Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Blog (via Mowser)

The raven.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

[image]

The difference between
aloneness and loneliness
is the raven.

Sometimes he feeds you
and sometimes
he drives you crazy.

[image]

Labels: cartoons, personal, poetry

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Oh, broccoli.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

[image]

::This is a photo of Erika, helping get the lunch out to the guys in the field. We joked about how seriously she seemed to be taking her job. And I was reminded tonight that I hinted I'd blog the photo. So I am now doing that.::

Oh, Broccoli.
A poem, with performance directions included.
By Julie R. Neidlinger

Broccoli, you deserve respect
And so,
wearing my Iowa Law shirt,
I stir you.

I know my face says
"Consternation!"
But I know the purpose of this spoon.
And that I, broccoli manipulator,
Should take it seriously.

Like I take you,
Broccoli!

(The poem has a crescendo, here.)

So I grip the bowl more tightly.

(Pause for effect.)

I slide the spoon unobtrusively down the side

(Pause, and begin lowering the voice.)

My brows furrow.
And you are complete.

(Pause. Look up at audience if possible, if the audience is still there and hasn't walked out, at this point.)

Oh, broccoli.

[image]

Labels: friends, photos, poetry, summer 2008

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The blue letter.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

I received my first piece of mail in my new Bismarck Post Office box yesterday.

I stood in front of the box, key in hand, gazing fondly at the little envelope lying inside. It was from my friend Molly. I think a little poetry is in order.

A Limerick About A Letter
Appropriate, because I am part Irish
by Julie R. Neidlinger

There once was a envelope blue
Tucked inside a metal cube
It promised so much
So was opened in a rush
Revealing a chunk of cash from a previous violin gig which will come in handy for things like food.

I amaze myself.

UPDATE: Today I received my first package: a small blue box. No, not from Tiffany's, but from my brother and sister-in-law. There will be no poetry forthcoming, but I enjoy the blue state of my incoming mail immensely.

[image]

Labels: friends, my life, poetry, summer 2008

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I hate July.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 6 comments link this post

I know that hate is a strong word. I now direct that towards the month of July.

July is extremely hot.
Buggy.
Overgrown with plants and weeds and pollen.
Sunblock must be slathered on.
Sweat.
Wild weather.
Hot.
Hot.

In fact, July's only saving grace that keeps it one notch above August is that it has a holiday, a holiday marked by trips to the local burn unit and processed meat product scorched on a grill. That, and the fact that some people continue to insult me by spelling "julie" as "july" which makes very little sense.

And, now that I think about it, August is when all the kids go back to school which I like to see, since it gets them off the street, out of the library, and out of the stores.

So maybe August is pulling up closer to July here in the backstretch.

I suppose "curmudgeon" would be the word you're looking for, right now.

Maybe it's time for some more of my great poetry, dedicated to July.

Ode to July
And its many points of disgust.
Or, at least one point of disgust.
by Julie R. Neidlinger

I hate you, July.
I really do.
You convince old men
that its acceptable to wear Speedos
at the beach.
Gross.

Labels: poetry, rant, summer 2008

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In troubled times.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

In Troubled Times
Another fabulous poem
provided for you
by my life of ease and middle-class comfort
by Julie R. Neidlinger

Times are troubled.
I say
To myself
as I down
another bottle
of Perrier.

My grief and
depression
and personal failures
slide on down
with the tickling
fizzy fun
of the over-priced water
in the green bottle.

Tomorrow
I'll be abusing
Airborne
(which tastes like
the poor man's pop
except it's kind of expensive)
and getting all the healthier
for it.

Labels: humor, poetry

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The place.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

It's the place you can sort things out
in proper perspective
away from the moment
and the rush and pressure
and figure out what it all means.

It's the place where you feel
no prying eyes
and your back relaxes
and your exhale everything
and all the on-guard paraphernalia
and the masks
fall off.

It's the place where the big things
are seen as the small things they really were
and the small things
take on the importance they deserved,
and you vow to not get the two mixed up next time
in the heat of the away-ness.

It's the place where you know
immediately
that you belong
to it
and it
to you.

It's the place
called home.

