according to Angela

I've read lists of the most beautiful words and felt inspired to create my own. I'm not going digging through dictionaries or including words that I haven't used at least a dozen times in my life. My criteria is simply personal preference based on look, sound, and meaning. They are off the top of my head, in no particular order:

~ lush ~ luscious ~ landscape ~ ephemeral ~ epiphany ~ ethereal ~ plethora ~ lullaby
~ eloquent ~ loquacious ~ candor ~ felicity ~ soliloquy ~ elegant ~ gallantry
~ chivalrous ~ archaic ~ revelry ~ demure ~ labyrinth ~ sumptuous ~ eclipse ~ floral
~ fauna ~ revocation ~ evocative ~ tribunal ~ tributary ~ font ~ fountain ~ mountain
~ flourish ~ emphasis ~ polymorphic ~ infatuated ~ tendril ~ lavish ~ inspire
~ spiral ~ infinity ~ eternity ~ philanthropy ~ osmosis ~ nourish ~ sunshine
~ essence ~ omniscience ~ pristine ~ deciduous ~ glacier ~ antique ~ cadence
~ rhythm ~ divinity ~ provincial ~ lyrical ~ calligraphy ~ lovely ~ vivacious ~ tertiary
~ semblance ~ angelic ~ fluidity ~ flirtatious ~ phenomenon ~ mystical
~ peaceful ~ tranquil ~ precious ~ charisma ~ jasmine ~ clandestine ~ ambiance
~ resplendent ~ splendor ~ whimsical ~ fondant ~ affinity

Ugh! Alright, I give up. I think I could go on forever. It might just be easier to list the words I don't like.

Abstact Art with Rhythm: The Poet is a Dancer

My writing is a slow process, you could say infinitely slow. That's because everything is always a work in progress, without exception. I'm a perfectionist who likes to nit-pick, contemplate the placement of each and every comma. To me a piece of writing is a work of art, each word or punctuation a stroke of the brush. When faced with the enormous pallet that is the English language, it's difficult for me to select the right combination of words to create just the right tone and accurately depict the concept in my mind. Sometimes those concepts are too abstract for even me to grasp. Sometimes, especially if I'm overly excited about a project, I get far too wordy and repetitive and need to thin it out considerably. I'm jealous of creative geniuses who can spontaneously speak or write, succinctly conveying their message in one beautiful, deft stroke. My writing takes time and effort, lots of both.

I need time to set it down and walk away from it. I always come back to it with new perspective, sometimes hours later, sometimes years. I'm not afraid to jump in and make changes, even after the paint has dried. (Although I do keep all copies of my drafts because it outlines the progress of my writing skills.) Sometimes after multiple edits a piece gets jumbled and turns out worse. If that happens it's because it was never a strong work to begin with; there was no clear vision or sense of purpose. The great pieces evolve over time along with my writing skills as I chase perfection. None are perfect, but some are close, in my opinion. I'm sure others would disagree, but I love that. I love that people can read the same poem, as if looking at an abstract painting, each seeing something different. It's all subjective! Of course, most of my writing would be considered more representative than abstract, but I love the metaphor.

Besides the visual and emotional, I also love the rhythmic aspect to the written word. Music is as much a part of me as my own skin. I can't read well-written poetry or prose without feeling its rhythm in my chest. Each author has a unique style of flow, each piece its own beat, captured forever on the pulsing page.

Divine Providence

The storm has passed leaving some fiery, amber filter in the sky, drenching everything around me in the warmest light I have ever seen. The scent of rain and seawater hangs thick in the humid air, though I stand at least 1,500 miles from either coast. I picture how far the winds must have pushed this air; what beautiful landscapes it has blown across, picking up and carrying off bits of it all, like tiny souvenirs along the way. How many people in far off places have paused to breath in the scent of this same air? It seems it’s never enough to just experience a moment like this; I must try to capture it and take it away with me, as if I could ever own it. My mind searches for the proper words to paint this picture, as if such words exist.

