Diana Bancroft

 B–  Miss Understood      The Bluetooth Sony speaker, with the rave lights flashing red and amber to the guitar-pumping beat of Joan Jett growling “Bad Reputation” on a Saturday, bounced off the walls well past the time I typically fall asleep binge watching reruns of a sitcom from the 1990s. Inspiration came from short videos of women adding whimsy and color to their own homes so I stood on a stool painting the walls of my laundry room. It’s more of a closet, really, but I never had a separate room or closet for my washer and dryer before I bought my house so I prefer to call it a room. Especially after the makeover I gave it with burgundy colored paint. Yes, burgundy. I had removed all the clutter, rolls of paper towels, poorly folded blankets, bottles of cleaning supplies, rags and more. The space, with its two bifold paneled doors had become a catch all for clutter. Unopened mail, unfinished to-do lists, business cards I never refer to–out of sight, out of ...

Honoring Jan– The Barefoot Girl ( Lyrics to Like a Stone by Audioslave in italics, woven between the lines of an original poem.) Shadows fade as pearls of dew blush . . . and there you led me on unbridled, bareback, and barefoot apple-cheeked and artless ripples dimple the dark glass and water striders breathe their last breaking her reflection with pendulous bare feet and line she casts . . . in dreams until my death chasing mystic water rainbows . . . lost in the pages of a book filled with brittle gray memories bent corners frame her withered apple face . . . reading how we'll die alone a marker saves your last page . . . on I read until the day was gone . . . in regret of all things    Buzzards plunge and pierce . . . the sky was bruised tearing hollow remains . . . the wine was bled . . . on a cobweb afternoon they strip the bones clean, selling the spurned to the highest bidder          essence of stardust of...

 B–Wild-- On the showroom floor of a small motorcycle shop where Main Street transitions into Fairview, a five year old girl was hoisted onto the seat of a Triumph dirt bike. She leaned her body over the gas tank as she had seen her father do. Gripping the handlebars, her hand twisted the right grip to full throttle. …braap…braap…braap… Sprays of spit misted her lips as she raced the stationary motorcycle around an imagined track. A few feet away, ex-racers and hangers-on congregated around the desk of their tobacco-pipe smoking chief. Pipe and cigarette smoke mingled overhead as they drank coffee and bragged of past glories. Their words floated up into the blue haze and beyond, fortifying the rafters of Buzz Chaney’s Triumph motorcycle shop. Alvin “Buzz” Chaney in front of his shop in Boise, Idaho. (c.1950)      My father was one of those ex-racers, the little girl, was me. Most of my days before first grade were spent like this. First, a short stack of hotcakes dri...

“And you may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"                                                       David Byrne, Talking Heads and you may find yourself                seen as a # like gov’ment issued boots or worker B or lined-up “take a # pls” or cast as a tally of a bally-box or a                series of ones no one sees or the # everyone, ‘cept U, sees                Except you, when you see a radically bitchin’ chick whose                tick has tocked and think, no way that's moi!?                what’s yer damage, man? but I ...

 B fearless Over a weekend in September (9/18-21) I was fortunate enough to attend the Sawtooth Writing Retreat  17 miles outside of Ketchum,  in central Idaho. When I first arrived on Thursday, the imposter that lives rent free in my head shouted, FLEE!  I'm very grateful to say that I was able mute the imposter's voice and connected with writers, all in various places in their writing journeys. It was such a memorable experience! I participated in workshops lead by knowledgeable, published authors, attended a fascinating panel discussion about wildfires, and screwed up my courage to participate in open-mic night by reading an original creative work near and dear to my heart, It's Our Nature . The piece has bits of introspection mingled with humor, and I was overjoyed when people laughed in the appropriate places. I have been told my voice within the piece lends to its authenticity. (I will share this piece of creative writing another time.) My favorite part had to...

 B lyrical   ( da-DUM da- D UM da-DUM d a-DUM da-DUM) I feel that poetry has a bad rep. Unless surrounded by other writers, when I tell people, "I write poetry", I can almost see them cringe! Traditional forms of poetry can be painful to read. Themes of love, longing, and loss can be overly sentimental, antiquated, and even cliche. While there is nothing wrong with tradition or sentimentalism, poetry need not be painful or cringy. Traditional forms aside, we can't all be Shakespeare, master of the Sonnet.  One way to reframe poetry's bad reputation is to view poems like they are song lyrics,. Much like traditional poetry, songs can have an agenda or a underlying message, or they draw out memories, or they simply entertain. The key is, both lyrics and poetry evoke feelings. These are different based on perception, perspective, and what each individual finds relatable. In other words, as art, both are subjective. No Rules I prefer creating poetry using the less confin...