Poetry takes no specific form

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definition of poetry, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, poem, poetry

I used to think that poetry had to take a specific form: haiku, limerick, ode, metered rhyme, etc. Oh, there certainly are many different types of poetry that can be named and grouped, but truly poetry is a much more ethereal experience that evades the concrete. I like Merriam-Websters way of defining poetry: writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm. Well, gosh, that sure gives a lot of leeway, doesn’t it? That leeway is where I find my freedom as a writer, and I used it a couple of years ago when answering the question, “What is it like to live with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome?” It’s like any other life. I have my ups and downs, joy and tears, hopes and fears, love, family and friendship. But, I deal with daily pain and problems that are pretty odd and hard to fathom by people who don’t live with a genetic difference such as this. I wrote this free form poem to explain a tiny bit of what I go through. I didn’t write it for sympathy, and definitely not for pity. It’s just a tiny window into my world to facilitate understanding. That’s what we all need, don’t you think?

Ritual

12:15
It’s too late to take the little white pill tonight. I stayed up late getting work done; graduate classes are a lot of work. Now, if I take the pill, I won’t be able to get up with the baby. There’s not enough time.

12:30
I can’t fall asleep on my back, never could. Maybe if I turn on my side it will be all right. Yeah, I’m all right.

12:40
I’m not all right. My ribs are moving out of place. It’s starting to hurt. It’s hard to breathe. I turn on my back and push and rub and massage my ribs back into place. Maybe I can sleep on my back.

12:45
My knees, my ankles, my hips fall out of place. I can’t sleep on my back. I stretch and twist and move my legs back into place. I hear my husband’s voice.
“Are you hurting?”
“Yes.”
“Do think an Alleve will help?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll go get you one.”
“Ok.”

1:00
I can’t sleep on my back. I’ll try my other side.

1:05
My ribs start to move. My shoulder pops. Oh no, it’s out. I get up, pause to reset my ankles, and head to living room. I twist and turn and pace. I make large, painful circles with my arm. It won’t go back into place. How long this time? Hours? Days?

1:15
I sit at the computer and stare at the news, Facebook, the Weather Channel, anything. Take my mind off of it, please.

2:00
I lay on the couch. Push pillows under my legs, my arms, try to adjust, try to rest.

2:15
I sit. I stare. I try to fight. I can’t. The tears begin to creep, unwanted. The voice in my head begins to scream. First, a whimper, then a full fledge wail. It screeches, “How am I supposed to live the rest of my life this way?” It roars louder and louder until I can no longer understand my own thoughts. The tears tumble quickly until there are no more tonight. I sit. I stare.

4:15
I return to bed. I’ll try to sleep on my back. The headache from my sobs fogs my mind, exhaustion clouds my thoughts. I slam into sleep. I dream of pain.

6:40
The baby cries. I sigh and look at the clock. My husband has already left for work. I breathe deep, twist, stretch, push, begin to put bones back into place.
Slowly, I rise.

The Music of Friendship

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friendship, Stephen Holmes

On December 12, 2005, I awoke to the news that sometime in the overnight hours, my dear friend Stephen was brutally murdered by a co-worker for the money contained in a restaurant safe. For a paltry amount of money, Stephen lost his life and the world lost a beautiful light.

But, this column is not going to be about how he died or how that death fits into the grand scheme of life, crime and the philosophies of what we “should be doing” about it. Instead, I want to dedicate this column to life and how Stephen lived it. Today would have been his 38^th birthday.

I met Stephen in the summer of 1985. He was nine and I was ten. I was riding bikes through the neighborhood with my friend Stephanie when we spotted this adorable dark headed boy who looked like the Karate Kid. While we giggled about how cute he was, Stephen just road his bike right up to us and said, “Hi! I’m Steve. We just moved here. Wanna ride bikes?” Did we ever! We rode around all afternoon, Stephanie and I falling into serious “like him, like him” status the more Stephen flashed his perfect grin at us. A couple of weeks later, I went to his house and watched as he showed off singing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” with his sister by the player piano. That was it. I was head over heels for that kid!

Over the twenty years that I knew him, I never really fell out of love with Stephen. It just changed from puppy love to a deep friendship. He became my brother’s best friend and pretty much my other brother too. The three of us were thick as thieves all growing up, from riding bikes to riding around in their beloved hot rods. It was difficult not to love Stephen, everybody around him did. He was always ready to walk right up to someone and make a friend; ready to play, laugh and sing with them. And, oh, could he sing! It’s hard to think of Stephen and not think of music. From that first show tune by the piano, to the lovely song he sang to his beautiful bride on their wedding day, to the last time I heard him sing “Thank God I’m a Country Boy,” the music never stopped. He always had an instrument in his hand, ready to spread his irrepressible joy.

It may sound like I’m idealizing a man who has passed. I can only tell you that this is exactly as I described him in life. While the rest of us withdrew into ourselves and learned to distrust people, Stephen never lost that childhood magic for making friends. I sure did. I worked for ten years at a local police department. I was an analyst and never on the front line, but even from my position, I saw and heard things that most of society has no idea exists. Things you don’t want to know exist. All of the crime shows on TV could have never prepared me for the depravity that truly exists within mankind. It affected me more than I realized, and I grew very distrustful of people and rather jaded too. Making friends became nearly impossible.

