Vicki Windle

Vicki Windle

Vicki Windle, who lives in Casper, is this month’s featured member. She joined us at the WyoPoets’ open mic April 18, 2014, in Casper. When her name was called, she bounded to the stage with such excitement to be a part of this event. Remember the joy of sharing a new poem or finding a fellow poet’s work that captures a moment or a place? Read on to see her response to “What are your writing rituals?” You’ll see how that exuberance manifests itself in her poetry.

As a teen, I wove poetry from ribbons of longing, bound with angst. Then I became “an adult”. I succeeded after decades of working, studying, parenting, teaching, and struggling to ascend the escarpment of being a solid member of society. I retired in 2013 after 32 years of teaching elementary school and with a master’s degree in early childhood.

I discovered that putting my head down and pushing was a good way to reach my goals, but I missed some scenery. In 2006, I started traveling to Peru, Italy, the Caribbean, the Galapagos Islands, London, and Hawaii.

A writing class at Casper College in 2010 set me on fire. The writer in me had been cocooned for too long and burst forth -- whole. Although I’ve been writing for only these last four years, I have a deep well of experiences from which to draw.

I belong to the Casper Writers’ Group and WyoPoets, I have read at the Metro Coffee House, The Art of Coffee, and the Nicolaysen Art Museum all in Casper, Wyoming, and at the Patris Art Studio in Sacramento, California. Two of my poems, “October” and “Timeless” were recently published in the WyoPoets’ Weather Watch; Poems of Wyoming. My friend Cory McDaniel and I performed for ArtCore’s Music and Poetry series in 2011. Cory and I will again perform at 7:30 p.m. on July 21, 2014 at the Metro Coffee House in Casper.

I enjoy reading poetry because I find its brevity and directness transcendent. Writing poetry is the only way I can put words magical and profound enough to describe the feelings I have for what I see in the world.

I don’t know if random writings at 3:00 a.m. or leaping from the shower to scribe with an eyebrow pencil on the bathroom mirror qualify as rituals. The poem below came from one of these profound moments.


Sometimes I Wax

Warm clay pearls fall
from an undone chain of random thought,
rolling, scattering, pooling
in my heart,
and lungs,
and tongue.

Then
with point of pen
and thread of ink
upon a page
restrung.

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