Morning Cup

A Magpie Tale

Michael Sowa, from The Little King

"Oh, no.  Not again."

The feeling of warm contentment in the royal belly churned into an angry growl as the new monarch found himself looking up at the table.  Regime change can be stressful, but this was ridiculous.

"Can't I drink a nice cup of cocoa around here without being belittled?"

Puffing, he struggled to the top of the table.  He had to admit that the exercise might be good for reducing the royal belly.  Still, he wanted to choose his own course, not let his physical fitness depend on the whim of an impudent pageboy.

He had found that stomping to the scullery and demanding the antidote did not make the desired impression when he was shorter than his own teaspoon.  No, this time he would sneak in and find it himself.  Then he would search the library for a spell that would decaffeinate the staff's coffee supply.

He would show them all who was king.

And then he would have another cup of cocoa, with extra marshmallows.

Winged Things

A Magpie Tale

The ostrich has fine wings, the chicken, too,
the sleek penguin, the eminent emu.
If true birds cannot soar, then why should I,
too ponderous to hop, attempt to fly?
Yet since these plumes, unasked, began to grow,
I've wondered if my possibilities
extend beyond just standing on my toes.
Can I thrive beyond the land I know?
And so I cast my trunk into the skies,
and buoyed up by new dreams, begin to rise.

Graceful Winged Elephants by Jean de Brunhoff

Among the more fictitious of my compositions are those I imagine when submitting a piece to a contest or publisher.  In my nervous hope, I try to decide how I would announce to the world that my work has actually been accepted, chosen. 

Now that it has, I'm not sure what to say.  The news feels like a winged elephant--astonishing, but solid.  And quite graceful.  So I'll trumpet it in your ear:

My story, "Foreign Exchange," has won the Publisher's Choice award in LDS Publisher's 2011 Christmas Story Contest! 

Thank you to Tess and the flock of Magpies that have inspired and encouraged my writing.  May the graceful winged elephants lend you their courage, perserverance, and patience as well.



Drivers' Ed

A Magpie Tale

Laura, Allan and I waited outside the Industrial Arts building after school.  It was a lovely spring day, and we could have been doing so many other things, like homework, or running in circles with the track team.  But on this fateful day, we had our first practical session of Drivers' Ed. 

Fortunately, we were not waiting for our ill-tempered, rat-faced classroom instructor.  He was suspicious of bright kids like us, who finished our homework before our classmates finished their simulator drills, and turned to more recreational activities.  He would never have put up with our plans.

For we were prepared to combat the stress and tedium that were obviously inherent in three hours of student driving.  We had pen and paper ready for composing poetry.  I think we'd brought some snacks, too, and Laura always had a deck of cards ready for a round of Speed.

It turned out that Mr. P., an elementary school teacher who ran driving practice on the side (you could NOT pay me enough to do that), wasn't too keen on our diversions, either.  He thought we should be learning from each other's mistakes, not politely overlooking them, or rhapsodizing on the theme.  But you can't keep a good nerd from taking notes in poetic form.  Here are a few of our Highway Haiku:

Finally we drive
Car has a big yellow sign
Hope we do not crash
                             -T

Allan is nervous

This is his first time to drive

"No more gas, Allan!"

                             -T

Mr. P. is nervous
Safety belts are on, of course
Oh no!  Watch out, please!!!
                             -L

Zoom around the curve

We stay in the parking lot

No one to hit here

                             -T

I am sure he'd find
something or someone to hit
"NO MORE GAS, ALLAN!"
                             -L

Those in the street

gaze with wonder at the car

jerking 'round the lot

                             -L

Buddy Holly sings
on the "oldies" radio
Groovy music, yeah!
                            -T

Mr. P. looks

groovy with those glasses on

as the singer twangs

                             -L

He'll earn his money
Others drive illegally
before it's their turn
                           -T

Without the promise

about a fatter paycheck

he would have stayed home

                           -L

He will never know
just what all these "hi-Qs" say
Prob'ly just as well
                           -T

I am so thirsty

and my bangs are in my eyes

It's too hot in here

                           -L

A tree hits Allan
This is so embarrassing
Trees should never drive
                           -T


Note:  No actual trees were harmed in the writing of these poems.  Well, besides the one that gave its life to become college-ruled notebook paper in those pre-recycling days.  Never mind.

Nature's Paintbrush

A Magpie Tale

Indian Paintbrush, Johnston Ridge, 2011

Nature's paintbrush

works in simple strokes--

seeds sown pointillistically

blossom into meadows;

single snowflakes coalesce,

growing glistening glaciers--

minutely redecorating

the canvas she blanked

in yesterday's grand gesture.

Mt. St. Helens, 2011

Summer Love

A Magpie Tale

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Moth wings caress the light,

blinded by a bright desire.

He still sets her heart on fire,

but it's too hot tonight.

Moonset Over Banff

from my recent journey through British Columbia and Alberta, Canada

weary crescent moon

swiftly sinks into the rock

she's been up all day

Bathing in Banff

A Magpie Tale

from my recent journey through British Columbia and Alberta, Canada

People of Chilmark, Thomas Hart Benton, 1920

An international cast of tens
dons bathing suits to sit and soak;
twenty minutes suffice most folk
at thirty-nine degrees centigrade.

