wishing for a treehouse

I, alone, am on this branch

thin, wispy, it may snap

I grapple with a twig; it laughs at my humanness.

Beneath my legs lies a heartfelt song, someone's first fruit bowl painting, 
tedious words...

I question  the wavering branches 

Emerged into the world, a fish with no gills
I seek out thrills, frills, gorgeous stills

The trees share answers with each other that I do not understand

A leather purse signifies one woman's existence as her credit card
is declined
A child calls for his mother three times
she, aggravated, answers him after posting his picture on Facebook

I have so much love for the trees - I am in the forest now and 
the trees speak with me. I am patient, still
I trust in the tree and its lanky branch grows stronger

Under my light, swaying legs, 
the melody is more distinct, the canvas more vivid,
words come easily

Below me the disarray of the crowd fades. I am not a part of it. 

I don't want you to be happy

A tack in my heart
I'd rather use it for my bulletin board
but it's stuck

Be happy
that's what i want
but it's not
I'm on fire

I didn't let you in
I'm closed in, under a shed, down under the dark, murky, cold earth,
giving you all of my breath except the one ounce
I need to stay barely alive

I am a person who floats, having given away her soul, I look
outside the window at the trees, write about beauty, focus deeply
on color, strive to erase the dark

I hold up pretty pictures
for you all to see, a small glimpse of me

The tack in my heart grips me -
I imagine it falls out fast like a petal from a flower girl's basket
It does not.

I  stay busy: write about a tea party, a green pasture,
a quote that inspires me, a couple growing beautifully old,
musings about gravity, creation, evolution, scientific discovery,
think about the most delicate and the most rich of things, of colors,
to piece together beautiful sentences
I hope you will like to read

possibilities

timber fence along the worn road
feels the wheels of the Ford deeply
absorbs the hums and chatters of
four children that giggle at the sight
of a duckling that splashes
in a pond of possibilities

the sky's serious grey eyes meet the pond
the pond reflects only
the smile of the three year-old boy
who sees himself running in
endless fields of green

"Nothing is to be rated higher than the value of the day" - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

I lie still
water ripples
sun sets
clay holds me together

I lie awake - the darkness
at the bottom of the ocean
plots with my demons

I ask the past to forget
but its echoes are forever singed


The future, she improves
as I tread upon this clay sand
and become enchanted with her sky,
breathe in the peach indigo sunset -
become a part of her permanent beauty,
swim in her glory, and forgive her mystery.

The sunset reflects its tangerine light
upon my shaking legs, the legs that
have arrived in the present
and are scared.

word of the day euthenics or "him"

a better life-
famous for long tea breaks

the last cup of coffee we shared over pancakes
is my favorite

you know the spot at the top of the house
that leads to the ledge out the window
the best place to play evening cards

If I studied euthenics I'd recommend we all
have wrap-a-round porches, window ledges for every window,
a day each week set aside for
sand in the toes...
sunscreen on the nose...

seawater skin spas on the free beach
because no one owns the land

we'd partner in our studies and invent more things like
geothermic floors
stained glass doors
the fluffiest socks
a wall of rocks
intertwined with vines and flowers tall -
sunflowers, a fence of them

we'd be there on our porch, deciding whether to face
east or west
as we search for stars
sip warm chamomile
swing

search for nothing

word of the day requisite or "posting for a position on my farm"

must have the will
to eat, drink, love, build

madness, a skill,
your necessary evil,
specific to you

two shoes,
one shirt -
flip-flops okay (for now -
we provide used boots)

sunscreen suggested,
especially for the pale

no need to bring your own pail

the ability to look over trite trifles
help Telly the pig find her truffles

learn to use our topsoil
to build a disappearing heap
out of your worries

cover the manual Bill gives you with your breakfast
crumbs, saliva, fresh coffee drips,
anything...don't read it

new things must be tried
potatoes are best fried

make a friend on your first day
write her number down on
a napkin

when the napkin gets lost in the field,
call her anyway

ask a lot of questions,
especially of the groundhogs

bring your joy

Get your bread

Single file
Do not stop to see
The aching body of
The blind man

Or the child
With the empty pan

Straight ahead
Work work
Till your dead
To buy the new
.....

