Visuals

I love writing in part because of the visuals that are so amazingly powerful in poetry.

Recently, at Poetic Bloomings, we had a prompt that involved clouds. Coincidentally, that morning I had a visual as I pulled out of my driveway and faced the eastern sky. A mountain range had suddenly appeared overnight. This prompted, of course, a poem that began, then formed in my mind, and later after the prompt, begged to be finished.

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Mountain Clouds

This morning
I awoke with geographic wonder
as I saw
on the morning’s edges far away and yonder
mountains that had not been there before this day.
A gasp escaped.

My heart gave way
to such a thought that in the night
a smoky ridge had risen as

a dare to sky,
a dare to rock and earth,
a dare to eons, eras, time.

And then a golden slice of sun broke through
down and below this new and undulated smoky ridge.
And then, just then, I saw the peaks were but,
alas,
a bank of clouds that trailed a weather front,
a blanket turned down
off of slumbering sky as she awoke.

I sighed.
I would have welcomed such
new mountains in my world,
even if
they seemed so far,
so far,
away.

© Damon Dean, 2023

Mountain Stream

I do so love the solace
of an upland stream,
its shadows and soft daylight patches mingled on the mountainside.
It babbles over rocks and fears
and stones and hurts
but carries prayers like
water striders
on their way to sunlit spaces
where all life in and on a stream
is heard and seen.
Somewhere along the path ahead
a cascade can be heard
where every prayer and hope
is tossed off of a broken rocky brow,
cast freely to the waiting ears of gentle, patient, mountain breezes.
Leaves flutter, branches sway,
and I know my prayers are heard.

© Damon Dean, 2022

Dancing with Words

One of the most satisfying aspects of writing and reading poetry is the rhythm that is built into words. It’s as if, as we developed these languages we use–whichever language it is that we use–we created it with an automatic sense of design…”design by syllable,” if you will.

I’ve thought about it for years, and now believe that more than our brain and tongue are involved in creating language, simply because of the evidence. There is rhythm in every word we use. From the single syllable words, like “crab,” a firm stomp of a step, to many syllable words like “crustacean,” which feels like out-flung arms ending with a gentle double flick of the wrists. Our words form a sequence of rhythmic steps that satisfy our expressions, much like a dance.

So now, out comes “The Crab Ballet” by Renee’ LaTulippe, a perfect example of this little truth I’ve suspected for so long. There is poetry in our segments, rhyme in our ligaments, meter in our bones (or exoskeletons as the case may be).

I took Renee’s Lyrical Language Lab long ago, and it has served to deepen my love of poetry. Now she comes out with this delightful poem picture book, illustrated masterfully in watercolor by Ce’cile Metzger. It is a work of art, and heart, as I’m sure you will recognize at first sight, and first read.

I don’t have my copy yet. I believe it comes out on March 8, 2022. I can’t wait to order it and get it in my hands. But you can get a sneak peek at Renee’s blog, No Water River.

Madness Poetry 2021

Poetry…the best form of expression ever. And I’m privileged to be included in this years Madness Poetry competition, where 64 selected “authletes” battle over the next three weeks to rise to the top of the bracket by winning the votes of teachers, students, fellow poets, and the community.

My first round will be posted tomorrow evening at 5 pm Eastern time, where my effort will be put up against the musing of the fabulous Lill Pluta, a poet I’ve written with for a few years. She’s a great writer and poet and I just can’t wait till I see her poem appear. That’s the real fun in this, that we meet on a common word selected by Ed DeCaria, the Madness Poet magnate, who has run this competition for years. I’ve been lucky to participate in previous years (2013, 2014, 2015, and 2017). Always so much fun.

I hope you will visit the poets and their efforts through the competition, and enjoy the chaotic and edge-of-your-seat voting as poets rise in the ranks to write even more challenging and fun poems for children.

A Poet’s Heart Laid Bare

Amanda Gorman, in this poet’s heart, offered the highlight of the inauguration ceremony recently, as our President Biden and VP Kamala Harris took oaths of office.

The bravery of a poet is to offer a heart laid bare. Words are our soul’s breath, the exchange of atmosphere in us for what surrounds us. They are our hope for belonging, response, and peace. They are our confessions and our restorations.

Gorman’s poem of hope infused with her charge of responsibility, her simple honest introspect, made me hopeful our country can move on. Whether all things that come will be good, at least some of it will be.

I hold on to the hope that God will lead us, enough of us at least, to love our neighbors as ourselves in the next four years. That is the second great commandment. This would be change that is good.

