Firefly's Fist Fight

My name is Mary Margaret McGee but my daddy calls me Firefly partly because of my unruly red curly hair but mostly because Mary Margaret McGee is a true tongue twister and too tough for my daddy to get out when I am in trouble (which is most of the time.)

My parents own a little cafe in Sister's Oregon on the corner of 3rd and Main called the Cooking Connection. Daddy makes the savories and Momma bakes cakes. I'm learning to do both along with my eleven year old brother Jimmy.

Tuesday before last our chalkboard sign read "Special, Monte Cristo sandwich, fries and tea $6.95" A bargain it seems as the cafe was packed with people and the phone kept ringing. "Cooking Connection, Mary Margaret speaking..." "Yes, sorry but we don't take reservations and lunch is almost over..." "Sure, two Monte Cristo specials to go."

Just then my nemesis Ricky Polley and his gang walked in. Impatiently, he said "Hey, Mary Margaret, what about me? I'm tired of waiting and we want a seat." "It'll be a few minutes" I said. Ricky shook his head and turned to walk out the door but stopped short and said "No way, we're not gonna wait for a seat in this run down cafe." Getting madder by the minute, I followed him outside. Doubling my stride, I caught up with Ricky and his gang and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned with a sharp reply "What do you want?" I answered him alright with my good aim. I drew back and hit him center in his left eye and said "You should have ordered dessert. My momma makes a wicked chocolate fudge pie."

Changes

“There are no mistakes” my Lorilynn states. “Take your journal and write or doodle.” I can’t draw but my new friend Martha can and I am learning to write but my grammar stinks. I’m learning to be married (again) and I’m learning to compromise and how to breathe when he does something not so right. I’m learning to be a mom to the most incredible sixteen year old but I am in a continual struggle with his independence and the need to nurture the brown haired boy holding a colored ball outside his Aunt Kristie’s house on Thanksgiving day. I’m learning that my parents are getting old and how I’m scared as hell to let go. I’m learning that friendship is more than a word and how mine can be misinterpreted. I’m learning that saying goodbye can hurt and how memories center in my heart which aches. I’m learning to garden and to knit. I’m learning to limit checked out library books to five and that it is OK to remember my sister when I look into her son’s blue eyes.

Cherry

Funny world,this place called poetry. Your words move and inspire. I may never know the classical music you speak of or the poetry of Browning, Shelley or Keats. But, I know your cherry thoughts and how they lead me to carnival rides and kissing red wax lips. Cherry takes me to Sherry or Sherry Berry from culinary school. Cherry takes me to my cherry red '73 bug and early morning drives. Cherry takes me to angel food cake topped with cream cheese and powdered sugar drizzled with cherry pie filling. Cherry finds my favorite popsicle flavor. Cherry takes me to my sister's hand painted coffee table. Cherry takes me to your poetry and to New Jersey pasta makers. Cherry leads to many places where I dream of open spaces and a long Sunday drive in a beat up bug.

Sunny-Side Up

Now rise and shine, my sleepy head,
Let's have some fun breakfast in bed.
I'll serve you up cafe au Lait,
Infused with smiles to start your day.

Just woken up, your sleepy eyes,
That sparkle bright at my surprise-
You see this dish and lick your lips,
Served right on time with swaying hips.

Perhaps a toast from your French maid,
Who plotted as your dreams were laid?
Melons are ripe this time of year,
And plentiful, how 'bout it dear?

One omelet whipped
made fresh for you,
With ham and cheese,
red peppers too!

One yellow rose adorns your plate,
Tomorrow, Love?...
You have a date!

*Author's Note*
Pondered while catering the US Open

Table for ten, please.

My Wednesday night writing workshop is certainly growing by leaps and bounds. Our group went from four to three to Joanie and I staring across the table at each other going hmmm...what next? How would we advertise to form the writing group that we both wanted (and needed) to help us stay on track (Joanie) or to find a track to stay on (yep, that would be me.) Finally, through Craig's List and visits to local libraries and coffee shops, we were fortunate to find our Jenn, Kat and Alisonn. A few weeks of strong female bonding (and Starbuck's coffee) cemented us as a group of five committed women writers who were all moving towards the same goal of publication (and finishing, or in my case, starting projects.) . Last week we were joined by Dave, Chris, Tom, Zack and Tim and we found ourselves in a negotiation over meeting dates and submission deadlines. Thankfully, Chris and Tim are fellow poets and I am looking forward to speaking a common language with them. Tim mailed me several of his poems and I must say he is quite talented and a great resource for us all. I'm excited to be moving forward once again. Now, what was all that Venus and Mars talk about? Welcome to the Walnut Street Writers, guys!

Totally Twisted

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of seventeen.
Prom bound, blond ringlets, wrapped tightly on top.
Loose curls flew freely, crusin' in his Carolina blue bug.

Long they laid as she learned to make love;
her curls, tucked tight under veil
witnessed marriage vows spoken,
clipped shorter, they fell, like his promises-
broken.

Gone are the sun-kissed curls of twenty-one.

Romancing Robert Browning

Who thought I would find
my own Robert Browning
writing and reviewing poetry?
Together, we were two pie-eyed love poets
whose words wooed.

Welling emotion, he wrote of dreamy kisses,
I shared poems of Miami nights.
In time, his heart was mine.

We ran his lucky dog
down the Carolina shore.
I counted the waves
and the ways
as they crashed Johnny Mercer's pier.
We stood as two wordless word-smiths
feeling the sea's salty spray.

We dined at the Oceanic;
shared crab cakes and risotto,
watched the stormy nighttime sky
and precious time pass.

He was my Robert Browning
And I, his Sherry, though only for a while.
For us, time was counted,
taking my poet far, far away.

I stand alone, beside the Atlantic
counting the waves.

Poetry is in my blood. Literally speaking, poetry is in my blood. My middle name is "Lynette" after Alfred Lord Tenneyson's "Gareth and Lynette. I'm not quite sure of the origin of my first name. If I were to reach way back, I might recall that my mother's, friend's, sister shared my name (or rather I shared hers.) My daddy gave me "Smothers." He said way back the name was changed from something to Smothers and that something's someone rode with Jesse James. My daddy was a fisherman and he could have stretched the truth.

Facing the Dragon

Writers write, right? I'm either reading about writing, thinking about writing, dreaming about writing or reading someone else's writing. Tonight at Alice Osborn's creative journaling workshop, Alice spoke of "facing the dragon," facing our writing fears. This leaves me to ponder my own writing dilemma on not writing. Tonight I mustered a couple of draft poems and several pages of writing ideas to help me say exactly what it is that this muse of mine insists that I say. Now, I need to determine exactly what that is.