It's the same as the last
Everyone has it

But not the blind man
Not the child
With the empty pan

Forward now
Keep your pace
You've nearly won
The human race

Don't even blink
No time to think
The end's ahead
You're nearly dead

Artist Teacher Institute Summer 2014

I had the pleasure of taking  a wonderful poetry workshop this summer under the amazing instruction of Catherine Doty. You will find my scholarship report below this blog post. It is a bit long of a read, but if you skip to the 2nd to last paragraph, there is detailed information about two of my favorite writing prompts that I think may interest some of my readers. Thanks for reading!

Laurie C. Molloy –  http://laurie-molloy.blogspot.com/

ATI Scholarship Report

July 25, 2014

Creative Writing in the Classroom

During the 2013-2014 school year, I implemented creative writing lessons to teach  poetry, narrative writing, and  dialogue. During that time, I felt that although the students loved writing creatively, I had to keep these lessons to a minimum so that I could make sure I was meeting the state’s core curriculum standards. Ms. Doty’s poetry workshop taught me a multitude of new writing prompts and revision techniques.

Due to her workshop, I know that I will be able to bring in many new prompts to my students and utilize those prompts in ways that will effectively meet core standards and prepare my students for the NJ PARCC. I am still in the process of learning more about how to prepare my students for the PARCC exam, but I do know that students will have to write creative narratives, develop characters, and show understanding of story elements in their writing. Because this is not something I feel most teachers have not focused on, especially in the high school years, new prompts to stimulate students’ interest in writing will be a key part in helping my students become successful, interesting, and creative writers.

Ms. Doty encouraged us to write, re-write, re-revise, read out loud, and revise our work again. Through close critical readings of our own and others’ poems, we were able to develop a skill for noticing weak words, non-specific details, and incongruous sections. Through many patient listening and reading sessions, all of us were successful in refining our poems. After our critiques, our poems were concise, powerful, relatable, and interesting. She taught us to use details that would help us resonate with our audience, transform the vague to the powerful, and avoid clichés at all costs.

She also brought in a guest writer, Renee Ashley, who was a joy to work with. Her light-hearted and humorous approach to writing proved to be a great role model to me. Her knack for pointing out the best in our work and encouraging us to stay with the best and leave the rest really helped me think of new ways to approach my own students. I always try to look for the positive parts of my students’ writing, but I realize now that I also have to be more critical, while focusing on the students’ strengths. My students will appreciate direct critique, as long as it includes complements. Even though it can be frustrating to have to edit your own work, I think students will be happy once they see the finished product of the required revisions.

To be very specific, Ms. Doty and Ms. Ashley taught our class two prompts that really stayed with me. Ms. Doty read a poem titled, “Remodeling the Bathroom” by Ellen Bass, and then asked us to write a poem using the prompt, our last day in the world. A link to that poem can be found here: http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2013/11/ellen-bass-remodeling-bathroom.html

I wrote a poem titled, “On the last day of my life I contemplate flying, but I don’t.” A link to my poem can be found here: http://laurie-molloy.blogspot.com/2014/07/on-last-day-of-my-life-i-contemplate.html

I feel it is one of my best poems, and I think that that prompt will be highly effective to inspire my students. Ms. Ashley’s prompt was based on intriguing pictures, essential questions, and personal parables. We free-wrote for ten minutes, writing the details of the artwork, then wrote at least five big questions, and then wrote a personal story that correlated to the image and our questions. This prompt was very effective in helping me learn how to write a poem with levels of depth I do no think I ever been able to achieve on my own. My ekphrastic poem can be found here: http://laurie-molloy.blogspot.com/2014/07/nocturne-in-black-and-gold-falling.html

 That technique may be advanced for some of my students; however, I feel it always great to have challenging lessons to inspire our children to stretch their mind capacity as far as they can.