As a Christian I know that the basis for that change is the first command, to love God with all our heart and mind and soul and strength. That is a big charge too, but the only thing that will enable us to do both.

So here’s another poet’s heart laid bare.

Below, Behind

There it is

below, behind us,

a valley carved,

no furrow straight,

no certain curves,

an undulating wrinkle in the earth

which may change yet

by force of wind or flood

Who’s to say

which way it next may turn.

It is new to us, now

It was not there before,

we were not here, back then

I did not see it yesterday.

This morning, see,

the sun made wide my eyes

and light and shadow showed

the gulch that had appeared.

We had stumbled ‘cross it

in the night

unaware of what we stumbled for

or why our feet were cold and wet

why clumsily we fought the dark

not knowing it was changing ground

that caused our misery.

There it is

below, behind us,

a valley carved.

But we stand on a hill,

upon a crest,

above,

and see

with sun-wide-opened eyes.

© Damon Dean, 2021

Two (Yes, 2!) Months of Intense Writing Instruction

As I neared the end of the year, facing 2020, I knew I’d be writing new goals for myself. These are not ‘work’ goals, as you probably would guess, since I’m technically retired. But for several years I’ve been using a planner to anticipate and order my life more intentionally.
Of course the planner is designed for business executives, office types, managers, supervisors…but it has a built-in process for weekly review and a categorical focus. Well, I’m not an office type anymore…to a degree, anyway. The goals format suggests things like meetings, deadlines, first-steps, etc. All things that go with supervision and management. But, my goals aren’t that neatly ‘managed’ or ‘defined.’
Instead, my goals at this ripe age of life fall into areas of Spiritual, Relational, Art, Physical Health, Experience, and of course, Writing!

So naturally, I included a solid 2020 year kickoff for my Writing goals. I have three goals, and they all depend on some improved discipline in my writing life. So, I vowed to participate fully in two month-long activities to support those goals. One in January, one in February.

Tara Lazar’s STORYSTORM is a month long challenge in January that takes the writer through 30 valuable insights offered by writers, agents, and editors in the kid-lit business, and challenges us to write down 30 picture book ideas. They don’t have to be great. They don’t have to be finished. They can be cheesy, stupid, crazy, or bland. But they DO have to be written down. Ideas come from everywhere, and participating in this is a sure fire way to get an idea to start growing. I’ve done StoryStorm before, even back when it was PiBoIdMo (Picture Book Idea Month), and some years succeeded with 30 ideas, and some months with maybe 15. I didn’t even do it last year, with all the changes in our lives. But this month, I succeeded and it’s a fantastic feeling.

Now, the NF Chicks, a distinguished hatch of awesome non-fiction writers who have contributed to our writing community for years, and with a full heart for us pre-published eggs laying around, are cheering (cheeping, maybe) for us to peck through our shells and leap out into the world of writing facts for kids. Not just raw facts—but discovering and sharing  the heart of the facts, the amazement of true stories, the surprises hiding in little known or much known histories. I’m beginning this adventure this month, and the ideas are fantastic and inspiring.

“Community” develops around these kinds of events, and that vital aspect–community– nurtures the writing heart.

A Special Kind of Grateful

There’s just something about a fellow writer’s success that feels different from the normal happiness you feel when someone succeeds.

Normally when my granddaughter dances well, when my older daughter sells a nice portfolio, when my younger daughter lands a challenging design project, or our son speaks on a panel of experts, the pride is immense and the joy is deep.

But, when fellow writers have a book birthday or book signing event, when announcements are made on the acquisition of their book rights, when they are featured authors on blogs, in interviews, or in articles–I have deeper and different emotions altogether.

I feel not only proud for my writer friends, but proud for me, and the many authors that make up our community of word and picture artists. Yes, the writers did the work, performed the diligence, with grit and love held to the task and pursued their particular, beautiful dreams.

But I know that community, camaraderie, and common purpose had their hands in the life and birth of the book. From mere bits of encouragement at the conception, to the labor pains of style decisions, editorial tasks, and marketing pushes. Many hearts and hands are involved.

That’s why I was so happy I could get to Kansas City and the Shawnee Mission Johnson County Public Library yesterday to be at Traci McClellan-Sorell‘s book signing for Otsaliheliga-We Are Grateful. This rich book is an instant treasure in my library, a beautiful glimpse into the seasons of life for the Cherokee Nation, by this talented Native American author.