Labels: personal, poetry, travel

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The lies of when.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I will

travel
get free
follow Jesus
start to love
take a chance
change careers
let go of past hurts
tell my family I love them
get out of this disappointing rut
stop being selfish and living for myself
say the things I need to say to someone
stop settling for distraction over truth
do what I always dreamed of doing
do something worthwhile
spend time with people
learn something new
leave the safe place
open up my heart
try again
be bold
forgive

when I

am sure
get back to it
have more time
have confidence
remember to do it
am a little bit older
have enough money
find a convenient moment
am finally given the respect I think I deserve
get through this current challenge and things settle down
think others have sufficiently made things right
have all my life plans falling into place
decide that I'm ready
get my life in order
am brave enough
am treated fairly
get around to it
am happy
am good

There is no when.
It never comes.
There is only now and what was.

The true nature of time and the brevity of this life is disguised by the lies of when, which we tell ourselves willingly.

Don't wait.

[image]

Note: This post was pre-written and published as scheduled. Read more about this here.

Labels: essay, personal, poetry

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The Confessional Booth: Confession #4.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I narrowly missed hitting the ditch after narrowly missing hitting a pheasant.

The truck driver who flipped me off as he passed me, however, pushed all my buttons dead on.

Oh gainful middle finger
From which doth many
Emphatic responses
Flow.

[image]

Labels: my life, poetry, series

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I'm not a loser!

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

[image]

I'm not a loser!
I'm a winner!
The proof is this photo.
Plus, I'm wearing Nikes.

Anytime I'm feelin' down
And my spirits droop
I just remember my 4-H Market Lamb Sheep Project
And my feelings recoup.

His name was Friendly
Because he was
And I won Grand Champion
Due to few flaws

He was later sold to a meat market.
That's probably not a happy ending.
But you can't keep a sheep project forever,
Even if they're friendly.

[image]

Labels: clippings, my life, pets, poetry

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Leap day.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

I plan on posting later, mainly because it's February 29th, the day I foreshadowed in my eChristmas letter; it seems necessary to post on a day that won't exist next year.

You know it's a truly important day, though, when Saint Kansas, after more than half a year, puts up a new post.

Excellent.

Perhaps I should write a poem for leap day, since I have such a history of really great bad poetry.

Ode to Leap Day
Though technically not an ode
as far as format is concerned
it definitely is leap day.
So 50 percent isn't bad.
by Julie R. Neidlinger

February 29th.
That extra day of extra days.
My calendar is in shambles.
Though I think the peanut butter smear and the cat have more to do with that
than the one-fourth of a day we lug into each year
and finally dump in a year like this.

The word dump is an unfortunate one.

So, leap day, I honor you
with no leaping.

Ode to Leap Day, Number 2
Let's try that again.
by Julie R. Neidlinger

Number 29.
XXIX
In 29 years, Saturn orbits the sun.
I29 traverses eastern North Dakota.
In Cribbage, you are a blessing indeed!
A prime number, you are.

Frankly, I have no special feelings toward you.

Hmm.

I'm just not feeling terribly poetic today.

Kind of like always.

Labels: blogging, links, poetry

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Red winter.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 11 comments link this post

Red Winter
A poem about the season of perpetual nosebleeds
Due mainly to dry weather
As I shall now describe
by Julie R. Neidlinger

Little red riding hood
had nothing on the kleenex
jammed up my nose.
Good morning! it said, flowering out
like a red-tipped carnation.

'Tis no greater joy
than to discover that the heart still beats
with proof of that dripping
down your face.
Good morning! it says, thump thump
gush gush.

The best part of waking up?
Not Folger's, or cups.
But testing out my new double-soft
tissues from the patterned box
Good morning! they say, thirstily.
Two-ply vampires, get thee hence!

And the Oxi-Clean
On my ruined shirt.
Has no morning greeting
Since I don't do laundry first thing on waking up.

Red Winter.

::Why do I write such consistently bad poetry? Because it's so darn easy.::

Labels: my life, poetry

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The sauce is on top.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

After all my Chicago pizza discussion, a reader sent me two Gino's East deep-dish delights via UPS.

Oh, my.

The sauce was on top!
The crust was fabulous!
The entire pizza was delicious!
(Thank you!)

The pizzas arrived in boxes, on dry ice, in a Styrofoam container.

Here's a badly written poem that doesn't rhyme for the occasion:

Deep Dish Pizza in Boxes
by Julie R. Neidlinger

Dad
called me first, at work.
"The UPS just dropped off some pizza."
Mom called me second, later.
"Did you know you got
some pizza today?"

I didn't
know which was worse
Not being home for two days
Or the evil laugh from Dad when I told him
to keep his hands off until I got home.
"Do not eat any without me!"
Bwahahaha.