I don’t want to be that anymore. It’s a lonely way to live and I don’t believe it’s what God wants for us in our lives. Stephen exemplified the love and light that we are supposed to bring into the world. I want to be a little more like him. I want to share what he taught me and I want to share the music that he touched the world with. I will never be able to sing or play an instrument, but I can play the music of friendship and open myself up.

Next week we PCS again, and for the first time in my life, I will move to a place where I know absolutely no one and have not one friend. So, today, on this anniversary of Stephen’s life, I want to dedicate a promise in his memory. I will use this opportunity to open myself up to friendship, to love and to light. I will make friends and make myself a friend. I will take my memory of Stephen and let his music play.

Grammar PSA #3 – Allowed vs Aloud

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aloud vs allowed, grammar, grammar psa

Open Letter To Whomever Stole My Work…

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Intellectual Property, Plagiarism, rules for dating my son, rules for dating my son Facebook meme

To Whomever Stole My Work,

I don’t know who you are, but you came onto my site one day and read my blog post Rules For Dating My Son. Well, who knows, you could be someone I know. I’ve been writing my blog for less than a year now and I have a small readership. I appreciate every single one of my readers, except you. You enjoyed my work, maybe got a laugh out of it, and then promptly stole it. You reposted it to an internet meme without giving me any credit whatsoever. Your stolen version has been shared millions of times, and now it is being sold on t-shirts. The people selling my original work, without permission, feel free to do so because they got it from an unaccredited meme. That’s your fault. You did that. You stole my work and now others are making money off of it. You could have easily given me credit for my words. My words, those things a writer lives and dies by.  Get off my blog and never come back! Get off of everyone’s blog because you’re likely to steal their work as well. You are low-down dirtbag scum and you completely suck.

Sincerely,

April Sopczak AKA That Person You Stole From

_____________________________________________

To Everyone Else,

Please share this so that, hopefully, the schmuck sees it.

Thank you,

April

What is Beautiful?

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beautiful, beauty, what is beauty

I have been pondering the idea of beauty for some time and I have written a couple of times about the subject already. My concept and definition of it has been changing and maturing. I used to think of being beautiful as being pretty to the nth level, and I deeply desired that. But, I have come to realize that being pretty and being beautiful are two completely different things. Pretty is such a smaller word than beautiful, not just in number of letters, but in depth and breadth of meaning as well. Pretty is being aesthetically pleasing. It means something different to every eye, and it changes over time. Beautiful has nothing to do with what one sees on the surface. Beautiful quite literally means “full of beauty.” So, what is beauty?

Beauty is something that pleases the soul. It stirs something deep inside that inspires overwhelming feelings that are difficult to describe. Ever wonder why someone can look at the perfect pass in football and use the same term to describe it as a priceless work of art? “Man! That’s beautiful!” Ever wonder why a work of art is priceless? Why do we describe a selfless act or an expression of love as beautiful, never pretty? Because beauty is a feeling. It is awe and wonder and admiration. It is love and appreciation and amazement. It has nothing to do with pretty.

It’s not hard to recognize beauty in others. I know what has made me feel this way. It is harder to recognize it in ourselves because we have to recognize how we have touched others. I can touch them in positive ways just as easily as I can touch them in negative ways. It depends on what I choose to do.

I have two sons, one five-years-old and one 16. My five-year-old wants to be a big boy and never wants to be called a baby. And yet, he will curl up on my lap and smile broadly when I call him my baby boy. I’m the only one who can do that. My eldest is a man-child on the cusp of adulthood; he wants to prove himself to be a man and shuns anything that refers to him as a child. He still calls me “mama” (when his buds aren’t around, of course!). That’s beautiful! This didn’t happen by chance. I carried those two children in my womb for nine months, and have given them my everything ever since. I have kissed every boo-boo, cheered every victory, taught them lessons of knowledge and empathy. I did that. I created beauty.

A young friend became pregnant out of wedlock at 22; she was scared of what came next, scared of how others would accept her. In two days, I crocheted a blanket and sent it off to her. I wanted to show her that her baby was already loved, accepted and wanted. And so was she. I knew where she was. I had been that same 22 year old girl and my grandmother made me a blanket for my little one. She did that. She created beauty; I followed her example and shared it.

Another young friend was having all the troubles that girls have in middle school. It’s one of the roughest times of life, and certainly of childhood. Having an older “aunt” to talk to and hash things out with can be invaluable. So, I had her over to my house and we made cupcakes for St. Patrick’s Day. We bonded over Irish cream frosting and sparkly green sprinkles. Who knew an Irish car bomb cupcake could create beauty? But, it did. And you know what? I did that. I created beauty.

I share all this not to toot my own horn, but to share something amazing with you. If we want to be beautiful, we need only to create beauty. I may or may not be pretty. That is up to whomever looks at me to decide and I can’t change that. But I can choose to be beautiful because I can choose to create beauty. It doesn’t take a great talent that allows us to create magnificent works of art. No, what we must do is open ourselves up and allow the beauty that is within to flow outward. We need to be in people’s lives and touch them in ways that leave them overwhelmed with love. A tiny kindness can open worlds of beauty. A simple consideration can mean everything to one person, and that is what is truly beautiful.