I started writing
Soap Opera in August 1994 to fullfill an assignment in a one-week class,
Image-Making Within the Writing Process. I've edited the story ever since. While first working on it in 1994, I was thinking about my friend, Cathie, who died that April; aspects of her personality run through the story. Soap Opera seemed to come through me; I was surprised that it was in rhyme!
Sadly, the entire story, illustrations and all, disappeared for a year or two. In December 2004, I found the story minus the illustrations. I believe the illustrations were accidentally thrown out with the trash.
[Good News! The illustrations were uncovered about two years later. To see them, click the "soap opera" label (at the end of this entry or in the label cloud to the right).] The illustrations can be replaced with something new. But, I'm glad I found the story. While I always remembered the katydids' advice, I never could have recreated the full text.
Soap Opera
Curtains slap a tango rhythm
that was sent upon a breeze.
Water rushes from the faucet;
building bubbles in the sink,
sparkling and sliding
over saucers, cups and plates.
It’s time for something magic
at this sudsy kitchenscape.
Bubbles lifting to the window
linger for one final glance
of the checkered counter pattern
before rushing out to dance . . .
. . . through the forest in my backyard
on a cool and zesty breeze
past tree trunks, twigs and branches,
darting over leaves.
They rush in festive silence
through a cool and darkened glen
over rock and earth and boulder
bound in ancient sleep
dreaming of the future
and places further deep.
The opalescent travelers
Continue on their way
Deeper through the forest –
first a zig
and then a zag . . .
. . . to an old and lovely tree
standing like a flag
with roots that run quite deep
for a century or more
in faithful embrace
with earth . . . and rock . . . and ore.
They’ve reached their destination.
They’re really just in time!
They’re grateful they’ve not missed
a performance so sublime.
Presto, now! Move quickly!
The conductor hates to wait!
Her baton is poised and ready.
“It’s time to take your place!”
Tree branches part like curtains.
The conductor gives her cue.
The garden stage is set
against a sky of blue.
The overture is opened
with a blast of trumpet vine.
The melody is struck
from a caterpillar’s spine.
While he munches on his dinner,
the diva starts to sing –Late summer is an opera
with its sizzle and its heat,
its vibrancy and color,
and flowers smelling sweet.
It’s a magic combination of
steam and sun and rain,
lushness and beauty,
and that awful twinge of pain
when we know it’s almost over –
and don’t know what to do.
The katydids will tell us
that we only have once choice –
“Surrender to abundance,
embrace it while it lasts,
give thanks for having seen it
and hold its memory fast.”
The diva takes her bow.
The audience applauds
as she floats up to a rain cloud,
on the magic of her song.
Bubbles melt and splatter
in a brief and gentle rain,
leave their sparkle and their color
to ease our autumn pain.
Curtains slap a tango rhythm that was sent upon a breeze. Water rushes from the faucet building bubbles in the sink, sparkling and sliding over saucers, cups and plates. It’s time for something magic at this sudsy kitchenscape. 
. . . through the forest in my backyard on a cool and zesty breeze past tree trunks, twigs and branches, darting over leaves. 
They rush in festive silence through a cool and darkened glen over rock and earth and boulder bound in ancient sleep, dreaming of the future and places further deep. 
. . . to an old and lovely tree standing like a flag with roots that run quite deep for a century or more in faithful embrace with earth . . . and rock . . . and ore.
Surrounded by a garden, filled with flower, fruit, and bee, humming with the rhythm of their own vitality. 
Presto, now! 
Tree branches part like curtains. The conductor gives her cue. The garden stage is set against a sky of blue. The overture is opened with a blast of trumpet vine. The melody is struck from a caterpillar’s spine. While he munches on his dinner . . .
. . . the diva starts to sing – 
The diva takes her bow. The audience applauds as she floats up to a rain cloud, on the magic of her song. 