I am very excited to share what I have learned at Ms. Doty’s workshop with my English department coworkers. We will all benefit from Ms. Doty’s ideas, and I believe our students will improve their writing when presented with prompts that are completely new to them. Our students deserve the tools to find the power of their voice and discover how to write words that will convey their ideas to the world.

I would be honored if ATI staff, faculty, and friends would read some of the many poems on my blog, provide some feedback, and share my work with others that might appreciate it. Thank you all for holding this wonderful workshop!

Here is the link to my blog: http://laurie-molloy.blogspot.com/

Magnificence

Magnificence

Petals aglow
above a wispy branch, bright shadows
tinged with grey undertones

an infinite space that has a definite and
an unknown end

Her golden birdcage surrounded by
gossamer atmosphere, lime underbrush,
a path of pink Vincas leads her eyes towards
a gold-dusted sunset

her door swings open
now there is danger, freedom

She lifts her eyes to look for the watchers
of her captivity, the spirit of a faded turtle smiles,
glad to see her go.

Her auburn hair matches the movements of
her luminescent golden dress, their colors blend
and billow as she traverses the tree branch
Taffeta underneath her dress floats, a breath
of air is released, is unseen, she ascends in mind
as her taffeta, light, shuffles her to the very tip,
where the branch ends her life begins

her bare feet welcome the plush, virgin ground,
a cushion of newness to soften a bleak past

above her the periwinkle haze outlines her
strong ankles, the sky is powdered blue chalk,
and she is magnificent.

Once, her caged life had her run in circles,
allowed her no attachments, no will to care -
the lightning defied her master; and her friend,
the careful turtle, cooperated with the genius of the sky,
inching her golden home towards the lightning as
thunder grew closer -
her road to nowhere now an open door

she is free and dangerous,
she jumps from branch to ground
hair and taffeta dancing

reaching the top, riding the world

the top of the slide
a child's mountaintop, a face
that only sees joy

king of the horse-see
smile wider than his face
world, a lighter place

i'm big enough, but
grandpa's hid the keys again
my girlfriend will wait

last day (word of the day - walleyed)

invisible scar
of an arrogant remark
walleyed and alone
her flimsy fingers fidget
until the paper is torn

coffee spills erase
the letter that trembles out
delicate words she
no longer cares to discuss
she rewrites and laminates

the papers are served
the worn waitress resigns her
apron for a cape

where to go from here

at the edge a woman
sustains her grip with two ski poles
dipped down firmly into snow-covered ground

quietly above her
a city of clouds is forged
for two dollars, a man paints  a portrait
of a wiggly child
a vague body in a white dress
waltzes, gown twirls

all of it rises as she
faces down, holds herself back -
knows that she is one step away

her frozen stance doesn't falter
she gazes upwards and lets
herself be surrounded with the
towers and mountains above
the city walls
a delicate ridge of air floats
into a field of cotton that becomes
a blanket of snow that shields
the once blue sky

she stretches up to see a castle, or a
hospital, an tower unknown,
a shape slurred by smog
and then more shapes

wild animals gather around her
her feet hold steady

she has arrived

for you I bloom

skipping through a lily field
with the sword that I wield

i will
besiege the ill world
in color, in kindness

divineness
its colors drip and fall,
flower petals cover us all
scarlet leaves in the fall
winter's witch hazel
spring's yellow trillium
summer's wealth - the lily, lilac,
pink zinnia, and
the fresh bloom
of my favorite daisy
yellow, surrounded by
a warm white hug

I move cautiously away from pain
set my sword down
hope that you can see
the aster I placed
next to the place you rest

I will be here when
the snowdrops bloom

runaway robin

robin in her nest
restless - lays eggs - develops
a crush on a bird
blue with sage wings, far away
her red feathers freeze in flight

working (preliminary) postulate

I believe my child is smarter
than I ever was-
that the his wiggle
is the embodiment
of grace.