Frozen.
Deep dish without
Any actual dishes but definitely deep.
With 350 degrees and 40 minutes doing the work
Blow my diet? It sure did, I guess.
But the sauce was on top!
All good.

Tasty
Crunchy
Sweet red sauce
Spinach last night
Sausage the next round.
Thank you for sending the pizzas!
I may, indeed, consider a visit
Via the train, to Chicago
To try some pizza
direct.

Labels: family, food, friends, my life, poetry

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A poem about Sunday. A bad poem.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

Sunday Yesterday
A celebration of four moments.
by Julie R. Neidlinger

Consternation befell the impatient white cat
Who pawed at the Venetian blinds
The birds didn't show for 45 minutes
Crunchy birds! Flappy birds!
He waited and watched, the chair cushion his prayer mat.

Michael roared in with a coffee, liquid brown
Setting it on the edge of the church piano
Sitting down, looking through the collection of music
Pick some hymns! Pick some choruses!
Like a fountain it splashed, tumbling across the ivory and down.

The parents enjoyed McDonalds salads, lettuce in dressing immersed
A kind of clean, kind of quiet noon
Following the drive from church
We had errands to run! Groceries needed!
Then mom walked into the men's bathroom and quickly left, clutching her purse.

The deposit box waited for mom's envelope at the bank
We pulled up in the hulking vehicle
Driver dad rolled down the window at the night deposit receptacle
*%#!@(&)$#!?+@! &$*$#@@^!!!
I exited the vehicle, walked around, and threw the cashola in with a clank.

Labels: brutus, church life, family, poetry

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Grousing about grouse. (I think).

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

Poetically detailing a common driving incident involving
what I think were grouse. (Or partridge.)
by Julie R. Neidlinger

From a gathered clump
(is there any other kind?)
by the road,
they chose to hurl themselves
towards my sparkling red Jeep Grand Cherokee
which already had a cracked windshield
from a careless gravel truck.

"You are mighty pudgy," I shrieked
through that windshield
deftly braking and artfully dodging
this way and that
to avoid the creatures
buzzing by my glass
"to be pulling a flight maneuver like that!"

The feathered wads of meat,
unaware of their food status
continued winging on their
lucky way.
Ingrates.

And I on my way
now thirteen additional seconds late for work
added to the current
ten minutes.
Grating
my teeth.

Labels: humor, my life, poetry

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Oh Christmas Tree with Trike and Horse.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

[image]

My dad at Christmas, considerably younger than now.

Three wheeled glory.
Is the theme of this story.
Dripping tinsel and decor shines out
Yet there he sits, in some kind of pout.

You have a trike!
You have a horse!
Neither doing much moving
Of course.

Happy endings will soon be his
Once you click here, that is.

[image]

Labels: christmas, family, poetry

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Photo booth.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

[image]

My dad and my grandma Helen

As if in a photo booth
Catching the changing glance
and expression
and smile
and relaxing muscles
That usually end up in the margin
And aren't seen
After the shutter clicks.

Is it a prologue?
Is it an epilogue?
Maybe both
Without the story
That happened in the middle
After the shutter clicked.

[image]

Labels: family, poetry

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TP.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

No.
Tom Petty.
Test Pattern.
Treponema Pallidum.
Twin Peaks.
Trivial Pursuit.
Theoretical Physics.
Twila Paris.

Yes.
Toilet Paper.

Stretched across the front flower bed
wafting gently over the deck
twisted amongst the gladiolas
snagged between fibrous flax
s-like
of itchy quality
no comfort there
bright white against all things turning orange
is the cardboard-weighted toilet paper
dropped by the bright yellow spray plane
growling low over the fields
threatening power lines
and if he missed his target
as it appears he did
and dropped the marker
shortly before spraying our front yard
a lawyer shall be getting a call.

Labels: poetry

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Various Odes.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 8 comments link this post

Ode to the Soap Dispenser At Work
(Which is meant to be filled with foaming soap liquid.)
(But was instead filled with regular liquid soap.)

Oh, glurg.
Oh, urg.
Splat, split, splot.
At least I know you have no rabies,
soap dispenser,
For there is no froth.
Glirg. Glarg. Glurgshpkrgg.
You sing forth.
Dirty hands.
--------

Ode to the Unsatisfied Customer
(Desperately in need of a breath mint)

Like a fire-breathing dragon
You melt your path clear.
"That's bad art!"
I maintain
That you
Seriously
Lack any taste.
Both in your art
and in your acid-scorched
mouth.
--------

Ode to the Boy with the Big Pants
(Aided and abetted by JC Penney.)

