Writer. Educator. Artist.
I met Erika DeRuth at IWWG annual writing conference
and bought this chapbook from her in 2000.
A few poem titles with in:
cha cha pinsprites
questions fly
spraypaint on art’
silence
ballet in cowboy boots
apples and underwear
who am i
This is a Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner
That I enjoyed reading more than any other from Rattle.
Falling Off the Empire State Building –Jimmy Pappas
He begins the Title Poem with:
I shared a story with my students
about how construction workers
would fall off the Empire State Building
while another line of workers desperate
for jobs , waited to take their place.
Be’tween You and Me- arlene s bice 2013
I share with you an early attempt at self-publishing and
a sevenling poem; it is split into three stanzas
first is 3 elements connected, 3 lines
second is the same yet opposite
third is a one line zinger which reminds me of NJ irony.
He Loved-arlene s bice
he loved horse races
dog track
casino
he hated reading
theatre
libraries
he married a writer.
Rolling down the interstate on a morning after a heavy rain making the world look like it was scrubbed clean by Mom last night, I stay relaxed but constantly aware of traffic around me, especially the big guys, meaning the tractor trailers that dwarf my little, red Mazda II that I love so much.
They generally tend to be good drivers but still they have to see (meaning me) in order to be road savvy where I’m concerned as I never forgot the time a trucker kept pulling left into my lane as I blew the horn, pffft, his music must have been playing loud and I finally just braked my car rather than run into the center island because I knew he just didn’t see me..
We were slowing down, fortunately, for some kind of trouble ahead or for certain I would have been in trouble, too.
At the time I was clearly alert and on my toes as far as interstate driving goes not allowing random thoughts to run through my mind as I was doing today.
Driving is good for letting ideas spark, ferment and form solid ideas for what I am going to work on in my writing when I arrive home and also for working out knots in a piece of work I have already started, maybe thought was finished until that lightbulb went bing!
That bing let me know it wasn’t as finished as I thought.
Crossings –Jude Dippold
Jude writes of losses, letting go, death, dying, mourning, mostly remembering; bringing remembering to me, though my memories are always there in my shadow even when I have no shadow. I feel the depth in his writing as it encourages me to take time to write a poem for each of my own many losses.
Clearly I see the portrait of his sister he writes about, my dear friend Anne, younger then, with the simple beauty of daisies and the sun lighting her hair. She adored her brother.
Fortunately, each of my lost loves i.e. ancestors, parents, siblings, sons, and friends, has come to me at least once, a few have come often but each time has been comforting. Life after life and all after love. This is a special chapbook that has important insights to give you, written in many different ways.
From the late Judy Beach’s Ritual Writing IWWG
One poem:
Spell For A Desired Position
arlene s bice
Cast a circle
lay a blue cloth in the center
with a blue candle in a blue dish on top
of the blue cloth. Enhance this with a blue
ribbon, let scented citrus oil permeate the air. Be
sure to have blue underwear on. Lay a section of
the newspaper that is desired to be publish in, be-
tween you and the candle. Lay your article on top of
the desired newspaper. Light the blue candle. Begin
speaking gently to Mother Goddess: “Please merge
these two that I may become the writer, published
routinely, desired by many readers, appreciated
by editors. Send the power, wisdom,
make way for my path. My grace
to you with thankfulness.
Blessed be.
One poem from As the Day Dawns
The Lake – Ellie Newbauer. .
Rousing from its slumber,
it cuddles in its blanket of mist.
An early morning breeze skitters,
and fitfully drops,
to caress its satin body.
The glassy water responds
to the whispering lover,
so close for an instant the two are one.
They separate, and the fickle gust hurries on
to spread its rippled secrets
to the farther shore.
As the misty shroud dissolves,
shadows fall,
heralding the coming sun.
Diamonds burst forth,
and in a tap, slide, turn,
they gaily dance the day away
to the lapping rhythm
of the flowing waters.
What Brought You Here? Nancy Duei Denofio
Bruises
It tasted like a nip
of bad wine-it would
curl inside, grabbing
a hold of your heart.
One more time-then
it’s over. They say
tell us again.
It’s self confidence
assurance, liberty of
women, our right.
One taller, stronger, a
warrior. Picture a
dignified soldier.
Children seldom hear
the scrape of a sharpened
blade.
Revenge, pillage, spoiled
Deflowered, endeavor, and
weaker, unable to fight
or confront a warrior.
Those who never touched
a blade tell those who have,
“Confront the past.”
Writing What You Love Loving What You Write
From the late Judy Beach
Ice Cream and Love
arlene s bice
It’s more than a childhood memory;
the texture, the flavors, the taste
rolling around my tongue, melting, creamy
soothing my throat, adding to my pleasure.
The biting cold stinging my mouth.
Strawberries freshly picked in spring,
chunks, dripping with sweet juices
lay over the mound of French Vanilla
in a fancy glass rimmed in gold
like kisses laying on my lips.
A summer-ripened cantaloupe,
hollowed out and filled with scoops
of Chocolate; blending, melting
with the juices of warm fruit
coming together as one body.
In the autumn when spicy flavors
of Pumpkin and Buttered Rum tease
the palate, tingling the tongue
licking the drips on the cone,
my fingers wrapped around it.
Cold winds come in winter,
volcanic hot fudge covers the
heaping icebergs of Black Walnut
like your hands caressing my
breasts with your touch.
Seasons define the years,
flavors define the seasons.