Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2018)

Since its inception in 1992, more than fifty people have participated in Writers’ Workshop. The workshop provides a safe place for people to develop their own voice through poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose.

The Workshop meets seven or eight times a year from January through June and September through December, on the third Monday of the month.

All are welcome to participate, gathering in the Boardroom at 4:30 pm. Express your interest to Kathryn Klingebiel, facilitator.

These group members displayed the following examples of poetry and prose as part of Faith & Arts Sunday (February 11, 2018): Willow Chang, Fritz Fritschel, Donald K. Johnson, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, Kathryn Klingebiel, and Rebecca Woodland.

Hosanna

Willow Chang
april 9th, 2017

MYTHOS

willow chang
january 27th, 2018
art: The Raising of Lazarus, 14th century, Decani Monastery

SMALL STONES DANCE

willow chang
june 6, 2017

SUDDEN SHIFT

willow chang
january 17th, 2018

ON THE DAY OF PENTECOST

for Calvin Henry Francis, Sr.

Fritz Fritschel

BOTTOM LINE BOOSTERS

Donald K Johnson
12/2017

CITY BIRDS

Donald K Johnson
3/2017

Heart Trouble

Isaiah 11:1–9: The Spirit of the Lord will be with him to give him understanding, wisdom and insight…The poor and the needy will be treated with fairness and with justice. (CEV)

Isaiah foretells the coming of Jesus Christ in this passage and knows, because of His leadership, compassionate action will follow His way.

There is a homeless man living in the bus shelter just down the street from my front door. On my walks before dawn, I hear him groan, argue with his demon, and cry out. Our world has rubbed him into tatters. In the months he has lived there he has become my homeless Jesus troubling my heart. There are so many like him in the crooks and crannies of our cities. I’m thinking you might have some homeless people working your heart as well. What to do?

The celebration of the coming of Jesus is a beautiful season of lights, family time and gift giving, yet when we receive God’s gift of grace and choose to follow Bethlehem’s child it is seldom easy. Each of us, shepherd, wise woman, computer geek, outcast, or young-adult follower has discipleship choices to make. Advent is a time to take stock of our Christian discipleship. As we prepare to honor the Messiah of whom Isaiah foretells, let us gather wisdom and insight from his writings; then become leaders in our world so the poor and needy are treated with fairness and justice. Emmanuel, this loving God is with us!

Prayer: Holy Spirit of love, you are the Word lying in stable straw beneath a guiding star. Your coming has given us hope that the broken lives all around us will be healed. Help us become leaders with courage and the will to bring comfort and justice to those damaged by our world. Amen.

Donald K. Johnson
10/11/2017

A WANDER’S WONDER

Donald K Johnson
11/2017

Green Man

Jean-Paul Klingebiel

The Stuff of Songs!

Jean-Paul Klingebiel

Travel Travails

Jean-Paul Klingebiel

a smile at sunset

Kathryn Klingebiel
2017-08-22

come with me to the new

Kathryn Klingebiel
(2017-11)

(free-range thoughts while editing a discography of Occitan songs for 2016. all these are real instruments—how many do you know?)
Boha, ocarina, krummhorn, cornetto, oud, hurdy-gurdy, tintinnabulum, gittern, lyra de pontos, psaltry, boha

remembering Minnie sings about love

Kathryn Klingebiel
2017-02-12

Untitled

2017-12-18 (Kathryn Klingebiel)

the closed book sprawls in the sand

Kathryn Klingebiel
14 September 1992

Two Limericks for Pastor Jeff
on the occasion of his ten years of service to LCH

Kathryn Klingebiel
2017-4-23

Cell-Phone Saga

I grabbed my bag and whisked across the parking lot to my office. I wanted to get a head-start on my overly-scheduled Friday. Lots of phone calls to make, photos to take (of furnishings and fabrics), clients to meet with, and errands to run.

I set my over-stuffed bag down on the table near my desk and began unloading and sorting some of the items. I had the place to myself for the next few minutes. Now would be the perfect time to make those calls.