Oh, sloppy boy.
(Could your name be Joe?)
Your khaki cargoes
Sink, dive, plummet
Too far below.
"What up?" you ask
Certainly not your bifurcated garment.

I don't see London
and I don't see France
But I regretfully see
Your underpants.
--------

Ode to the Lady who Works at the Salon Two Stores Down

Your artistry is shear magic;
Gray hair yours, but now blond.
Brunette, auburn, red
Peroxide extraordinaire
You make dead hair deader than dead.

The secret to what lies beneath
the topcoats of local women
is yours.

And now you know what lies beneath
the forest-green topcoat of your ginormous Ford Excursion
because I keyed
all four doors.

That'll be the last time you take up two parking spots.

------------------------------

I think that about covers the day.

UPDATE: I lied.
-------------------------------

Ode to Condiments that Know Their Job

Oh, mighty Heinz.
The impossible flavor.
Impossible because of the safety seal
I couldn't remove except with
a knife
which proved unsafe.

You're not that great!

What's that, Worcestershire Sauce?
You smile at me.
What's this "pinch hit" you speak of?

Labels: humor, poetry

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In the going.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I like going.

Going for drives, going on a trip, going on an adventure, going any place new, going. Air that's moving is always fresher, and if it seems still, then I like to make it move by going.

Maybe that seems to be a strange thing, for a staying person; maybe it makes the best sense of all.

But going is so romantic in its early moments, the excitement of something new, of what could be just ahead. First encounters.

Exultation is in the going
by Emily Dickinson

Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses -- past the headlands --
Into deep Eternity --

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

The moment is in the going. Dickinson mentions Eternity. The going that is life. I wish I could stop looking for the next going and finish out the one I'm in. When the experience is no longer new, the wonder quietly leaves if I let it.

I wish I didn't let it.

[image]

Labels: essay, my life, poetry

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Some bad poetry for you: Snow in May.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

::There are few things as freeing as writing bad poetry. It's the truth.::

For a week, it has been raining.
Dripping down from a flat, gray sky.
The sun
(You pathetic weak, thing!)
Shows up once in a while,
Thinks about making all dry,
But leaves. And I go on paining.

Today is the keeper of them all.
Happy Spring! If you like cold.
The sun
(You deadbeat star!)
Is nowhere to be seen
And so the snow falls, bold
and heavy. This feels like Fall.

[image]

Labels: nature, poetry

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Journals: First breaths.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

04.07
Brown Journal
Written During Church

First Breaths

Wrapped
Wound
Tightly
Pulled-down
Folded-back
Light-dimmed
Sinking
Spinning

Then a miraculous final kick
And to the surface
I love you God!
Is all I can manage
And I breathe for the first time

Again.

[image]

Labels: journals, poetry

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The Red Wheelbarrow.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Most people know William Carlos Williams' poem:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

I posted it in the Google gadget on the side of the blog. In the past, I've let readers create their own epic poem there, but I put this one up "ready-made" because I've always liked this poem.

And no, not just because it was easy to memorize.

Right away, Will said: I love this poem. I don't know why, but I do. In fact, he's gone and posted about the poem on his own blog.

Which got me wondering why, exactly, I like this poem.

The word "glazed" gets me every time, thinking how rain does exactly that. Hard to explain, but I like the way the words roll around in my mind, how the water sticks but doesn't. Something about the red and the white, the solid and the feathers, the clear-coat of glistening rain, all in so few words...

Brevity is the soul of wit.

In the hands of a lesser poet (me) or someone prone to melodrama (also me), the scene could have unfolded with far more words and far less power:

If it weren't for the wheelbarrow, which Charles used every day to haul oats to market, the family would starve. The ruby-crimson beast, it's broken wheel banging and clanging with every turn, often scared away the chickens. But today it was raining, ruining the oat crop, and letting the chickens stand out in the rain. Charles looked anxiously from his window, worried about his chickens standing out in the rain, drowning. Don't look up, he thought, trying to force his command into the minds of the chickens. Stay beneath the wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow, covered in the heavenly liquid, stood silent and stern. And then the chickens walked out from under it and looked up.

It just lacks the same punch.
I told Will that I had written this post a few days back and was waiting for his post so that I could link. When I saw his post, and compared it to mine, I told him that I thought mine was "kind of flippant. As in 'hmm. Maybe I should cut a chicken joke or two...'"
[image]

Labels: poetry, reader input