Phoetry: Words and Pictures

My husband and I recently watched a movie called “Words and Pictures”, and it was mildly entertaining.  I am always interested in checking out a flick if one of the main characters is a writer, but you can’t beat “Misery”.  However, “W&P” was different.  The plot was about a male English teacher, and a female art teacher at a preppy high school, who start a war over words vs. pictures, which is more important?  Of course, there’s the whole “A picture is equal to 1000 words”, and an asinine love story (only thing I liked about it was that the woman was disabled and the man, though highly intelligent, was otherwise an average Joe).  It was one of those movies that focused more on creating quirky characters than characters you felt for, related to.  It was supposed to answer a question which no one asks because we all know the answer to it:  They are both equal, but different (like men and women).

I’ve just refreshed my Twitter account (according to most publishers, you need to have a strong online presence with Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter), and this movie (and this scholarship opp:  http://www.1800wheelchair.com/scholarship/) gave me an idea.  I would combine photography with brief poetry; while my photography is nothing to brag about, it gets the point across.  I do this because we are visual creatures and a phopoem (a poem on a photo) will catch a Twitterbug’s eye more than just a tweet.  I’ve already posted a few plain photos of poems (see:  https://twitter.com/SarahLeaSales), but this is my first “poetic thought” with a background.  I do believe it provides a nice contrast (I’ve always liked newsprint, etc., as a background).

Mightier than swords

Submission for Birkenstock scholarship

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So I found this scholarship opportunity on Chegg:  “Write about the best shoes you have ever had or your grandmother’s beautiful toes. Just be interesting or educate us in 400-1000 words,” and this is what I came up with:

The Red Slip-Ons:  A 5-Minute Memoir

I’m a flip-flop and bikini top kind of woman (meaning I don’t do bras or high heels).  I’m five four with a size ten foot.  I’d been a size nine till I had my daughter Hannah.  Now I can’t wear my shoes or my clothes.

Every woman has a favorite pair of shoes.  Big feet don’t make you cry in the dressing room.  No woman ever asks, “Do these shoes make my feet look fat?”  However, I won’t wear those with pointed-toes—they seem like corsets for feet.

It was a day that Target was having a clearance sale.  It was the end of summer, and their flip-flops were all half-off.  A ruby-red pair with red sequins had caught my eye.  A combination of retail therapy and Starbucks caffeine had made me heady, and I wondered if they’d put something special in my brownie.

It was starting to sprinkle outside and the smoky violet sky made me think of Liz Taylor’s eyes.  I’d tossed my crappy flip-flappies into the receptacle out front (near the big red balls some teenage girls were bouncing on) and worn these out.  They matched my retro red toenail polish.

I went to the car and rolled down the window, letting my feet dangle over the side, the cool breeze blowing through my toes.  The new shoes felt great.  Now I just needed a pedi.  That was the problem with open-toed shoes, they required foot care.  No mangled pinky toenails or hairy halluces.  I must have spaced out for a minute, for the next, there were a couple of guys passing by, chatting about Emerald City, rather animatedly.  I called out, unable to help myself, “Are you going to see the Wizard?”  They looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said, “Lady, you’re in the land of Oz.”

They walked off, laughing.  When my husband came out with our daughter and a bag of Moose Munch, I told him of the exchange, and he laughed.

“Oh, that’s a gay bar downtown,” he said, and I shook my head.  “They have great drag shows.”

I looked over at Pensacola’s self-proclaimed Moses on one corner, holding up an Israeli flag, and then over at some creepy ass cracker on the other, holding up a cardboard sign saying, “Cracker needs help”. Only in Lower Alabama (or L.A., as the locals call it), I think.

“You know something, Brian, there are times when I think we really are in the Land of Oz.”

Submission for Fifth Month Scholarship

A World Without 5

Five is an important number, in more ways than one (make that 5).
If 5 didn’t exist, then high fives would cease to exist,
& morale would take a high dive.

We would either have too many fingers or too few toes,
& starfish would be an X without an O.

We wouldn’t have the 5 golden rings like in “The Twelve Days of Christmas”—
the one with the pear & the bird in the tree—
& the whole refrain would sound quite the same.

We’d be missing some nickels at 5 cents,
& the Five-&-Dime wouldn’t have made sense.

There would be Four Ws, but probably no H,
& so no one would know how to do anything
or how the hell anything happened to do.

None of us would have a clue.
The 5-second rule would cease to exist,
for 4 wouldn’t be long enough,
& 6 would be enough too long.

Everything would have to be tossed,
& the world would be turned inside-out,
& right-side wrong.

That said, no longer would the letter S be seen as a 5—
they would no longer have to co-exist,
& it is only in this way that the number 5 would not be missed.