I emptied out the entire bag looking for my phone. I checked my pockets. I called my number from the land line. Luckily, I always keep the ringer on so I can hear the phone ring when I can’t find it. Unluckily, I couldn’t hear any ringing. Oh no!

I knew I had it when I left home. I know it was in the car, on the passenger seat. Surely it must be in the car, or in the parking lot. It was still early enough so the lot was half-empty, making the search a bit easier. I retraced my steps, scouring every inch of the path between my car and the entrance to my office. Nothing. I searched my car, doing contortions as I tried to check under the seat and between the seats. Nothing. I asked the parking lot attendant if she had seen a phone, or if anyone had turned in a phone. Nothing.

Now what?

I called home, from the land line. Has anyone seen my phone? Can you call my phone number just in case I left it at home? I knew I had it with me when I left, but I wanted to cover all my bases.

No luck.

That afternoon I visited the AT&T Store. I needed to buy a new phone, as my other (almost-new) phone had disappeared. I chose a similar phone. The guys at the store made sure all my contacts, photos, and everything else were synched to my new phone. Thank God for cloud storage!

I left the store relieved, but still mystified as to the whereabouts of my lost phone.

Now I could carry on, business as usual. I went back to work. The rest of the day was uneventful.

Early Monday morning I picked up my new phone to check messages, Facebook, and emails, as well as the photos I had taken on Friday.

An unexpected beep took me by surprise. The beep signaled the downloading of new photos to the cloud. I stared in disbelief as the screen displayed about a dozen photos that I had not taken. WHAT???

The bigger surprise: I recognized the person in most of the photos. There she was, the parking lot attendant, all 400 pounds of her. Surrounded by her kids and various other family and friends, it looked like a lively party! Everyone was smiling and obviously having a wonderful time. Especially the person with the newly-acquired cell phone.

Thank God for the cloud. Her party photos had been uploaded to my new phone! Now I had evidence, but wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. I didn’t want to get the thief fired. After all, she had a family to support, and her size and physical limitations would make it difficult or impossible to get hired anywhere else…

I talked to the building manager. I showed him the photos. He said he would take care of it, and advised me to not try to tackle this on my own. She was, after all, more than twice my size.

The manager spoke to her in private. “Have you seen or picked up a cell phone? One of our tenants is missing her phone and she knows it went missing somewhere in the parking lot.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible! I haven’t seen anything. No one has turned in a phone,” the attendant replied with a concerned expression on her face.

Long pause.

The manager stared at the attendant. She stared back.

“She knows you have her phone. She has evidence. The photos you took over the weekend showed up on her new phone.”

Without saying a word, the attendant reached into her pocket and handed the stolen phone to the manager.

The manager returned the phone to its rightful owner.

And everyone lived happily ever after, thanks to the cloud.

Rebecca Woodland
about a true incident. It happened to a friend in Honolulu, November 2017.

Escar-GO!

Bundled in a pullover sweater knit from coarse homespun sheep’s wool, I wander past white-washed walls gleaming like newly-fallen snow in sunshine. Windows, shuttered in Aegean blue, match the color of the dome of St. Niko’s Church around the corner. Crimson begonias spill out of ceramic pots set along a stone stairway leading to a lace-curtained upstairs apartment. Rustic baskets laden with bright vegetables and fruits line labyrinthine flagstone walkways fronting the few small markets in the village. Brisk air reminds me that autumn has arrived, and with it just enough rain to nurture the parched rocky landscape of this tiny Greek island. This morning I am looking for a special composition book which might be available at Marko’s, the only shop here that sells school supplies. But first I need to buy tomatoes and onions.

An ancient woman trundles past, her gait affected by the weight and size of the bag slung over her shoulder. She stops in front of a shop to talk with the shopkeeper, who relieves her of her load and places its contents in the baskets next to the door. Tomatoes and onions! I reach into each basket and choose two large tomatoes and a few onions, but items in another basket grab my attention. Shells. Caracol-type shells. They squirm and wriggle, just a bit. One has escaped, sliding at a snail’s pace across the path. The shopkeeper leaps out the door to fetch the rogue snail, and places him/her (snails are hermaphrodites) back in the basket with a stern warning to stay put. At least that’s what it sounds like from his tone of voice, but my Greek language skills are almost nil.

