A Bouquet of Poems with Dodie Messer Meeks

As alluded to in an earlier post, past FPL Poetry Series poet and artist Dodie Meeks has recently had her illustrations and poems published in A Bouquet of Poems: for children of all ages. A Bouquet of Poems was published by The Lyric, the oldest poetry magazine in the U.S.A. devoted to traditional verse.  We hope to have Dodie back to talk about her book sometime in the New Year.

About the illustrations:

“Dodie Meeks’ brilliant watercolors bring these poems to life… By turns dreamlike and hauntingly realistic, these vivid and riveting paintings will stay with the viewer long after the book is returned to the shelf.  Meeks is the rare painter whose work appeals with equal power both to the child and the aficionado of distinguished art.”

 -- Larry D. Thomas, 2008 Texas Poet Laureate

Dodie Meek’s bold yet subtle art will fire up any child’s imagination.  Just looking at these paintings will send a child’s heart on amazing wanderings.” 

-- Chuck Taylor, author of One True Cat

 

A sample of her work, poems and illustrations, from A Bouquet of Poems:

 

 

 

 

 

Every Day, Every Day 

Marissa, Marissa, you bad sleepyhead,

I’m yanking your blankie right off your bed

And icing your middle.  I have a whole cup.

Marissa, Marissa, you’d better wake up.

 

I’ll make your walls shiver.  I’ll pound on your door.

I’ll dump all your marbles all over the floor

For your father is fuming. Your mother’s in tears.

It’s time to quit faking. I’m on to you, Dear.

 

I’ll pry up your eyelids, I know you’re inside.

You can’t hide from grandma.  I’ll say “Open Wide,”

And toothpaste your tonsils and make you spit foam

And I’ll croak like a Grackle and never go home.

 

Dodie Messer Meeks

 

 

Riding with G’Ma Dodie

 

Gramma Dodie’s Cadillac

smells like a banana,

from peelings left in there from when

we gave a ride to Hannah.

 

Gramma Dodie’s Cadillac

has papers on the floor,

and envelopes and photographs

and poetry galore

 

and maybe a French fried onion

and maybe a small baboon

and maybe a parrot in a tree

planning to fly off soon.

 

Gramma Dodie’s Cadillac

is comfy soft and mellow.

It has a lap, just like her lap

and she’s going to paint it yellow!

 

Dodie Messer Meeks

 

 

 

 

Scarcely Any

 

Scarcely any snails can do

Scarcely any flying.

With those houses on their backs

What’s the point of trying?

 

Dodie Messer Meeks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ruth Lay honored for 27 years service on FPL Board

Ruth Lay was honored last night for 27 years of service on the Friendswood Public Library Board. Mayor Kevin Holland read a proclamation declaring November 27, 2012 Ruth Lay Day in Friendswood. Congratulations Ruth from the entire library staff!

Ruth Lay with former Board Chair Ken Gilbreath

 

 

 

Christmas Bells: music to celebrate the Season at FPL

Hope Lutheran Handbell Choir with Music Director Stephanie Poyner and special guest vocalists Amanda Gonzales and Carol Chew present Christmas Bells - music to celebrate the Season.

Monday, December 10th at 7pm

 

 

 

 

3 poems by FPL Poetry Series poet Richard Peake

FPL Poetry Series presents a reading with featured poets Richard Peake and John Gorman on Wednesday, January 30 at 7pm. A native Virginian, Richard Peake became a Texas resident after retiring from the University of Virginia’s College at Wise. He published early poems in Impetus alongside John Ciardi and in The Georgia Review. Collections of his poetry include Wings Across… and Poems for Terence published by Vision Press, which also included poems of his in A Gathering at the Forks. He published Birds and Other Beasts in 2007. A member of The Poetry Society of Texas he is published in numerous books and journals including the Pushcart Prize nominated Shine Journal. A life-long naturalist, a father and grandfather, he teaches birds, Shakespeare, and writing in OLLi.                         

 

 

 

 

Finding Hidden Beauty           

Shangri-La Shack, May 2012 

Like a shadow moving through brush

a small creature eludes scrutiny

of a boy using old binoculars.

Following growth on the ditch bank

this chase continues for what seems hours

until the skulker lights on a branch

revealing a pastel sparrow

crest raised, an inquiring gazer

who can’t resist a closer look

at the binocular bug eyes

of the creature chasing it.