I take notice of the white clapboard siding on this slanted old country house, the dark green stalks of fledgling corn across the street bowing in deference to the wind, and the clouds suspended above the field like strings of cotton balls. All bronzed in a soft warm glow, as if God were a director lighting his set to film a most romantic scene tonight. Out back the setting sun fans its light through a cluster of clouds and tree branches onto a meadow dipped in honey. The wild grasses sway and swirl in unison, like tall dancers stretching this way and that, their delicate grain seed tips reaching like hands toward the heavens. Leafy green vines spread out and curl among batches of colorful wildflowers most people would call weeds. Even the Weeping Willow seems joyful as its branches flow in the breeze like jellyfish tendrils in underwater currents.

From the woods to the left a White-tailed Deer emerges, a doe. The wind comes to a halt at about the same time she does, giving the illusion that time has stopped. For a moment she looks me in the eye, but has little concern about my presence as she continues on, grazing her way across the field. Then she disappears into a stand of trees leaving solemn stillness in her wake. This-- this is a place to rejoin life, to forsake the modern world, if only for a little while. Let the fresh air find that stillness inside of us.

I abandon my search for the right words now. Closing my eyes I take a deep breath, as if to further imbibe the moment, and imagine others, long gone, who've inhabited this same patch of Minnesota land. Native Americans, European settlers, my great-grandparents, and my grandfather-- all standing before the same sun, the same meadow, and experiencing the same sense of awe. I imagine if they whispered their secrets into the same wind I could hear them. ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Friberg

8/25/10 - How do I feel about this now? It's sappy and overly drenched in descriptive detail but I'm still fond of it. It transports me back to that magical moment and lets me re-live it. The way it looked, smelled, and felt is all captured accurately. So at least it will always have merit for me even if no one else.

The Kitchen

green jelly in a fine crystal dish
salt and pepper shakers in the form of colorful roosters
on a polka-dotted table cloth
cream-filled doughnuts from the bakery down the street
and porcelain trinkets as far as the eye can see
kitty-cat clock on the wall with emerald green eyes
tail swinging side-to-side, counting the seconds of silence
chemical scent of Lysol with just a hint
of the apple-cinnamon room spray that is her trademark
no crumbs, no smudges
this is her sacred room
where she will spend her remaining days baking, cooking, cleaning
cooking, baking, cleaning...
mopping with citrus-scented Spic 'n Span
washing the same dishes time and again with blue Dawn dish soap
because it cuts through grease and leaves her hands soft
just like the commercial says
visitors admire her clean, white surfaces and lace-trimmed dish towels,
and how they can see their reflections in the linoleum
they wish they had the time to keep their kitchens this spotless
but confess to themselves that if they did have the time,
they would likely spend it doing something else

days, months, even years pass by
as if caught in a science-fictional time warp,
her kitchen remains exactly the same
her visitors however, become fewer and fewer...
until there is only the grocery delivery boy left
bringing the neatly-filled brown paper sacks to her kitchen door
every Thursday at 1pm
he smiles politely and accepts the glass of orange juice and fresh-baked cookie
because he knows his hostess won't take "no" for an answer
sitting in the breakfast nook they chat about the weather
while he sips the tangy, pulp-filled juice
that's likely to be his only souce of Vitamin C for the day
as she launches into neighborhood gossip he gobbles the rest of the cookie,
drains the last few drops of OJ, and rises to leave

he doesn't know it but this is the last delivery he'll make here
the last time he'll step foot in this clean, sunny room
and see the old woman's welcoming smile and friendly eyes
in the years to come he'll most remember her sturdy but
soft-as-satin, wrinkled hands folded on the table
though her husband had long since passed
she always wore her wedding set, along with a couple of jeweled rings
permanently anchored in place and guarded by swollen knuckles
the freckles and age spots somehow made her appear very wise
and she was -
as wise as she was kind
no, the delivery boy will never forget those hands
or the smell of that kitchen
and he'll wish he had stayed on occasion for a second glass of juice ~

Copyright ©2009 Angela Schofield

Partners

Shall we walk together, hand-in-hand through life?
My destiny is yours
Say you’ll stay by my side and I will never stray
My place is in your arms ~