My thoughts divert from school supplies to escargot. Marko can wait. I am curious.

I ask the shopkeeper, in English, about these snails. His English is far better than my Greek. (It wouldn’t take much.)

“These are local snails, from our island. They come out after the rains. They hide under rocks and in damp places. Many people collect them. They taste good!”

I thank him for this information. He warns me:

“But be careful. Snails can be poisonous, because they eat oleander and other poisonous plants. So before you cook and eat them, you must purge them for five days.”

“Purge? What do you mean? How do you do that?”

“It’s complicated. I need to help another customer. Ask me later.” I hand him a few drachma coins to pay for the tomatoes and onions, and head towards Marko’s.

This is a small village on a small island, so it’s not unusual to run into a friend or acquaintance whenever I venture beyond our doorstep. Today is no exception. I run into Leisa, Liza, and Elizabeth, who are out shopping for art supplies. “Do you know anything about purging snails?” I inquire. This is not a normal question asked by (or of) young American or Canadian women. The main thing I learn is that there are two ways to do it. You can either feed the snails lettuce for five days, or flour for five days. That’s all the information I get from them, but it’s a start.

I decide to ask Gail, Brett, and Takis ~ all long-time residents of Paros. They probably have experience and certainly more knowledge on this topic. This is what I learned:

I will need a large pot with a lid. A canning kettle or luau pot is ideal. I need a bag of flour, any kind. And of course I need plenty of live snails. Sounds simple enough, yes?

“May I borrow a large pot from you, one with a lid?” I ask Gail, who has become sort of a mother-guardian-mentor to us younger women who are new to the island. “I’ll return it in a week.”

She hands me her largest pot with its accompanying lid, and a cheerful “Good luck!”

Now all I need is a bag of flour. I will buy it on the way home.

I purchase the cheapest white flour I can find, along with butter, spaghetti, and a few heads of garlic. I have plenty of olive oil at home. I plot my next move, and plan my menu and recipe(s) for the snails I am sure to capture the following morning after the nightly rainfall.

* * * * *

Armed with baskets and sturdy walking shoes, we trek outside the village on a quest for these tasty critters. The hillside looks like a giant puzzle, rock walls separating the puzzle pieces and marking where they join. Snails hang out in dark, damp places like these rock walls. Surely they will be easy to find along here! The morning is still and peaceful. Other than the two of us, the only other living things we encounter are three young men from Germany, looking under rocks and along these walls.

“Are you looking for snails?”

“No, we are looking for snakes. We are collecting rare snakes for a zoo in Germany.”

The only thing I fear more than snakes is… well, I can’t think of anything I am more afraid of. We are now in snake territory, the collectors inform us.

My desire for finding escargot temporarily trumps my fear of coming upon a snake, or snakes. After all, I haven’t seen any. Yet. I continue my search for the elusive snails, ever-vigilant in case I encounter a snake.

Before long I develop “snail-eye”, the ability to spot a snail from a distance, even when hidden or camouflaged. Together, two of us gather over fifty snails. There are more to be collected, but the pot probably won’t hold many more. The snake collectors are elated with their finds. I am relieved that they found snakes, instead of me finding snakes.

With our newly-gathered treasures, we head back into the village to our humble apartment. My mouth waters in anticipation of dinner next week…

* * * * *

I dump most of the bag of flour into the pot and set it on the table. A straw beach mat from Hawaii substitutes for a tablecloth, covering up the chipped paint and scratches on the old table. Next, I count the snails (55) and carefully dump them into the pot. (I know, how do you carefully dump something?) Well, that’s what I do. I want the snails to remain intact, with no broken shells. And I don’t want them traumatized. That may come later. It could affect their flavor. Do snails suffer from PTSD?

I place the lid on the pot and smile. I feel rather smug and quite clever. My friends in Canada and Hawaii aren’t going to believe this!

