Storyteller of the Week

 Lauren McBride

  

 Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science, and membership in the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA).

Nominated for the Best of the Net, Pushcart, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars Awards, her poetry has appeared internationally in speculative and mainstream publications for young adults and adults, including Asimov's and Fantasy & Science Fiction.

Her chapbook, Aliens, Magic, and Monsters, was published in 2023 by Hiraeth Publishing.

https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/aliens-magic-and-monsters-by-lauren-mcbride

 She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing, and knitting scarves for our troops.

Comments by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson

I have been a fan of Lauren McBride’s poetry for years because we both publish on Your Daily Poem. But what really impressed me about Lauren was that when she found out from Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, editor of Your Daily Poem, in May 2023 that I was looking for narrative poets she read the journal to see if her poems would fit, she told me she enjoyed my poems and comments on other poems on Your Daily Poem and she agreed with me when I told her that I believed you can tell a lot about a poet by reading their poetry. She sent me poems that showed her philosophy, her upbringing, her career and her faith. This first poem explains why she chose not to include an author photo:


Just Words

Who is essentially me –
my picture?
Or the pictures I paint
with my words?
Poems and prose -
lined up in rows.
Some are his story
some are hers -
all just words.

Is the eye the sole
window to the soul?
Or does writing
share more,
bare more,
lay naked the heart
by words penned?
Choose carefully:
may befriend
or offend.

We leave behind
our reflection
when we reflect
our thoughts
onto the page.
Height, weight, sex, age
matter not!
Ideas the truest measure -
words our gift,
our treasure.


Tide Pools and Cold Waves

Crouched beside Dad, my two brothers and I stare, fascinated
as he points to odd creatures in a seaweed-smothered rocky pool:
periwinkle, limpet, mussel, barnacle, hermit crab, sea urchin, sea star…
Excitedly we investigate as random patches of skin missed by
sun block bake mercilessly red like paint on aging wooden buildings
near the shore. We tire of climbing on rocks and cross the sandy,
pebble-strewn beach to retreat from brilliant sunshine under
our striped umbrella where our grandparents are helping
Mom serve a picnic lunch. A fly finds my cup of milk
while a gentle breeze beckons fine sand grains to join
my sandwich. My brothers and I grow restless from “resting”
in the shade. We beg Dad to take us to the ice cream truck where
we begin a race against time to enjoy our treats before they melt.
As always, small sweet streams begin to flow over our hands
and down our arms to drip off elbows to the sand. We lick salty,
sticky fingers and run back down the beach to join the others
already testing the water. The boys dive under quickly.
Mom, Gram and I wade in, legs protesting the cold. Someone
splashes us and before long we are riding waves and laughing
as we each try to glide the farthest. Worn-out and water-wrinkled,
my brothers decide to build a sand castle: more of a moat around
a mound, which strongly resembles an overturned pail of wet sand.
Mom and I stroll along the beach picking up pebbles until we find
those few we will take home.
                       Too soon we leave.
Sand- and salt-encrusted, we perch on towels stretched across
hot car seats for the short ride back to our grandparents’
Colonial where we will feast on lobster, steamed clams,
corn on the cob, warm bread and blueberry pie. I am famished,
but before we are allowed inside Dad must rinse us clean.
I scramble with my brothers to be first in line for the hose.
Sun-warmed water feels soothing on sandy, sunburned skin before
the flow turns shockingly cold. Last again today, I squeal and jump
as chilly water washes over me, a reminder of the ocean waiting
for me tomorrow, and next summer and all summers to come
when I will bring my children to the shore for picnics
and ice cream and hours of play in tide pools and cold waves.


Lonely Snow

Muffled crunch of warm, booted feet
in deep snow, new-fallen;
each step echoes softly
over the tranquil white carpet.

Icy wind stings my face.
Crisp air numbs my nose -
paints roses on pale winter skin.

Townsfolk see my red frozen fingers
snapping pictures out in the snow.
They hurry between warm buildings -
shake their heads wondering,
“Tourist? Photographer?”

No – a lonely grad student
away at school, determined to capture
fields, trees and stonewalls,
edges blurred beneath
a fresh blanket of snow,
quiet and empty.

Yet I would trade this picturesque scene
for one quick glimpse of home,
or my family nearby
sharing this beauty,
walking beside me.

Boots sink with each step,
as I stray from the deserted path
to a snow-covered pond,
pristine, untouched.

I’ll send pictures -
solitary footprints across the snow;
a stately pine, tall and proud
laden with white branches,
sighing in the wind;
alone.


Research: Its Own Reward

Like yesteryear's
mariners, today's
deep sea divers,

moon walkers,
Hubble watchers,
Mars rover drivers -

gifted that magical moment:
a successful experiment run -
results revealed;

becoming briefly
the world's expert,
blessed with knowledge

brand-new
to share
with all of humanity.


Letter Perfect

If I could proofread your
letters of life
coded by codons within -
scan trios of ATCG
with eraser tightly in hand
I would not care
if your eyes were blue,
but wish only that you could see;
nor hope for an Olympian,
but for a heartbeat and
strong lungs to breathe.
Ten fingers, ten toes
that’s all I ask
if I could proofread your code -
not to rewrite what is to be you,
but to find and edit typos.
If I could peer into your mind
watch your DNA unwind -
I would not search for genius,
content if I found happiness.
That’s all I ask for your story -
let it read happy and healthy,         
coded by codons within.


The Silent Swing

The little swing now hangs so still
outside my kitchen windowsill
where children once went flying high
with bare feet stretching to the sky
while singing in serene delight -
now silence in the autumn light.

The faithful rusty chains still show
the signs where little hands did grow.
With higher reach, each left their mark
till time demanded they depart.
Time marches on. Do children know
how parents hate for them to go?

Bright, happy days too soon replaced
with lonely hours, routine pace.
Parental duties done, complete,
rewarded with an empty seat.
With children bravely on their way,
no hug nor kiss come close of day.

If only time could grant a wish -
to spend a day with those we miss,
a day where songs and laughter last
and time stops rushing by so fast.


All God’s Children

On wet, wavy worlds
of vast oceans
where air is deadly
and all living things
breathe water
do the sentient envision
angels with gills
and without wings
swimming through
the heavens?
And here on Earth,
might similar images
comfort the
finned intellects
swimming through
our oceans?
Who am I to know?
Yet surely, when in death,
such beings join
heaven’s angels,
they, too, enter through
universal pearly gates. 

“Just Words” first appeared in Word Slaw, under the pen name, Elizabeth L. Collins, “Tide Pools and Cold Waves,” “Research its Own Reward,” and “The Silent Swing” in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review. “Letter Perfect” in Star*Line, “Lonely Snow” in Emerald Tales and “All God’s Children” in American Diversity Report.