Some few have brought their youngsters in,
who splash with wild aquatic joy.
Do they amuse, or just annoy
the statues steaming in the shade?

Sunrise Over Kamloops

A Magpie Tale

from my recent journey through British Columbia and Alberta, Canada

Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

The sun sneaks up in Seattle,

light filtering through layers

of cloud, needle, and leaf.

Some days only birds can tell

that dawn has come at all.

Along the Thompson River,

smooth hills hardly hinder

the whole sky's growing glow.

Still I resist rising

until the sun turns its spotlight

upon my thin tent door

and morning insists

that it not be ignored.



Sea Wish

Another Magpie Tale

     I picked my way along the beach gingerly.  I loved the sound of the waves and the brief glints of sunshine reflecting from the water.  Even the seagulls' raucous calls evoked a feeling of nostalgia.  But the rocky beach hurt my feet.  The smooth sandy shores of my childhood were far away.  Sighing, I tried to make the best of this new coast.  I saw some quite attractive rocks as I tiptoed along.  Driftwood stacked itself in twisted fortresses higher up the beach.  The giant kelp splayed on the shore was, well, interesting. 

     I was walking closer to the water's edge, looking for smoother ground, when a vigorous wave caught me by surprise.  The frigid water swirled around my ankles, then retreated.  I looked down and saw a shell between my feet, half buried in the gritty sand.  It looked like a beauty.  I picked it up, found a dry log to perch on, and tried to rub the sand off the shell for a better look.  Washing it in the surf would have been more efficient, but I was not about to touch that cold water again. 

    The shell was unbroken, with more color in it than any I had seen so far that day.  After I had removed most of the dirt, I started to polish it with the edge of my shirt.  The shell grew warmer and warmer until I had to put it down, sucking on my fingertips.  Maybe the cold water would be useful.  But before I could stand up, a plume of steam burst from the end of the shell.  When the steam blew away, it revealed a small, scaly creature standing pompously on the driftwood.

     "What is your will, oh . . ."  He coughed out a series of bubbles.

     I forgot all about my burned fingers.  "Are you a genie?" I asked.

     "A genie?  Hardly.  I am," he said, making a complicated bow, "a sea sprite."

     "Do you grant wishes?"

     The sprite sighed.  "You get straight to the point, don't you?  Yes, I must grant you one wish before I can return to my shell."  He shivered in the breeze.  "Perhaps you had better hurry and ask."

     "Can you give me anything I want?"

     He preened a bit.  "I generally provide satisfaction."

     "Could you introduce me to my true love?"

     "What's your type? Fins, flippers, or tentacles?"

     "Never mind.  Would world peace be within your power?"

     He looked confused. 

     "Okay, how about lower gasoline prices?"

     He raised a slimy eyebrow.  "Would that involve more offshore drilling?"

     "Sorry.  How about gold?  I've heard there's lots of gold in seawater."

     "In molecular form."

     "I can't spend that.  Maybe a year's supply of salt?"

     "It would be heavy without the water to carry it."

     I thought about it for a minute.  "What sort of wishes do you usually grant?"

     "The wishes of sea creatures, of course."

     "And what do the denizens of the deep desire?"

     "Most have simple wants.  Chain dogfish usually want to go for a walk.  Nurse sharks ask for more patience.  Anglerfish are generally happy to have someone to listen to their stories.  The sea squirts will sing 'If  I only had a brain' all day, but I can always distract them with a good gill cleaning."

     "And the less simple wishes?"

     "Squid just want to be published.  They squirt ink everywhere in their excitement.  What a mess!  And don't get me started on dolphins."

     "So, you prefer simple, sea-related wishes?"

     The sprite nodded vigorously, and shivered again.  "Yes, and I'll grant you yours if you grant me mine."

     "I'm not a sprite!"

     "No, but you have hands.  I wish you would toss my shell back into the water.  It's too dry up here."

     "Oh, I think I can handle that."

     "Then, what is your will, oh friend of the sea?"

     "I'd like a nice salmon dinner.  Um, cooked, please."

     He looked at me quizzically, then shrugged.  "Very well.  You shall receive it after returning me to my home."

     Steam appeared again, sucking him back into the shell.  When I heard a small pop, I knew it was sealed, just like one of my mother's canning jars.  I did my best softball windup, and threw the shell as far as I could.  "Good luck with the dolphins," I called.

     Looking down, I saw another small cloud.  When it cleared, I saw a mother-of-pearl plate, piled with steamed herring and krill, covered in a light sauce of zooplankton.

    "Thanks," I called, and sighed again.

    

    

Shellbound

A Magpie Tale

I.
I have no arms to take up
against misfortune's darts.
When waves crash,
and whirlwinds sling sharp shafts,
I etch a grim grin on my tough facade
and retreat, recoil,
shrink deep within my shell
alone with echoes of the troublesome sea,
more strident than the storms outside.
Shaken, aching,
I stir up squalls long past,
spin showers into cyclones,
and drown again,
ensnared in my own shield.


II.
The barnacle that's anchored
on the boulder's solid side
learns to weather scathing storms,
awaits the soothing tide.

And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.  Helaman 5:12