* * * * *

I awaken early to check on the snails. Yikes! The lid on the pot is ajar! Snails are escaping in every direction! They put the GO in Escargot. Even though they are not known to be quick, snails are definitely cunning. How could I be outsmarted by snails?? How did these snails escape the confines of the pot? It is a deep pot with tall sides. The lid was on securely. Snails don’t have hands or arms or legs. But apparently they do have determination, and they exercise teamwork. It must have taken a team effort to push the lid off the pot. 1-2-3-shove!

Fortunately, I had counted the snails before dumping them in the pot. Now I have to recount each one as I try to retrieve them and put them back in their all-you-can-eat prison. Ours is a small apartment with tile floors. I want to be sure I get every single one of these snails so I won’t accidentally step on one. Crunchy slime grosses me out.

This is a task for two, so I wake up my unwitting husband. We take a census of the gathered snails. Some have traveled as far as the kitchen and bedroom. We manage to capture 53 of the 55 run-aways. Where are the other two? Did we count correctly?

I stoop down to look under the table. A clever snail clings to the underside of the straw mat, the part that hangs over the edge of the table. It almost got away, but not quite. It gets returned to the pot. But no matter where we search, we can’t find the last snail. Perhaps we miscounted. I assume this is so.

I put the lid back on the pot, this time securing the lid with a heavy rock. Too heavy for snails to move, I hope.

* * * * *

I turn on the tiny hot water tank that provides warm water for the shower, and (if we’re lucky) for the kitchen and bathroom sinks. Stepping into the shower I spot something that doesn‘t belong there. Snail #55 had made it all the way to the bathroom and is hiding in the corner. I applaud his tenacity and decide to pardon him. He doesn’t go into the pot. He will go home to the great outdoors.

* * * * *

Four days pass. No snails escape. They remain in quarantine, feasting on flour.

Their time has come.

I transport the pot into the kitchen. One-by-one I remove each snail and clean him off. Two pots of water come to a boil on the small gas cooktop. Spaghetti, butter, and garlic are close at hand.

I place a handful of spaghetti into the boiling water, using a wringing action of my wrists so that the noodles fan out like a flower in the water. Next, one-by-one, I place each snail into the other boiling pot. What happens next, I am not prepared for.

Upon hitting the hot water, I hear an eerie sound, like a cry or whimper. Maybe it’s just the sound made when water hits an air pocket, like inside a snail’s shell. Anyway, it is slightly unnerving. I tell myself it must be the air. Surely snails don’t cry!

Boiling the snails takes only a few minutes. I remove them from the pot and transfer the snails to a bowl and remove the meat from the shell. In the meantime, I make the sauce. The key ingredients include butter, garlic, and (of course) snails.

Tonight, we feast on “Escargot Spaghetti,” grateful for the 54 snails who sacrificed their lives so we can enjoy this meal. From now on, whenever I order escargot in a restaurant, I will think of tonight’s meal, the crying snails, and perhaps I will let the other guests eat the snails. I’ll just enjoy the melted butter and garlic, and request extra crostini.

Rebecca Woodland
It happened on Paros
November 1979

It happened in Chinatown

I was finally done traipsing through Chinatown with my annoying houseguest who insisted she couldn’t live without a specific type of sandal found only in Chinatown. She had overstayed her welcome weeks ago, and now she wanted to change her airline ticket and extend her stay another couple of weeks! She wasn’t even “my” friend. My then-husband had invited her, not realizing that she was a chain-smoker who expected to be entertained and chauffeured. She came from wealth and wouldn’t lower herself to take the bus.

So I got the job of driving her, in my new Mercedes. At least she didn’t smoke inside the car. I would have had to dump her out on the side of the road.

She eventually found and purchased the sandals she liked, at $3 a pair. We walked back to the parking garage. I had spent that amount in quarters to pay for parking.

I climbed into the car, grateful for air conditioning and peace amidst the heat and chaos of Honolulu’s Chinatown. Well, it would have been peaceful except for her incessant gravelly chatter about my “awesomeness.” (Honestly, I can’t stand the suffocating feeling that happens when an exceptionally UN-awesome person thinks I’m awesome.) I turned the radio to HPR, hoping that the music would shut her up.

