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 FRESH FROM THE INKWELL 

2 POEMS ON FATHERHOOD

I may have posted these before, but now is a good time to share again, between Father's Day and Dad's death anniversary. It just occurred to me that he would have been 100 this year!
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A POCKETFUL OF PENNIES

My father never learned to drive a car.
His pockets rattled with loose change, not keys
Whenever he gave armchair pony rides,
Four giggling children on two jiggling knees.
Coins came in handy for his magazines,
Tobacco, tickets on the daily bus,
Occasional ice cream cones or Bounty bars
And favorite weekly comic books for us.
How could I then, how could I even think
Of acting on my friend Georgina’s dare
To help myself? She did it all the time,
Stole from her mother’s purse without a care.
I spied Dad’s trousers hanging on the door,
Dipped in and found a dozen pennies bright;
But guilt sank to my stomach like a stone.
I slid them back, and oh, my heart was light
When Dad came home; he twirled me, jingling loud,
Then after supper tucked me up in bed.
He told us made-up tales of Harold Hare
And slipped a coin beneath each pillowed head.

© Hazel Spire
Homeward Tracks 2004
First published in a Christian Writers booklet, UK
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MUSICIAN, CHIEF REPORTER, DAD (after Whitman)

O father, my mentor, our crossing’s nearly done,
Taking my widowed mother home to the Island.
I twenty-two, she forty-four, you fifty-five:
Don’t you love poetic irony? The rain that kept
Fishers ashore lashes the ferry windows.
We sit below in the crowded tea bar,
Tourists’ voices grating on our ears.
Stop! Wait! How can the world
Go on its merry way
When Dad lies on a mortuary slab?

Captain of our family, for you the organ groans
As we gather in your name, bright floral tributes
Filling Bob’s black Daimler. “We’ll do our best job
For you,” he says in gentle local brogue.
“Can’t be early for his own funeral,” quips his son.
“Drive around the block another time.” You’d
Appreciate the humor, you who ran for trains and buses.
The crematory mechanism judders, transporting you
Behind red velvet curtains. No! Too soon!

O father, writer, friend, you could not swim, but strolled
Along the pier at night reciting Shakespeare to the waves.
For you the gulls are keening as the sea keeps rolling in.
When the paper is put to bed this week, the press
Will run again. But stop—the chief reporter’s dead.
Did you who taught the Girls’ Brigade to triple-tongue
Hear a bugle call from distant shores?
My brothers still play soccer, but long legs
That showed them dribble, kick, and GOAL
Have crossed the line to our eternal home.


© Hazel Spire
Tapestry of Time, 2006 Read More 

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2 POEMS FOR EASTER

A REASON TO HOPE

Hand-knitted blankets for refugee shelters;
Free surgery for a child born blind;
Snowdrops trembling in frozen gardens;
An enemy’s handshake, a peace treaty signed:
Bright threads of hope in an age of confusion
Woven together with love, to bind
Each broken heart; in the depth of winter
Hints that spring must not be far behind.

But what of the darkness no candle can conquer,
When prophets are silent for hundreds of years,
Death and despair stalk the earth hand in hand
And a cry goes up that nobody hears?
It takes faith to grasp an invisible rope:
Believers pray, while the skeptic sneers.
All Nature groans, until in silver clouds
The Prince of Peace appears.

THE RISING OF THE SON

The pale, scented lilies of Gethsemane
Were bending low beside the Kidron brook,
When heavy-hearted followers from Bethany
Approached the tomb with myrrh, afraid to look.

An angel bright said, “Meet your Friend in Galilee.
Here you’ll find no mortal man’s remains.”
The lilies raised their trumpet heads triumphantly,
For Jesus Christ had shattered Satan’s chains!