I met Traci in Houston several years ago at an NF4NF conference, a small gathering of nonfiction-minded authors who share a passion for writing about real things for real children. Pat Miller brought together for a few years writers who bonded in that shared passion, and the bond was lasting, as evidenced by hugs and smiles and excitement whenever these ‘folks’ meet in new and varied venues.

And, it’s just a given that when one of us succeeds in a task associated with this passion–whether it be publication of an article, a book, or getting to attend a conference–we all feel grateful. To me, success for one of us is success for all of us. I think it’s the same for other writers, too.

It’s a special kind or grateful, because when it’s for the children, it’s for us all.

What a Hiatus…

I have severely neglected this blog. I apologize to my few followers, with an honest expression of the fact that I want to do better.

Over the last more-than-a-year since my last post, a lot has happened. Mom’s health declined, we committed to building a home in North Arkansas, and welcomed two orphans from Africa into two church families. I engaged in some reenactor events (including an authentic real life keelboat wreck) but finally, at summer’s end, spent most of my hours preparing to say a final goodbye to Mom. Cancer reoccurred in her and after many prayers, angels ushered her to her eternal home.

In and across and thru all of that time my writing has been inexcusably thin. You’d think that something as authentic as a real keelboat wreck would be fodder for writing. Or that months sitting beside Mom, reminiscing and valuing the rich life we have had, would provide deep inspiration. Certainly, at least, time for editing, rewriting, submitting.

But I think my problem was focus. I faced contrasting venues: Mom’s intensifying care needs, and decisions required to build a future home. And then I began to sense the unavoidable but impending distance I would soon experience from church, family, and friends. A focus on writing seemed to be a low priority among these thoughts and concerns.

Mom’s sweet release, however, seemed to be a point in my time-line where I could regroup my thoughts. I found myself refocusing, sometimes out of a necessity to do something in place of my previous constant caregiving mode.

A timely event has assisted my refocus. The most satisfying writing venue I’ve been a part of, Poetic Bloomings hosted by Marie Elena Good and Walt Wojtanik, has re-emerged after a long rest. The garden gate has reopened, and I find myself wandering along paths flowered with verse, where old friends and new ones are found around each bend.

It is a refreshing and renewing opportunity for my writing life. A weekly prompt offers glance into the souls of peer poets, a gentle dare to challenge my skills, a nudge to write for shared poetic joy.

It is a fortunate mercy I’ve been waiting for, and one I plan to relish.

It’s a focused mercy my heart has needed. Poetry is at the root of my writing passion. So it feels right to get back into writing–for children, for hire, for myself–along a lyrical path like Poetic Bloomings.

Go to my poetry page here to see this week’s attempt to creatively explain what my website means to me… as you might suspect, poetically expressed.

Rowing, Cookies, Camaraderie, Rum!

I was excited when Lori (a  friend in a virtual-writing-neighborhood) offered to take a look at a work-in-progress I recently posted about.  I don’t have a critique group at the moment, but here was Lori offering to give the idea a fresh pair of eyes as I attempt the next major revision.
This kind of generosity, helpfulness, and encouragement in my writing communities made me reflect on my keelboat trip after Christmas. I had never met any of the men whom I was to travel with, and had only talked to the captain on the phone.  I wasn’t sure what the trip was going to be like. They didn’t know me from Adam, and I didn’t know them at all.  I didn’t know anything about keel-boating.  This was my first re-enactment. How would they react to my mistakes? What if we hit a rough spot, and tensions rose?

Would I be a modern day Jonah, and get thrown overboard?

Within minutes, as I helped load the boat with tents and poles and water and gear, my anxieties eased.  Humor and laughter helped. Being useful helped. And I gained confidence when Captain Ed and No-Nose tutored me on the fine points of survival:

• (1) keep a three-point connection to the boat at all times (e.g. two feet and a hand, or two hands and a foot);
• (2) row in sync with the man in front of you (as a general rule);
• (3) have fun–we’re here to have fun.

Okay, I could handle that. And when the captain accepted my required 2-dozen cookies, and put them in the keg, I knew I was a crewman. From that point on I began to relish not just the journey, but a new camaraderie with the crew.

As we talked and rowed, I discovered we were a motley crew. A marine, a sailor, an engineer, a teacher, a statistician, a blacksmith, a preacher, and me. Despite our differences, we committed to our task, and every man put in the necessary ‘umphh’ and  ‘grunt’ to accomplish our goal. We did hit a few rough spots–lost the push poles, lost an oar, raked a tree-top in a vicious bend. But they did not throw the odd new man overboard.