The boy eyes the buffy breast band

on the delicately lined breast,

its stickpin, the soft grayish face.

Knowing this creature new to him

causes trembling excitement

as he thumbs pages of his guide

for the picture he remembers.

Finally, there it is, the bird

flies from the page—Lincoln’s sparrow,

not thought to be here, the book says,

not wintering in Virginia,

but there it is, still sitting where

light reveals its muted colors,

a quiet charm always thrilling him

whenever Guy meets it again

to imbibe its pale soft beauty

as he shares with others the knowledge

this secretive, furtive sparrow

spends its winters in concealment

where they have never thought to look.

~Richard Peake

 

Rock Dusk                           

Enigmatist, Vol. 7, July, 2012 

Looking into myself

I try to identify the layers

accumulated under the skin,

deposits from my late Cretaceous

or my Cenozoic. I chip at the rock

although my personal geology

is told in disconnected stories

seemingly lost in a murky void—

 

not eons, but years seem ages

I seek to remember

to draw bones of being

from the rock face of dead times

encased in old strata

many radiant with happy moments

others dark and heavy with guilt—

herbivore and carnivore fossils.

 

Through these layers of life

run crevices through which flow

the river of  the past, its streams

carrying their load of sediment

into the light of the present

where I sift among sand and stone

to find remnants of earlier life—

a paleontologist of ego bones.

 

~Richard Peake

 

 

They Couldn’t Wait                         

HCC-NW College Review, Apr., 2012 

The Dodo bird hadn’t heard

men thought it

absurd

            to see

                        but not to eat.

 

The Dodo lacked prescience

he didn’t know

how many hungry jowls

liked chicken dinners

and

       wouldn’t wait

                  for Col. Sanders. 

 

~Richard Peake

The Road to Chimayó by Erica Lehrer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From her book Dancing with Ataxia—

 

The Road to Chimayó

by Erica Lehrer 

It’s not that I believe in miracles

but I set out one morning to visit a place

where miracles are believed to happen.

I imagine spooning the sacred dirt into a bag,

leaving my cane among the rows of broken

crutches, walkers and canes left by others

and strolling unaided into the daylight. 

The road to Chimayó drops into a slot

of the Rio Grande, snaking past orchards

and fruit stands waiting for their season.

I take in the views of the hard red earth

and snow-dusted exposures, rolling down

the windows to inhale cold air and meditate

as much as one can while still driving. 

The trip, although scenic, seems long – too long.

Somewhere, somehow, I have become part

of a lengthy funeral procession, the fifth car

behind the hearse.  I dare not pass for fear of bad karma,

so I turn the radio off and my headlights on.

I mouth a prayer for the deceased, thinking

“What a lovely place to die!” 

Finally, Chimayó, New Mexico’s answer to Lourdes!

You’ve been, no? Then you know how its thin air holds you

in a healing embrace, its land fed by the Sangre de Christo

-- a pilgrimage site of promise.  Inside the adobe sanctuary,

I pause before baby shoes, prom and graduation photos

of teens lost to drugs or fast cars, of faces of loved ones

in uniform and, everywhere, fervent, handwritten prayers. 

I stoop to gather my quota of brown dust,

scooping it into a small bag and fall to my knees.

Some people eat the dirt, believing in its curative powers;

Others rub it on afflicted parts. I think: I will do anything

-ANYTHING – to have my ease of movement restored.

I watch others come and go, lost in prayer.  The sacred dirt

seems to replenish itself from below the sanctuary floor. 

Then I do an uncharacteristic thing: I cry.  No one notices –

except a man with weathered skin and kind brown eyes.

When, moments later, I am unable to get to my feet,

he steps forward and offers me his arm, which I take.

As my hand closes over his wrist, I realize

that his arm is plastic.  We walk together

into the blinding sunlight of the sanctuary’s garden.

 

Art Exhibit a Success

The Friendswood Public Library hosted an art exhibit featuring local artists Ruby Allen, Glena Schlehuber, and Billie Morris.  Visitors were able to view these wonderful works of art and meet with each artist. Harpist Mariah Foreman entertained the audience with her skilled playing. The event was very well-attended and well-received and the library plans to host more artists in the future.

 

l to r: Billie Morris, Glena Schlehuber, Ruby Allen

 

 

 

 

Harpist Mariah Forman

 

Library Director Mary Perroni with artist Glena Schlehuber

 

 

Margie Riley (l) with artist Ruby Allen (r) getting ready for exhibit