Pythian Games

put on your track shoes and write the miles

Posts Tagged ‘Lori Gloyd

I Am: The Poem

with 14 comments

I am from tuna fish sandwiches on Wonder Bread,
from Barbie dolls and Stingrays with banana seats.

I am from the rough stucco walls of a small tract house,
baking in the sun of a golden land.

I am from palm trees and sweet gardenia,
from juicy lemons plucked from a backyard tree.

I am from opening presents on Christmas eve
and then again on Christmas morning.

I am from roaming tribes of barbarians,
hardscrabble Yankees and Indiana farmers,
from grips and greensmen on the MGM lot,
from women who made egg custard in blue willow cups.

I am from raucous laughter and bawdy jokes,
from straight-shooting, between-the-eyes honesty.

I am from “what goes around, comes around”
and “everything happens for a reason”.

I am from Congregationalists, Lutherans, Baptists and Mormons.
I am from mediums who had séances in the parlor.
I am by the Book but respect all others who chose a different way.
I glory in the revelation of nature.

I am from a father who took me to the library three times a week.
I am from a mother who drew whipped cream smiley faces on pancakes when I was sick.

I am from faded photographs of straight-laced women in Victorian skirts,
from ancestors I do not know except from notes in a plastic box.

I live in the shadow of the Greatest Generation striving to make a mark in my own.

L. Gloyd © 2008

Written by Pelican1

March 20, 2008 at 3:39 am

Posted in Identity Poems

Tagged with

Virtual Gallery

with 3 comments

Please take a walk through a virtual gallery of my artwork.

L.Gloyd (c) 2008

Written by Pelican1

March 9, 2008 at 12:54 am

Posted in Videos

Tagged with

Identity Poem– Matriarchs

with 2 comments


A winter moon becomes your face,
her ancient grace rising full in your eyes,
with Celtic fire in your veins
and poetry in your heart you sing
songs of pain and jubilee.
Countless women share with you

the obvious brown of mousy hair,
a thin gray streak becomes a road,
a sacred path rising high to your temple.
Your arms upheld in righteous praise,
in salute to women at the well.
No wispy form like an aspen tree

caught in a quickening autumn breeze,
you are an unbending oak, planted strong,
planted deep, tapping the wisdom
of your covenant mothers, roots sunk deep
to God’s wellspring of unending beauty,
a beauty born of dust and watered by tears.

L.Gloyd (c) 1998, 2008

Here are the women whose bloodline has made me strong.  My mother is on the far right.

L. Gloyd (c) 2008

Written by Pelican1

March 9, 2008 at 12:32 am

Posted in Identity Poems

Tagged with

To Whom Much is Given

with 4 comments

by Lori Gloyd

Inspired By The Alluvial Mine Project: Divining Rods


Laurel-Ann perched herself on a large granite stone under the dying oak tree. Pale brown leaves, dried and curling, fell around her like a papery snowfall. Waves of heat shimmered from the ground. She grimaced as she fingered the brass tubing of the divining rods she held in her hands. I never should have come up here, she thought, but Great-Aunt Maybelle had called and so nagged her that she found herself jumping the next flight to SeaTac and renting a car. The drive up to Pierce Valley on the Road was slow and winding and gave her plenty of time to think.Her ancestors in the old country, she had been told, received the Gift of dowsing and used it serve their communities. It was an honored profession and, presumably, it had been passed down the generations, first to the farming New Englanders and then on to the NorthWesterners when then came to the mining camps.

Great-Grandpa Horace had helped the miners find their veins of gold but when the mines played out, Horace settled on farming and used his dowsing skills to sink wells into an ever-changing water table. The Gift had been passed to his daughter Bernice and then to Aunt Sally. Both had been dead for several years.

It was said that Laurel-Ann was the One with the Gift, but she did not want it. The Gift was no longer the honored profession of her ancestors. As a child she had endured the whispers and the side-ways glances. Once, she flattened a classmate, Lewis, who had called her “Water-Witch” and had beaned her with a loaded water balloon. As soon as she was old enough, she left Pierce Valley to make her way in the big city down south.

But now drought had come again to Pierce Creek, which had become a mere trickle, and the farmsteads of the Valley were thirsting for water. The community leaders, some of whom as children had taunted her in school, had come to Great-Aunt Maybelle and pleaded for her to help them. Maybelle could not. She did not have the Gift. Cousin Rodney tried his hand at it until, unfortunately, he dowsed the septic line at the Mayor’s farmstead and filled the entire lower Valley with noxious odors when they drilled the well.

It was then that Maybelle called her.

“Honey, we need you– they need you. You must put aside your feelings and help these people. You have the Gift. You are the One. “

Maybelle pleaded and then argued with Laurel-Ann for nearly an hour and then finally ended the call with “Mind you, ‘For of those to whom much is given, much is required’”.

“Oh, all right, I’ll come!” Laurel-Ann always caved in whenever Aunt-Maybelle quoted the Book.

