POET
CHILDREN’S BOOK WRITER
WORD GAMES CONSTRUCTOR
ESSAYIST
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Diane Judge is a member of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective. Her poems have been published in these journals – Black Magnolias Literary Journal, Backbone Poetry Journal, 34th Parallel, Obsidian: Literature in the African Diaspora, Frogpond and Poetry South. She has also contributed poems to five anthologies (pictured at left), Remembrances of Wars Past, edited by Henry Tonn; Black Gold: An Anthology of Black Poetry, edited by Ja A. Jahannes; Obama-Mentum: An Anthology of Transformational Poetry, edited by Abdul-Rasheed Na'Allah; The Elizabeth Keckley Reader: Volume Two, edited by Sheila Smith McKoy; and All the Songs We Sing, edited by Lenard D. Moore. She is also an essayist (see two of her essays below). Diane is a longtime fan of authors Carole Boston Weatherford and Marilyn Nelson, two great writers of biographies in verse. Diane is currently working on her first book, a middle grade biography in verse.
ESSAYS
Me 1, Squirrels 0!
One day, I saw a mysterious hole in my plastic trash bin. Inside, the bags looked like they had been clawed open. I figured it was an animal and started scanning my yard for a bear.
I mean, clawed open = bear, right? So I looked for a bear. After I retreated to the safety of my kitchen, of course.
I later put duct tape over the hole. The mysterious animal gnawed through that, too. There wasn't much of the tape left so evidently it was mighty tasty.
Next, I ordered a new trash bin. It arrived before I researched solutions to my problem (did I mention that I'm the Princess of Procrastinators?). The next morning, I found a hole in that one, too.
Later that same morning, I saw five squirrels scurrying toward my neighbor's
trash bin which was on the curb for pick-up. They scampered up in about two leaps, synchronized like swimmers, and disappeared inside. I waited for them to emerge, but I guess that party of five knew how to party hardy. I couldn't wait around so I didn't see how manyleft with a sugar high.
But that sighting made me realize that they were the holey terrors who had ruined my trash bin.
I know you just rolled your eyes and went DUH! But everybody can't be as smart as squirrels.
Anyway I finally researched how to keep them out of my trash. The solutions seemed worse than the problem - various peppery sprays or serious poisons that might make this geezer a wheezer or worse.
Finally, I read about a simple, easy solution. Get an old-fashioned tin trash can! So I did. Now, although I have to store the bags in the tin can, then transfer them on trash day, I am happy to do it. Because the synchronized squirrels have moved on to greener homeowners.
Felines and Fiction
Every morning the first thing I do when I wander into the living room is look to the sun to wake me up completely. I go to the picture window, open my blinds and peer out to see if there are rays dancing across my property. There were. It was a gorgeous day.
As my eyes wandered the grounds of my small property, only large enough to have a ranch house and a two-car driveway, I spot a cat standing motionless near one of my large ??? trees. For some reason, it’s right front paw is lifted in the air as if it hurts.
The cat is still motionless, but it is staring straight ahead, that right paw suspended for no reason I can tell. It’s not lifting it’s paw to lick a wound. It’s not gallivanting nose-high past my house in disdain. But something is off.
As I keep staring, puzzled, that lifted leg makes an almost indiscernible move. It is a very, very small move, but my sun-alert brain perceives it. I watch some more and realize the cat is lowering that leg slower than slow motion. All the while, its gaze is straight ahead, intent.
I follow the path of the cat’s gaze, yet I cannot see what has him mesmerized yet moving so slowly. It’s like the Flash in reverse. He’s moving, but the motion is hard to discern.
I move a little further to the right and look again.
That’s when I see it!
There is a rabbit only a few feet from the cat. It, too, is still. Try as I might I cannot discern any motion at all coming from it. I realize the cat is on the hunt like its cousin the lion might be right at this moment on the African savanna. And perhaps the rabbit is frozen by the intent stare of death from this domesticated cat whose ancient instincts this poor rabbit triggered.
I don’t want to see the natural ending of this, so I rush to my front door and open it. Before I can get the storm door open, both animals bolt. The chase is on! I never found out the outcome of that chase but I hope the rabbit got away. I can only imagine the horror if the cat took Peter Rabbit home to its owner as a gift.
This whole scene reminds me so much of my writing struggles. There are many days that the work seems to stand still. An idea is poised to pounce, but makes no move. Words sit temptingly in front of me, but they are slow to arrange themselves into sense and beauty that I cannot see any progress. I am transfixed, unmoving, waiting for them to leap from my brain onto the page and grip me with their lyricism. I am afraid of that moment, yet I want it to be inevitable. Of course, it’s not as inevitable as a cat chasing a rabbit.
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POET
CHILDREN’S BOOK WRITER
WORD GAMES CONSTRUCTOR
ESSAYIST