I believe:

in electric hand holding on the beach
as our feet drift together
in the shallow ocean water
and a distant rainbow fades
but never, ever disappears

it is easy to be misunderstood.
I will persist through the fog
our love will  last forever
if we have the patience
to wait for the sun to rise.

in writing each day
for the love of words
and the need to be heard,
the hope that I've kept
one reader at her
laptop crumbling cookies
into her keyboard as her
eyes succumb to the sound
of her voice reading my poem.


I believe that nothing dies -
the last breath of
a dying person
is gently drawn in
by the infinite universe,
his soul reborn

I believe that when
my essence is released
you will hold my hand
and follow my spirit
to its new place

I believe in forever and never
even though I know better.

orchid hair

the flower's breath's been
captured by the warm, slow breeze
flowing through your curls

I only believe in stories that start with stars (or word of the day - Polaris)

The stars uncountable as I begin
to connect the dots
numbers disappear through my mind

Spots of light now rule my mind
as their patterns chase each other
through infinite space

I only believe in the fairy tale
that is known to start because
of the true story of a constellation

The stars are playing tag
and I am it -
a first kiss with a boy named Charles
under the moonlit sky

More kisses on the yellow bus - a pledge of love
to last forever - no one else exists

The North Star knows it is not  a color or a pattern to be traced,
it has no story of its own, but it can tell all of our stories
a vivid keeper of the human battlefield, watcher of people at play

She laughs at us - our resolutions
she only knows resolve
she shines brighter than
my sparkle dress

I did not make one resolution this year
The North Star speaks to me -
She believes in me

The stars line up in undeniable patterns,
scientifically mapped, studied, changed

The sky governs life below it
I am its daughter and also yours

Charles and I did not last forever
but our first kiss remains.

Life is a dying pastime

Seahorse fossil,
snout faces down
etched markings
appear newer than its
rocky enclosure

Enshrouded in marbled black,
grey, dirty tan - embodied inside
its owner, a faded and chipped
misshapen boulder
unsteady at the cliff's edge
threatens to trip

Its home and life a temporary place
inspected often by others -
its death lives on in the curious eyes
of two cheerful tourists, plainly dressed -
they do no think of the afterlife.

As the ladies chatter about a rocky mountain
vacation, another woman in the PTA they don't like
mostly because of her hair, the futility of trying
to save money -
the seahorse listens - glad to be petrified

In the background
the nondescript shapes of small clouds dance -
floating sky animals that peek over
the late sunset's still pink light

a soft reminder of life

Simultaneously, Tessa and Louise meet their past
selves at a bar, two girls that reflect to them a distant
youth - not forgotten, instead embraced

Joyful at this meeting, these four girls
drink inside a circle of bar stools, while
life weaves left, right around their conversation,
the wonder of knowing your future selves
amazes the younger pair and the older two
encourage them with a knowing only seen by age

Cracked surfaces in the fossil's rock remind me
that even death continues to erode

Sprouts of new grass fight for air through the rubble
persistent, determined to take hold

word of the day undertaker or "being death"

the undertaker
arrives -  a  cordial hello
from a frozen frown

Dear Mindy (unfinished)

I want to own an inn
four stories high
with beds dressed
with floral blankets
and oversized windows
for the air to swim through

it is the place a tired girl travels to
and quietly thumbs through
a stained history book
carefully turning its worn pages
to discover the truth
of her lost' grandmother's life
the turquoise dress she wears
in her wedding picture
the reason she left

while she delves into each
page, immersed in their contents
my husband and I prepare
freshly glazed scones
in the main kitchen

soon, we will bring her out
a warm scone drizzled with
raspberry sauce and a hot cup of tea

she stays until the moon's light
is faded and asks us for our
smallest room, she has driven
very far and has recently left
her home, she explains

my husband walks her
to a room we have reserved
for our personal visitors
upon waking, she reads my note
Dear Mindy,
We read the news and realize
what may have happened.
Please accept our offer to become
our 

Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket, a painting by James Whistler (an Ekphrastic Poem)

Murky sand, dirty and pale
fireworks blacken the night's shadow
a wolf howls at five helium balloons
huddling in the sky above

Below a four year-old cries for her lost balloon
a ghost is trapped under tawny pebbles
a slight man encloses his wife's sinking
stomach with his thin arms as they drift
away

Ordinarily, rockets do not ruin the spectacle
of the fireworks

A woman lives inside a glass jar
her grace stifled
she has three pin holes for air
inside her translucent world
she plants roses, lilacs too

She is blind to the falling rocket

The plants sustain her breath,
their colors deepen and grow
she fashions wings of sewed petals
and flies away

the only darkness she allows in
is the midnight sky

The man having no target for his pain,
buries himself with cigarettes
in his basement

Her lilacs and roses flourish

Her freedom from the past tarnished
by lingering blood

nature's artist

light safely peers through the shades
at flip flops, a butterfly dress,
sandals ready to be ruffled by sand

light reaches and chases the pen
drawing glowing lines on a colorless round table
contrasting the stark kitchen
we have named our classroom

It dangles in marbled shadows
dancing with merriment
at the top of my page

Its glow extends over our arms
accentuating the fluctuating shades
in our human skin -  but we never touch it
it's forcibly shut out by the permanent seal
of institutional windows

it is happy to live outside and shine over
our blank canvas -  decorating us with
star patterns, darting pin drops, discreet
diamond shadows of its own design

light is the sun's apprentice

fashioning fine words

write delicately as if
I am the thing
binding the flower
to its stem

favor no one
no word
embrace the rigidity
of the rulebook
then tear out
the pages

don't tell a story or do
if it feels right

write for the reader
sitting alone in a worn, red chair
next to an empty ceramic cup
waiting to be filled

on the last day of my life I contemplate flying, but I don't

I paint myself with watercolor, indigo blue
frolic in the loud, crowded streets
stop traffic to compliment strangers
on their clothes, shoes, the shape of their smiles

I gallop in the wind towards my house,
my neighbors stifle their laughter at the sight
of my dry painted body

skip stones off the dock with my little brother
his stone skips two more times than mine

savor the sound of my mother's soft voice billlowing
the words, Dinner's Ready
As she serves it, I pray for the solace
of the souls sitting around me

"A Letter to My Ex"

A Letter to My Ex – Who is Not John Novak

I, too, want to lift heavy things

like metal rings and army tanks,

vaults and gold out of banks

Ideas too, worries that I

cut out like news articles

tacked up on a billboard, somewhere far

Then I’ll lift off into the sky

like a fleeting moonbeam

momentarily suspended

in the magical air

Dispensing heavy boxes

to the people in need below

they will lift them, carry them away

Back up in the sky

this time, perched upon a cloud

I think of you – out loud

shout your name, its imprint

will lift off

like a lit rocket

I’ll find you back on earth, a letter in hand

that I tear to pieces with my words

its lines will live lonely forever, unread, dead

in a drawer I’ve never seen, and I will

never find again.

You – are not my friend

But you really are

We’ve traveled this life

On a path wide, far

Trampling our love

As we walked

Piling our packs with grief

With love

Extra years of gray strife

 

Once, I wanted to be your wife

We, together, wounded souls

glazed over with the dried paste

of a love as brittle as

The falling autumn leaves

Backyard design

Dark alley doors

Doors, bleached by the sun

Doors, black from fire

Set free by the right key

Barricaded doors

A door, swings open with the summer wind

Locked from the inside

Not allowed to play

Mother, the armed guard, stands

Calling from the door,

“Dinner!”

In a hushed and covert style

you are stealthily making plans with your   

  friend

at the farthest corner  of your yard.

Dinner ends and quietly

you slip away as your mom mumbles

something baffling about homework.

And you meet your accomplice

and carry out the plan.