When Laurel-Ann arrived at the farm, she was quickly whisked away by Rodney and Maybelle. They rattled up the Road in Rodney’s old pick-up towards to the Mayor’s place.

“He’s worst off,” said Rodney. “If we can make him happy, I figure we’ll get clients lined up from all over the Valley.”

“Rodney, we do NOT charge for our services”, said Maybelle. “Never have, never will” she warned. “And don’t make that face, Rodney…..Here we are. Laurel-Ann, honey, you just go have a seat under the tree and compose yourself. You remember how Aunt Sally taught you, right now?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Good, here are Aunt Sally’s rods.” Laurel-Ann took the rods and slid out of the pickup. She crunched through the dead leaves to the tree and sat down on the rock.

A few minutes later, Laurel-Ann heard the sound of voices. They were coming. A lot of them. It seems half the Valley had shown up to watch, including Lewis who had never quite forgiven her for beating the daylights out of him up when they were kids.

Laurel-Ann sighed and lifted the rods. She felt the thin rods resting lightly in her hands. She stood up, shifted one way and then another, taking a few steps forward and swinging around. She heard murmuring from the crowd. She glanced up and glared at the crowd.

“It’s alright, honey, just relax. You can do it,” urged Maybelle.

Laurel-Anne refocused and tried to remember what Sally had taught her. She felt the rods begin to vibrate. She felt compelled to turn to the left and head away from the tree.

The Mayor shouted, “Hey, where’s she going? I need that well sunk here, not way over there. It’ll cost a fortune to pipe that water from way out there.”

“Ah, don’t worry Harold”, chimed Lewis, “she’s not going to find a thing.”

“Yes, she can!” Rodney turned to Lewis and the Mayor and began to argue with them.

Laurel-Ann tuned out the exchange. Her attention was fully focused on the divining rods in her hands. They were crossing and un-crossing. She turned and stopped. They crossed again. Then the rods pulled downward. She felt the power coming up from the earth through her feet, through her body, down her arms and to the rods. The rods began to get warm. She had found water.

“Hey, look at her. She doesn’t know diddly-squat.” shouted Lewis.

“Shut up!”

“Losers– all of you!!” With that Rodney rushed towards Lewis and shoved him in the chest. “I said, Shut up!”

Laurel-Ann’s attention was drawn back to the group. The momentary glow of her success faded away as she saw the two men struggling with each other. She threw the rods to the ground and stomped towards the Road.

Maybelle called to her: “Laurel-Ann, where are you going?”

“Home. I don’t need this. It’s exactly what I said it would be.”

“You can’t leave. They need you!”

“They don’t deserve anything! They deserve to rot!”

Lewis gave Rodney a huge shove that sent him sprawling to the ground, and then shouted after Laurel-Ann. “See? Look at her run away. WITCH!”

Laurel-Anne broke into a run and headed down the Road, the jeers of the crowd in her ears. The last thing she heard was Maybelle yelling: “You can’t leave! Much is required. You are the One!” Laurel-Anne covered her ears and continued running.

When she was out of ear-shot, Laurel-Ann slowed down. Breathing heavily she finally stopped. She was at a low point in the Road, where a dry gully cut across it. In the rainy season, the Road was often washed out at this point. She sat down on a large boulder on the side of the Road.

Maybelle’s words echoed in her mind: “To whom much is given, much is required.”

“No! Not from me!”

A rumble from the mountain echoed through the Valley and large drops began to spatter on the hot pavement. Good, they don’t need me afterall. They’ll get a good soaker and that’ll be that.

The wind picked up and the rumbling grew louder and more constant. That’s not thunder she thought. The leaves swirled around her as the wind turned into a gale. The rain began blowing sideways, stinging her face and arms, and the rumbling grew louder. Laurel-Ann got up from the boulder and turned around, looking for some sort of cover.

That’s when she saw the enormous wall of raging water come crashing down the gully towards her.

No one ever knew what became of Laurel-Ann– not that they gave her much thought. Their water problems were over, it seemed, at least for a while. The rains returned, the water table rose, and Pierce Creek flowed.

But Maybelle knew: to whom much is given, much is required– one way or another.

L. Gloyd (c) 2006

Written by Pelican1

April 18, 2007 at 2:43 am

Posted in Short Story Arena

Tagged with

A Winter Solstice Jam

with 5 comments

I was asked to design an invitation to our “Winter Solstice Party” (formerly known as our Office Christmas Party).  I decided to go with an American SouthWest theme featuring Kokopelli.  Kokopelli was originally a fertility deity.  Today he is more associated with fun, frivolity, and music.  He is also another representation of the Trickster archetype.   Typically, he is seen dancing with a flute.  Since our party will feature drumming and other percussion instruments, I adapted Kokopelli by giving him a drum. 

 Anyway, this is all just for fun and I thought I’d post it here at the Pythian Games.

Image:  L. Gloyd (c) 2006

Written by Pelican1

October 13, 2006 at 9:51 pm

Posted in Art

Tagged with