Outside Ann's Cafe

Sadly, Ann's Cafe is just a memory now.

While it was there on Watervliet Avenue, though, it was an oasis, a welcoming refuge along the route of our morning walks.

During the cold months we sat inside, in the embrace of all those delicious cooking aromas.

On milder days we enjoyed the freedom of the tables on the sidewalk, the sounds of passing traffic, the wafting blandishments of wonderful baked goods coming from inside.

Oh, the memories, the sweet memories we have of that place.

The poem:

OUTSIDE ANN'S CAFE

The cars
go purring past
while we enjoy
the morning cool
on the sidewalk
at Ann's Cafe.

It's too pretty
to stay inside,
we say, settling
into our chairs
like two tired
teddy bears.

The sweet smell
of baked goods
comes stealing out
to where we sit,
tempting us, but
we are steadfast,
unmoved by this.

The steady click
of our spoons,
the clunk of cups
against the glass
tabletop give
more than adequate
testimony
to our resolve.

But then . . .

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: steadfast

Now They Offer

Story of my life. 

I never thought I would end up walking as much as I do. At first it was a little difficult. Actually, quite difficult. When I first started trying, my goal was to walk to the corner ... and back. 

Then, over time, I was able to make it all the way around the block and back home.

That was years ago, at the suggestion of my doctor, and with the encouragement of Phyllis, who became my daily walking companion.

And now I just walk, walk, walk.

The poem was written in those early years. I must admit that I was sometimes tempted to accept the offer of a ride from a neighbor or a friend. But I always managed to tell them, "Thanks ... I'm taking a walk." And kept on walking.

And now? Well, I can't remember the last time one of them actually offered me a ride, although they do sometimes slow, wave, and go on their way.

The poem:

NOW THEY OFFER

Skinny years,
when I could've
used a ride,
nobody stopped.
Now that I'm
walking it off, 

everybody slows

to offer a lift.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: everybody

The Moon Tonight

I grew up in the country ... not on a farm, but in the country ... away from city lights.

As a result of that ... and hearing my gandfather talk so many times about the phases of the moon ... its importance in the planting of crops ... knowing about its pull on those distant oceans ... its effect on young lovers ... I was always intrigued by the moon.

The front porch swing provided a great vantage point for watching the giant harvest moon rising slowly over the hills.

I remember being so intrigued by the quarter moon ... the new moon ... the moon showing in the late daytime sky.

When one lives in the city, though, the moon can become a forgotten item ... unless it really asserts itself as we're coming up the driveway on a late-winter evening.

Then there's no denying it. I still remember that evening ... can almost hear a choir, singing a cappella, celebrating the rising of that moon.

The poem:

THE MOON TONIGHT

What a gorgeous sight,
lodged in the darkness
of the walnut tree,
the nearer maples joining
to hold it, glowing
in the late-winter sky,
broken, and yet whole,
like a stained-glass
window catching evening
light, holding it high
under the ceiling while
voices rise in song.

© 2004

(originally published in Capper's)


 Today's word: a cappella

Lost in Thought

I sometimes like to take a figurative statement and pursue it as though it were literally true ...


I remember a teacher who pointed out the mental images brought up by "catching a bus," for example, if taken as literally true ... likewise with "taking the plunge," "beating the bushes," etc.


In this case, I considered "lost in thought."


Literal pursuit of that concept takes us rushing down the winding path toward several improbable possibilities, all the way to the somewhat illogical conclusion. Or is it?


The poem:



LOST IN THOUGHT


If I were to become
lost in thought,
would I wander forever?
Would anybody notice
that I hadn't come
home for supper?
Would search parties
form sagging lines, go out
into the darkness,
beating the bushes
and calling my name?
Would I be
on the six o'clock news?
Would I ever
be myself again,
or would I return
as someone completely
different, a person
I have never met?

© 1999
(originally published in ByLine)
Today's word: literal

In the Choir

How many times I've wished I were a singer, if only for singing in the shower ... but that gift seems to have been taken from me forever when my voice changed.