From Homeward Tracks ~ © Hazel Spire 2003 Read More 
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RANDOM ENCOUNTER AT RANDOM HOUSE

PRAIRIE WRITERS ASSIGNMENT:
YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHO I RAN INTO AT RANDOM HOUSE

I hobbled across the plush carpet to the elevator, and jabbed the UP arrow. The doors whooshed open.

A woman with long blonde hair, fiftyish, stood inside cradling a manuscript, much bulkier than mine. She stepped aside as I entered the lift. I acknowledged my fellow author with a brief smile, before pressing the 6th floor button.

The woman looked alarmingly familiar as she glanced down at my surgical boot.

“Nasty accident?” Her vowels were distinctly Transatlantic.

I chuckled grimly. “You don’t want to know.”

How could I explain that I’d broken my foot on a stack of her hefty hardbacks at a midnight launch party, in a Barnes & Noble store that denied shelf space to my paperback YA mysteries? All my writing life I’d wanted to rub shoulders with such a literary giant, a rags-to-riches success, for the luck to rub off on me. On school visits, kids had asked me whether I knew her, being from the same country.

Now I had the chance, and all I could think of was my throbbing, swollen foot. I seethed with resentment and envy.

We reached our floor, the offices of the Acquisitions Editor. But as I limped out, I thrust a pen and a sticky note under the author’s nose.

“May I have your autograph for my nephew, please, Ms. Rowling? He loves Harry Potter.” Read More 
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RELOCATION, DISLOCATION, AND DISCOMBOBULATION

PRAIRIE WRITERS HOMEWORK ~ SEPTEMBER 2015
RELOCATION, DISLOCATION, AND DISCOMBOBULATION

Farthest temporary move: England to Iran

Biggest regret about living in Iran: Not taking the time to really learn Farsi. Not seeing prettier towns like Shiraz and Isfahan.

Farthest permanent move: England to America

Worst homesickness: First weeks of college at 18. First months in Florida at 28.

Hardest adjustments on arrival in the US: Different words for things, or the same words with different meanings. Driving on the other side of the road, changing lanes in fast traffic, and turning left. Too much choice at the grocery store, unfamiliar items. How to feed a new husband?

Shocks: My husband chewing gum when we opened a bank account and a deacon’s wife chewing gum in church - both frowned on where I came from.

Reasons to move: Romance. Divorce. Adventure. Job opportunity. Be close to the city. Get away from the city. Be close to family. Get away from “bloomin’ relations.”

Unusual finds: Someone had dropped a molar, halfway up the stairs. I put it under my pillow for the tooth fairy, and she left me a tinfoil sixpence! The attic of that house was filled with cherub paintings and floral chamber pots that went to the auction rooms.

Welcome gifts: In Iran, home-made pizza from the American students’ moms, who also lent us clothes, because our luggage had been misplaced. In Florida, a home-grown avocado from our Dutch neighbor.

Most refreshing moving-day gift: Six bottles of ginger beer (non-alcoholic) from a Canadian couple at our church in Texas.

Surprises: Mexican dinners for the Ex-Pat community, made by the US Army cook in Iran. Transatlantic Brides & Parents Association in Dallas. Meeting Nona, who’d taught in Iran the same year as I did. British shows on PBS. Radio 4 on the Internet. Golden Oldies at the grocery store in Kansas. Lakes and rivers whenever I missed the sea.

Mother’s response to news of Mark’s job transfer to Surrey: “Oh Hazel, that’s wonderful - and you’ll be near Linda!”

Care packages: Candy corn, Blow Pops, and Kool-Aid from US to UK. Easter eggs, Yorkshire tea, and Christmas pudding from UK to US.

Hardest adjustments on relocation to the UK: Driving on the other side of the road. Figuring out the coins while jet-lagged. Gloomy grey sky for days on end in winter.

Hardest thing on returning to the US after three years in England: Teenage daughter leaving a close-knit bunch of classmates there, discovering her old friends had moved on to different pursuits. Sorting out academic credits with the HS registrar.