Copyright ©2004 Angela Schofield

A Lifetime Spent With You

With the naive dawn well behind me I enter my best hours
I want to spend the afternoon getting to know you
I hope you're patient, it may take hours and hours and hours...
Let's walk to the cafe down the street for lunch
Hold hands as we stroll around the park
Take a scenic drive and talk about our childhoods
Maybe cuddle on the couch and watch some T.V.
Then when evening comes we'll sit outside in the dimming light,
quietly enjoying ourselves and pining the long lost day
When stars appear we'll hold hands and enjoy the heavenly view ~


Copyright ©2008 Angela Schofield

For My Beautiful Mother on Her Birthday

I hope
your day is filled with fun
filled with love
and as bright as the sun

I wish
you joyful laughter
beautiful singing
and presents after

I pray
that you have all you need
all you want
and all you could ever dream...

I love you Mom

Untitled

and so it is over and done
in time I'll forget this one
but today the loss is pain,
dark and stabbing sharp

cowering in the corner
eyes tightly shut, waiting
for the sun to rise and set,
rise and set

and here I'll sit
as the light comes and goes
from narrow, empty spaces
revealing your truth ~

Copyright ©2004 Angela Friberg

Love Poem

come to me my dear
let me cherish you in full
life ticks away fast
all of nature names your love
the wind says you're mine ~

Copyright ©2009 Angela Schofield

Author's note: This is a form of Japanese poetry called Tanka (5-7-5-7-5)
I wrote this poem in high school, ha!

Your Love

Your love is Caribbean warmth
Your love is a tropical paradise untouched
Your love is a hot cup of cocoa on a blustery day
Your love is the marshmallows that float on top ~

Copyright ©2006 Angela Schofield

For Josh

Those who truly listen will discover truth
and wisdom
beneath the toughness
beyond the language lies
a talented, creative mind
overflowing with ideas I could listen to
forever
like a fawn that has never glimpsed the lions,
the world is his to run free
so young, fragile, and full of dreams -
he could do most anything
excites my mind and moves my heart
to beat like the pulse of exotic drums
distant, gradually growing nearer
images of him pass through my mind
with the sweet cadence of a flowing river
sending thoughts like ripples to my shore ~

Copyright ©2004 Angela Schofield

Author's note: Josh was a college buddy. We were tight friends, bound by our love of music (especially the Indigo Girls), taking the same classes, sitting next to each other, giggling and goofing off in class (Our poetry professor hated us!). Even with the welcome distraction I still somehow managed to get straight A's. He on the other hand had ADD and didn't care much about grades, routinely receiving C's and D's (even with my aid).

We came from opposite backgrounds; me the white, backwoods country girl and goody two-shoes and he the innner-city boy with a Korean heritage, rough exterior, and juvi record. He was only a couple years younger than me but had this youthful, rebellious exuberance about him that made the age difference seem greater. And I, of course, had a major crush on him.

We parted ways soon after I left school and I've thought of him from time to time, wondering how his life turned out. I doubt he even remembers me, some people just touch our lives and become instantly memorable, and he touched mine for some reason. I'm sure whatever path he's chosen for himself has been a wacky, imaginitive, and successful adventure. He was full of potential and an extremely creative and gifted young man.

Man, Haiku is harder than it looks! Structure makes it more challenging but I've always been partial to structure in poetry. I'm starting to get bored with my cookie-cutter, sing-songy poems though. So lately I'm trying to break out and free flow when I write, but the concept seems a little lost on me, or the other way around. Maybe I just need to tap into my imaginitive inner child; she's there somewhere fingerpainting a rainbow-haired unicorn or some crap.

Haiku of the Day

Photo courtesy of jmhuttun

tender the tendrils
clothed in crimson bodices
bowing to the sky ~

Copyright ©2009 Angela Schofield

The Sailboat

The ocean thinks nothing of a sailboat
caught in its powerful current
It sends waves randomly, mercilessly
because it must

The small boat topples then rights itself
again and again, struggling for the shore
It will succumb to the sea, sinking helplessly
because it must

If only you were the sail boat and I were the sea...
But as it is, I cannot hate you for raging on
while to your depths I plummet silently
because you must ~


Copyright ©2003 Angela Schofield