The diversity was delicious–like a keg-full of all kinds of cookies. The captain dispensed those cookies to us, passing the small keg around for each mid-morning or mid-afternoon break.  The cookies, as a special delight,  were critical–you expend a lot of energy rowing for an hour. To wash them down, we had a shot of rum. Good rum. Rum that warmed your insides again, and renewed your rowing gumption.

What could be better with cookies than a hearty beverage distilled from molasses, and shared with a crew who share a passion, who row together toward a common destination?

I realize, now, how critical a ‘crew’ is to a pursuit. Regardless of who serves as fellow sailors, all contribute if their goals are aligned–if they row together.  But the rowing is a necessary part of the journey.  With the rowing comes the delights.

That’s my keelboat crew.  And that’s my writing community.  I’m still rowing, and going to row and write onward. I hope that whatever passions you pursue, you have what I am blessed to have: rowing, cookies, camaraderie, and rum!

Rudders and Oars

On my keelboat trip after Christmas, we had a routine governed by a tiny brass hourglass that hung in the cabin, just within the sight of the rowing team. We sat for duty on our benches facing the stern of the boat, side by side, watching the sand trickle, grasping and pulling on our heavy 18-foot-long wooden oars.

The captain would flip the glass every 30 minutes. For our hour-long turns to row, we took our places on the port or starboard side of a bench, and grasped the oars resting in the pins. Starboard (right side) oars had red paint, and port oars (left side) had green. Based on our positions, we rowed together to propel the boat forward–down the unseen river behind us.  That took a little getting used to.

We’d listen for instructions from the helmsman who, at the rudder, and behind the cabin, was out of sight. He stood looking from the stern, over and around the cabin, and downriver. He guided our boat around bends, away from sandbars, along the current, and often against gusts that seemed to think our little cabin was a sail. It often seemed to be a mean wind.

Our trip took advantage of the current, and our general direction was clear…we were going downriver.  But, like the writing life, rivers have bends. They have sandbars. They carry along logs and debris. And are often visited by mean winds.

As I began my first keelboat rowing experience, I  realized that just moving  with the current isn’t sufficient. It became obvious that movement within the current–faster than the movement of the water around us–was pretty critical to the helmsman being able to direct us with the rudder!

A rudder does nothing, and has no effect, unless it is moving through the water around it.  That, my friend, requires the boat to move faster than any current it is in.  To navigate to port or starboard (and indeed to turn about if we lose an oar, or a push pole), we must move through even moving water to steer.

This applies so readily to my writing life.  I’ve been writing seriously now for some six years.  I discovered early the adventure of the on-line, elbow-to-elbow, and face-to-face writing community. My writing friendships are priceless. I am challenged, encouraged, and urged forward.

But it’s not enough to ride, if I want to steer around obstacles (like life happening).  It’s not enough to just float if I want to keep from beaching on a sandbar (writing slump).  My writing life requires rowing.

Rowing will carry me purposefully and deliberately through my writing life. Sometimes I can flow gently with the current.  But sometimes I need to break away from mid-stream. Sometimes I need to choose which angle in the river my boat moves. The winds and gusts of life try to blow my writing life into a steep muddy bank. But in every circumstance, I need to row, row hard, to pull my rudder through whatever water I’m in, to allow my helmsman to steer my chosen course.

That means writing not only in-stream, but through-stream. Writing not just for the current (my writing peers around me, the community of writers I travel this river with), but for my own journey.  I’ve recognized the voice I hear, the helmsman standing there, grasping the rudder at the stern, calling out commands. He is my own writing heart. I need to hear my helmsman, and row as ordered, for my situation: day-by-day exercises, a promising work-in-progress, or an inspired idea. My heart stands at the stern and sees over me, to the river coming into view behind my back He sees all the distracting dangers it may hold, and the course I need to avoid them.  I need to write accordingly.

“Make-way all!”  “Hold water, green!”  “Pull hard, red!” These gruff-voiced calls still ring out loud in my river experience memory, and I now have them embedded in my writing perspective.

There is nothing I am enjoying better in life now than my river trip, and the current of my writing community.  In the history I like to write about, rivers were roads…they were often the only way to get anywhere.  I know I can’t leave the river.  I just have to learn to navigate it well.

Often writers say among ourselves, “I need to get my B-I-C (butt-in-chair) and write!”
By this rich metaphor I’ve had the privilege to experience, I say, “I need to get my B-O-B (butt-on-bench), and ROW!”