Sorry I'm late ... well, not really late ... there's still a lot of the day left ... but I'm running behind schedule, getting around to making my daily posting of words here.
My excuse?
I was out late last night. No, I wasn't partying ... exactly ... but I was having a lot of fun, sitting in with a group of people who enjoy sharing poetry ... theirs and that of better known writers.
One of the highlights (from my perspective, at least) was getting to hear a recorded interview I did recently with Conrad Balliet, of "Conrad's Corner" on WYSO FM 91.3.
The interview got off to a slightly slow start ... mainly because of my inexperience at being interviewed ... but picked up, thanks to Conrad's skill and experience ... and moved right along.
And, no, it hasn't aired yet. WYSO is in the middle of a fund-raising drive right now, so the recorded interview is likely waiting for things to settle back to normal.
I've been assured that I'll get the word when it's about to be aired ... and I'll pass the word along to you.
Meanwhile, back to this morning's business ... it is still morning, isn't it? I haven't peeked outside yet, but I hear, from usually reliable sources, that it is still morning.
Today, spring. Tomorrow, autumn. Well, not really, but time does fly. Thank goodness, it doesn't really go zooming by that fast, though it sometimes seems that it does.
You're trying to pull things together, to get yourself organized to face the day ... and you suddenly remember one other task that must be done now ... right now.
Oh, that's when time seems to go into supersonic mode.
But relax now. It's not really time for the random twirling of leaves from the walnut tree ... and other signs of autumn. There's lots of spring left, then summer ... and then autumn.
Meanwhile, the poem:
WALNUT WISDOM
The black walnut's
seething green leaves,
steeping all summer
in the raging sun,
are turning yellow,
randomly twirling
to earth, the leaden
thumps of fallen
fruit providing
an uneven cadence
on the long bridge
of sunny afternoons.
Bruised and smashed,
their juicy hulls
draw back from those
dark interiors where
their secrets lie,
awaiting squirrels,
whack of a hammer,
the outside chance
of becoming a tree.
This, the walnut
knows, is autumn’s
beginning, a time
of payoffs, endings,
another slow turn
of the wheel.
©
2002(originally published in Potomac Review, part of a manuscript now in search of a publisher)
***
Today's word:
twirlingAfterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Oh, I know what you mean, Helen, about those brief sessions at the keyboard ... I call it "sprinting," though I long ago quit operating at anything even approaching sprinting speed ... I've tried setting a timer, so I don't spend too long in the chair, but tend to ignore the timer, then pay the consequences for having overstayed. But what I started out to say was that I really appreciated your hanging in there to share that story about the walnut thumping on the roof of that little building out back ... and scaring you out of your skin.
Ouch, Uncle Bill! Even from way over here ... I could feel those walnut-imposed dimples on that maroon Taurus ... I'm hoping, though, that summer's soothing rays will soon heal those injuries. Meanwhile, thanks for stopping by ... and for that link ... I enjoyed my visit ... even though I wasn't properly suited up for it.
2 comments:
Good morning. I love to come to the computer and look at your site and soak in your words and thoughts. I particularly liked this poem because, as usual with yours, I can see the whole picture clearly--or see my own pictures you've brought out in my brain.
The thumps of fallen fruit brought out one that I may have even said before. My brother always had to take me out to the "john" at night under the black walunt tree. He tried to teach me to go out there in the dark by myself. He had a setback, though. The first time I went alone, while I was inside the outdoor toilet one of the nuts hit the roof and scared me out of my skin. I ran back scared and crying. Even though my folks explained to me what it was, I didn't want to take a chance of the "thumps of fallen fruit" startling me again. It's strange how a person can remember back to age two, but it's that kind of thumping from above you that makes you remember.
Your last poems have also been outstanding...I read them, but with company and a bad back, it's a short stay at the computer for me.
Thanks so much, Bob, for this site.
Helen
Bob,
My neighbor's black walnut trees whack and slap and pound dimples into the car I park in the driveway until it looks like a maroon golf ball. Right now it's pocked and ravaged with those indentations. But warm Summer's rays relieve those stresses. And by late Summer, you'd never know that Mrs. Bieber's walnut trees hated my Taurus so.
Uncle Bill
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