By: Marlene Oxender
Poems. Ask the person closest to you if they’re fond of poetry, and you may find a smile on their face. Or a cute smirk.
On the likeability scale, I’d say poetry is the fruitcake of desserts. The black licorice of flavors. The liver and onions of lunch. Some people like it. Some people don’t.
I became a writer in May of 2019 after a few stories I’d written about my mother were shared on Facebook. In September of the same year, my father would have celebrated his 100th birthday. I wrote about his life and posted the story on my dottingmyteas website.
My first newspaper column was published a few months later. Thank goodness for hometown newspapers that offer a place for writers to share their work.
One thing I know about writers – they encourage each other. They’ll answer questions. They’ll edit and critique. They’ll serve as a second pair of eyes.
A few of my friends who are not writers, but are good at nudging, began encouraging me to publish my short stories in books. I really didn’t like the thought of investing the time it’d take to publish a book, but their pokes and prods made me start asking how it’s done. Where do you start? How do books get published?
My late brother Stevie, who had Down syndrome, was a moon watcher. He had nicknames for the moon, and he didn’t hesitate to tell those around him what was going on in the skies each evening. If you didn’t know what the banana moon was, you’d know after spending time with him.
The words I wanted to write about Stevie’s habit of keeping his eyes on the skies were words I tried to write into a story.
But the words took off on me and wrote themselves into a poem. This is apparently what happens to fiction writers who say their characters are doing things they didn’t intend for them to do.
“Moon Watcher” is one of two poems in my Stevie book. I wonder how many readers skimmed through those pages. Or did an angel from above nudge them into reading it? Maybe they heard a whisper telling them it’s okay to go ahead and read it. It’s a Stevie kind of poem.
Back in April, I spent a day at a writers’ conference at the Paulding Library where members of the Paulding Writers’ group gave presentations on various topics. It’s always good to hear what other writers are willing to share.
One of the speakers, Sue, gave a presentation on poetry. Her audience was a group of writers who, by nature, are rarely at a loss for words, and their jokes about poetry were a cause for laughter.
At the end of the presentation, Sue gave us an assignment. We were to write a poem – in four minutes. It was nearly lunchtime, and the smell of the food that’d been delivered was the only writing prompt I needed. I quickly jotted a few lines about our love for pizza.
Then Sue placed some photos on the overhead screen that were meant to serve as writing prompts. The image of a bicycle made me think of the great lengths we’re willing to travel for pizza.
I imagined a cyclist pedaling home. One hand on the handlebar and the other hand balancing the cardboard pizza box – something I’ve never seen in real life. But it’d work in a poem. Or a cartoon.
For the Love of Pizza
Oh, Pepperoni Pizza
we love you so much.
Sometimes hot and spicy,
sometimes cold and saucy.
We’d ride our bikes five hundred miles
just to find you in a box.
Just to feel the warmth of your love
in the palms of our hands once again.
To be reminded of your sweetness
so gentle on our lips.
Oh Pepperoni Pizza,
thank you for always being there.
We really do love you!
That’s it. That’s the best I could do in four minutes. If I were to continue this poem, I could write about the cheese part of pizza. But I’m leaving it alone and calling it done.
All of us have heard the quote about life being like a box of chocolates and how we never know what we’re going to get. But pizza is not like that. With pizza, we know what we’re going to get. We’re going to get happiness.
Maybe life’s happy ending is all about the way we loved the little things. The pepperoni pizza. The beautiful sunrises. The moon and the skies and the way they keep our attention.
Life teaches us there’ll be days when our characters don’t stick with the story. Days when they write themselves into situations we could never have imagined.
Days when we learn to balance things we never thought we’d have to balance and do things we’ve never seen done in real life.
Every day is a pizza kind of day. Some days may best be described as plain. Others are supreme. But no matter how our day is going, there are moments written into life that were not meant to be skipped.
Moments when we feel that nudge from above or a whisper in our ear – telling us this is real life. Telling us we’re here to write the poem. We’re here to write our story.
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Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com
