poetry – Page 8 – For the Archives

Posted on May 1, 2013 by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Stealing a Slice of the Moon

I wake at 4:30am with a thought that I’ve plagiarized my father.

It was that cheddar cheese moon line in my last post “Don’t Forget the Dolphins.” The words that were whispered to me, ever-so quietly, by the right-side lobe of my brain that was backseat driving.

It was offering artful angles on my daily practicalities. Reminding me of the beauty back-dropping my to-do lists.

“Come on, tell them about that rising full moon at dusk. The color of cheddar cheese and bigger than the sun. How it seemed to rise out of the two-lane road as you and the Bohemian drove, side by side, salt-coated from your sunset swim. Go on, tell them.”

Oh, that frontal lobe and its backseat cues. Did it lead me to steal?

Cheddar cheese, cheddar cheese. I wake with this thought that, perhaps, I’d just recently read a poem of my dad’s pairing the moon with a yellow-orange block of dairy.

He’s the poet of the family (and I’m proud to say he was recently given his second Wrangler Award for Outstanding Poetry Book by the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum – congratulations, Dad!).

Me, I’m only putting words on the page and justifying margins. And now, I’m wondering if I’m an inadvertent plagiarizer, as well.

I scan the posts from my father’s blog, Dry Crik Journal, trying to find a cheese reference. As I search, I recall growing up with chunks of cheddar as a staple in the family ‘ice box.’ The sharp, pungent scent that would rise from the block as it warmed on the cutting board. My father, passing through the kitchen, to slice a thick slab and snack.

I keep searching his words but my poem perusing turns up empty. I find no reference to cheddar cheese and the moon from my father. Was it some other poet?

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Nerve fibers connect and fire some electrical storm of All-things in my head. Intuition and dreams are housed beside logic and systems. To-do lists get mapped to poetry. My brain is one big mix of what’s been soaked in and what wants to seep out. I don’t know where the cheddar cheese and moon came from.

Dad, if I snagged it from you, I apologize, and I’ll offer up credit where it’s rightly due. If I sourced from some other writer in the world, thank you for gifting me the shade of which to describe that rising moon. Cheddar cheese color it was, and you named the palette.

To anyone that loves the moon, or who can appreciate a good chunk of cheddar, let’s all gather round the cutting board in the kitchen. Have a snack and share a slice.

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Don’t Forget the Dolphins

I fear I waited too long to take a photo of the Bohemian’s garden at the height of its verdant glory.

The beets have been pulled from one bed, the soil turned over. There will be no replanting. The sweet peas are beginning to droop on thinning vines. The bulk of their harvest, already done.

There was a time about two months ago, when our family would take our little baby chick, Merlin, into the garden. Let his small, fluffy-self wander through the maze of raised beds that housed so much potential. Tarragon was blooming, the beet starts were taking root. The volunteer tomatoes were a surprising experiment that needed a trellis, fast.

One month later, Merlin went missing, never to return, though the garden was lush with green foliage and budding broccoli. I told the Bohemian, it was the biggest, most beautiful garden of his, yet. We should take a picture.

At the time, I was busy taking photos. Feeling a surge of creativity flowing through words, images, sketches. Inspiration was everywhere and I was ripe to capture the beauty, often sharing it here in the Archives.

As for the garden, maybe somehow I thought it would look like that forever. So I never did take that shot.

And then things changed.

We found out we had to move. The cycle shifted.

And now, all creative forces are channeled to Craigslist’s long-term rental searches and crafting summarized snippets that start with “Island Family Seeks New Home on the North Shore…”

I leave the lobe of poetry and orient my brain to sorting Jeb’s room for our pending garage sale. Thirty-five stuffed animals are categorized with his given titles: “Keep”, “Give to F” (‘F’ being short for ‘Friend’), or “Sell”.

Rather than admiring the way the light beams on the blue pottery shards at the kitchen window, I look upon them with scrutiny, wondering if the prudent Bohemian will find them superfluous in the move.

I am not complaining. I am more noticing the cycles of life. Just as in the garden. There are times of fecund fullness and periods of dying off. Each phase leading to the next.

I am fascinated by my own ebbs and flows, seeing that my mind right now is absorbed in all things practical. So much so, that today’s post is free of images. Just words documenting my observations.

Yet the artist in me cannot let this piece end with only chores and lists-in-formation. The poetry lobe whispers from the backseat.

“How about the dolphins? Don’t forget to mention how before you sorted Jeb’s Legos you took a jar of chai and toasted bagels to the beach. Let the morning sun warm you. Gave yourself an hour to watch a pod of dolphins circling the bay. Cheered as you saw them spinning in free delight, mid-air. Don’t forget the dolphins.”

I guess that’s the beauty. All of these things of life – profound, mundane – mixed together in one big stew of poignant potency. Sorting the junk drawer and standing in awe at the moon.

Oh, ok, I’ll throw in an image (even if it is a repeat).

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