I just wanted to get home and get away from her. My husband could take his turn baby-sitting our houseguest. My patience had worn thin and I my niceness was quickly evaporating. She was making me crazy.

I pulled the car out of the lot, rounded the corner onto River Street, turned right onto King Street, and crawled through the heart of Chinatown. I hit every red light.

Suddenly, a loud noise that sounded like continuous honking overpowered the music. We looked around, but didn’t see any sign of anyone doing something that would explain such honking. The noise stopped.

We made it to the next stoplight. When the light turned green, the honking noise started up again. Oh no! The noise was from my car! I couldn’t do anything to stop the honking. Other drivers stared. Pedestrians stared. I kept driving. A police officer pulled up alongside me. The noise stopped. Whew!

I drove directly to the Mercedes dealership and explained the problem. They said they’d take a look at it. I handed over the keys and an employee drove my car up the ramp to the service department. That was when the honking sound went off again, this time for a prolonged period. I got a loaner car and left.

Late that afternoon I got a call from Mercedes, informing me that my car was ready for pickup and the problem was resolved. Thankfully, it was under full warranty.

Curious, I asked the woman the cause of the problem. She paused. Trying to subdue her laughter, she simply told me that I would find out when I came down to pick up the car. Then she burst into uncontrollable giggles. Now I was really curious.

I hurried to pick up my car, not just because I wanted my car, but mostly because I had to find out what was so funny! The woman chuckled as she handed me the invoice. Clearly stated, in bold letters, was this simple description of the cause of the problem: Loose nut behind the steering wheel.

Rebecca Woodland
Mid-1990’s

NIGHT VISITORS

Dusk settled peacefully over the African plain. Exhausted, we pitched our canvas tents on a grassy bluff over-looking a quiet pool far away from any sign of humanity. Darkness crept in. Stars glittered like phosphorescence in a sea of sky. Lying on top of our sleeping bags, we gazed at the spectacle through the mesh screen of our canvas tent until our drowsy bodies succumbed to slumber.

It did not last long. Unrecognizable noises startled us awake. Moving closer to our camp, the sounds grew louder, like the growl of a Harley-Davidson approaching. But we were off-road, and the sounds multiplied. Who or what was making this noise? How close was the source? Were we actually as safe as we had felt when we first set up camp? Perhaps we should have camped “legally” in the designated campsite, in spite of the dusty, overcrowded conditions. We held our breath, afraid to make a sound.

The volume increased, changing direction and closing in on our camp. Now, instead of the sounds of a roaring motorcycle, we heard splashing, wheezing, plodding, and rumbling. Curiosity got the best of us. Peeking through the netting of our tent, we saw our visitors: Dozens of elephants playing in the water, spraying, splashing, drinking, and frolicking like happy children. We had set up camp directly in the path of the herd’s evening migration to “their” watering hole.

Gradually, the sounds subsided and one by one these colossal creatures plodded through the water, across the grass, heading straight for our camp. By now they were only a few feet from our tent. We held our breath. We were helpless in the face of these gentle giants.

Our tent was the old-fashioned kind, with stakes and guy-wires. We prayed that the elephants would not accidentally misstep, walk into a guy-wire, or “trip” on a stake. Did they even see the stakes or the guy-wires? We did not expect to be harassed by our visitors, but we desperately hoped they would be careful where they stepped! One misplaced foot could be disastrous. Besides the danger of an elephant falling and crushing our tent (with us inside), the more likely danger could be that such a stumble would cause a stampede. A stampede of creatures whose individual weight averaged four or five tons.

We watched and listened breathlessly as the elephants wandered ever closer, feasting on the luscious grass surrounding our tent. The increasing noise of masticating elephants masked the sound of our pounding hearts. It felt like I held my breath for a good half hour.

When they had eaten their fill, the elephants slowly wended their way, single-file, past our tent and into the night. I took a deep, grateful breath.

These gracious animals had honoured us with their presence.

Rebecca Woodland
(Kenya, 1980)