Most humbling requirement for a teaching certificate: After my degree from TWU, one semester of student teaching, in spite of seven years’ experience overseas.

Funniest requirement for US citizenship: Having to prove my grasp of the English language by writing the sentence, “They could not find the dog.”

How to feel at home: Get a library card, volunteer at a school, join a church, and seek out arty, crafty people. They are everywhere!

Ice-breakers: Dogs and children

Number of trips taken by husband and dog from TX to KS with a load: Nine.

Unusual send-off: Texas tea with ladies in gloves, jeans, and lampshade hats.

What helped sell our house fast: Decluttering, a bowl of fruit, and location.

Number of boxes unpacked in KS after all the giving, selling, pitching, and ditching: Too many to count. Some are still in the attic.

Number of moves in my life: Thirteen, not counting temporary rentals.

Number of times I want to move again: Zero. But you never know…

How to keep in touch with roots: Facebook, and fly back for one fortnight a year. Read More 

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TUSCANY, O TUSCANY!

PRAIRIES WRITERS HOMEWORK:
FIRST 10 WORDS WERE PULLED AT RANDOM FROM A BOOK

“I want to take a closer look at the mural,” I tell my coworkers, as the last student leaves the building.

The library buzzes with preparations for my farewell party, due to start in thirty minutes. Fruit, veg, cupcakes, napkins are laid out in rainbow order. A Yellow Brick Road made of butcher paper is unfurled across the top of the bookshelves, for attendees to sign.

I walk on down the hallway, and enter the teachers’ lounge.

The boldness of the mural always takes me by surprise. Should it have more distance–like Veronese’s “Wedding at Cana” at one end of a huge gallery in the Louvre—for viewers to get a proper perspective on the Italian landscape? But we don’t have that kind of space at College Street Elementary.

Cuisine, literature, movies, home décor, everything is Tuscan in 2010, it seems. The faculty had grown tired of the previous mural, a fishing scene in muted tones, after a decade of lunching beside it. Our principal had conspired with Susan and decided we needed Tuscany.

So, how did it fall to yours truly to create the new mural? Because I am the Art Specialist. But what made me think I had time for this, my biggest undertaking yet, six foot by twelve? Flattery, mostly, plus the challenge and the fun of it.

I love paint! After watching the kids produce art for five years, it was my turn—with help from an overhead projector and a team of volunteers. They slapped primer over the old mural, and we searched online for soothing images of cypress trees and whitewashed villas.

While a clatter of utensils and voices echoes from the library, I take a closer look at the mural.

I touch the sunburnt tiles of the foreground building marked ALBERGO, an inn or restaurant. It is smooth, buttery, just the right tint of vermilion—a blend of students’ tempera, household latex, and acrylic flow medium. The shadows under the eaves are Patty’s work, applying what she’d learned in a watercolor class.

Angela, Wendy, and Debbie, less experienced but most enthusiastic, had filled the penciled fields with various greens and browns, using a nice dry-brush texture. We had twirled our brush-tips Van Gogh-style around the foliage, and debated the colors of the sailboats on the distant lake.

Are those purple splotches under the row of poplars unrealistic? That’s all right, if our aim is a place of escape, an oasis from the day-to-day stress of teaching.

Now I scan the boxy roofs, windows, chimneys of Tuscany, and see that all is well. I pull a black Sharpie marker from the pocket of my paint-spattered apron, to sign and date the bottom right corner--giving credit to Tan Chun, whose work inspired us.

My eyes follow the earth’s overlapping curves toward the farthest hills. The mural needs one final touch. In the cloud-blown sky, I place a bird, a simple V, the kind children like to draw. I add a second, then a third, each smaller than the previous one.

They represent three retirees: Patty, Debbie, and me, winging our way to new lives beyond the classroom—or in my case, beyond Texas to Kansas.

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” drifts down the hall from a CD player.

It is time to go greet my guests and join the party. Read More 

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