I have become an avid listener, instead.


It is from this listening that the metaphor for this poem arose. I do wish my voice might rise, realistically, not as a singer, but as a writer.


Even there, I am reconciled to the possibility that mine might not be a voice intended to be heard above the chorus of other writers' voices.


If that's the case, then, let my voice ... my writing ... remain steadfast, I say in this little poem.


There, now that I've explained the whole poem, I hope you will still take a look at "In the Choir," originally published in Capper's.


As always, I know that the reader brings a special point of view ... a special knowledge ... to the poem ... and I do enjoy the reader's perspective, the added dimension this gives to what I've written.


I appreciate your taking time to drop by ... even if it's just to "sit for a spell" and listen to my ramblings ... but if you choose to join the conversation by leaving a comment, well ... that's always icing on the cake. In either event, many thanks. I'll keep trying.


Meanwhile:



IN THE CHOIR

Oh, that my voice
might soar like
a tenor's rising
as clearly as a bell
from the choir,
but if that wish
is not to be, then
let me remain
a faithful voice
among the many,
my song steadfast.
© 1998


Today's word: dimension

I Shall Write

Here's what I said about "I Shall Write" when I originally posted it on "Chosen Words" ... and it still expresses my true feelings:

I usually make my postings in the morning, but today was a bit different.

I had to make a medical pit stop - nothing serious, a quick tire change and I was right back into the race. But I didn't pop a wheelie and head directly back to the keyboard.

It was such a beautiful day that I frittered much of it away on an outdoors walk which included a pause in the shade to do a couple of quick sketches.

But here I am now, rather glad that I delayed today's posting. When I finally meandered back home, I found the mail waiting. I don't often get good news in the mail, but today was an exception.

Waiting in the box was a copy of ICON literary magazine, containing two ... count 'em, TWO ... of my poems. I'd like to share one of them with you now. It's nothing spectacular, but I do like the sound of it, as I did just before I sent it off to seek its fortune early this year.

I had hopes, but I've learned not to bank too heavily on those.

It's another poem about writing ... about the determination to continue writing. I still have that, thank you very much, and I'm glad I do. It helps to keep me going between those pit stops.

The poem:

I SHALL WRITE

When all light has settled
into a darkness that steals
the sustenance of birdsong,
when day is a mere flickering
across the screens of minds,
when paper has retreated
into the corridors of memory,
I shall approach the blue
smoothness of water, and lie
there beside it; savoring
its wavering coolness, I shall
write upon it as someone else
may have done before words
began making poetry, before
there was music, before
love and understanding
tried to live among us.

© 2006

(Published in the Spring 2006 - 40th Anniversary Edition - of ICON literary magazine)

Today's word: determination

Hard Times

Not all of my poems are about sunsets, the beauty of cobblestone clouds, the wafting scent of roses. Life has a gritty side, too, and some of my poems reflect that.

This encounter came a long time ago at a bus stop, a favorite trolling spot for panhandlers. 


There was a time when I would almost automatically hand over a bit of change. I could remember tough times, too.


But I had grown tired of being hit up day after day. My initial response was not very charitable, I know, but I relented. I imagine there's a lesson in there someplace, perhaps having something to do with the poor sparrows of this world.


The poem appeared in Pebble Lake Review's Fall/Winter issue of 2005, and now is part of a manuscript (Strawberry Wine) in search of a publisher.

And here it is:

HARD TIMES

Suddenly he's in my face,
dirty, wind-blown, muttering, 

Spare a quarter? Refusing to let
his question assault me,

I turn away. Then back. My own
No, can you? comes spilling out

like a shot, freezing us there
in the snow-blasted morning

until finally his uncertain
chuckle descends into breath-

stealing, chest-stabbing coughs
and I fish deep in the warmth

of a pocket for a quarter,
hand it over, stand watching

as he moves away, this poor,
tattered sparrow with his crumb.
© 2006

Today's word: tattered