Autumn's Leaves

I know ... those who have long memories will recall having seen this one before ... but I hope they ... and you ... will forgive my repeating myself.

It is autumn again ... and the trees in my neck of the woods have begun showing tinges of autumn hues.

Now where did I put that rake?

Even with all the raking involved, I still consider autumn my favorite season. Oh, there are certain redeeming qualities about spring, the new growth signaling the end of winter. And summer, too, if it doesn't get unbearably hot ... I like the good walking that season provides. And even winter has its moments of beauty.

But autumn ... well, there's just something about autumn ... quiet, cool evenings ... the play of late sunshine across the colors of the foliage ... and sunrise ... oh, sunrise simply outdoes itself. I like the show that the trees provide. Always have. Always will ... even with all that raking.

The poem:

AUTUMN'S LEAVES

Across the fence,

my neighbor's trees

droop with tons

of gorgeous leaves,

and here I stand

with a single rake

to defend against

the inevitable.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: inevitable

The Ashes Are Still Hot

(Today's photo was taken aboard a bus. Where we were, or where we were headed, I don't recall ... but I liked the sky, was glad I captured it ... and never let it go)

Today's poem brings a renewal of a frightening childhood memory.

I couldn't have been very old when this incident occurred, but the memory of it is still vivid. 

The fire seemed to spring up suddenly along the railroad, the flames were threatening our house ... we had no running water, no telephone, no fire department, as a matter of fact.

We stood and watched in horror. Then, suddenly, the fire seemed to veer away. It was over. We had survived.

The poem:

THE ASHES ARE STILL HOT

When a white-hot summer sun
hangs high in a cloudless sky,
when it must be thought
there can be no more burning

in this poor punished land,
there comes the crackling,
leaping, lurching dance
of the very flames of hell,

consuming sere weak willows
along the thirsting creek,
leaping to fence-line elms,
sending their leaves towering

like swarms of angry hornets,
smoke and fire entwining
in an eerie, deadly spiral
from which rain the hot seeds

of more on our shingled house.
We stand there in the garden,
my grandmother praying, and I,
a child of only four, crying.

Wind, born of the fire itself,
where there has been no wind
for long, dry, dragging days,
snatches up the pitching flames,

takes them away from the house.
My grandmother sees a miracle,
but to me it’s a nightmare, for,
see, the ashes are still hot.
© 1997

(originally published in Block's Magazine)

Today's word: towering

What'll You Have?

One of the early things I learned about sending my poems off into the company of strangers ... on the chance that some very busy person might pause to read, to savor, to accept something I'd written ... is that there's an awful lot of rejection involved.
In fact, unless you have editors writing to you, begging you to submit something, it's mostly rejection.

Not long after my first acceptance, I thought I was having a particularly good run of luck, so I did the math and found I had an acceptance rate of 12 per cent.

Of course, while achieving that "hot streak," I was also having an 88 per cent rate of rejection.

"What'll You Have?" was probably written during one of those intervals when no math was necessary to tell me my rejection rate was high, high, high.

How nice it would be, I thought, if, instead of sending my poems all over creation, I could just have a little shop on a quiet little street ... a place where editors could drop in when they felt the need for a poem.

I would have poems on the wall, on the shelves, in racks ... all over the place ... even "teetering in the backroom of my mind." I would, of course, hope that visitors would find something they simply couldn't live without.

I have yet to realize my dream of becoming the proprietor of a poetry boutique, catering primarily to editors, but at least this one little poem apparently did make a favorable impression on the poetry editor at ByLine, and there I was, way back in '96, dancing on the table again. How sweet it was!

The poem:

WHAT'LL YOU HAVE?

Poems, lady?
What would you like?
I have these
written in the nights
of my despair,
a few over there
when I felt better.

A love poem?
Not much in demand
these days, but I may
be able to find one
somewhere on the shelf.

No picks among these?
I have more written,
on the back racks,
aging a bit
before they travel,
and, of course,
stacks and stacks
teetering recklessly
in the backroom
of my mind.
© 1996

Today's word: teetering

Stolen Minutes

I write a lot about writing. It's not that I'm ... by any stretch of the imagination ... an expert on the subject. On the contrary, the process often baffles me.

Do we know all there is to know about love? Or Nature? Or God?

No! But we pursue these, and other subjects, with a passion, because we want to understand.

So it is with the subject of writing.

I write wherever and whenever I can. Afterward, I don't always understand what I've written, or why I wrote it. But I write.

I keep a scratchpad beside the bed, a pen ... actually, a pen with a light in it ... just in case I wake up with some thought bugging me, something that will be lost if I don't write it down right away.

Sometimes, even that isn't enough to preserve it. My scrawled writing, coupled with the morning mental fog that follows a restless night, can be a tough code to crack.

Oh, well, there will be another time, another place, and maybe that same thought will pop up like a rabbit, go running across the clover field of my mind ... and maybe, just maybe, I'll grab it this time, tame it, make it mine, all mine.

But don't worry. I've learned to share. Oh, have I ever.

For example:

STOLEN MINUTES

I steal minutes when I can,
take them for my own use,
sometimes to sit thinking
my own odd-angled thoughts,
sometimes watching as a pencil
searches its way across
the untracked page, sometimes
listening to that voice,
imperceptible except to that
part of the ear that feels,
more than it hears, what is said.
© 1996
(originally published in The Christian Science Monitor)

Today's word: imperceptible

Staying at Haan's

Today's poem grew out of an interlude Phyllis and I enjoyed in celebration of our golden wedding anniversary ... thanks to the generosity of our family ...

What a wonderful interlude it was. I don't want to spoil the moment by dissecting the poem ... please, just read it ... and I hope, while you're doing that, you hear the gentle clop-clop-clop of those horses.

Originally published in Plainsongs:

STAYING AT HAAN'S

It was as though we had escaped to another
age, back to a time before TV or radio,
when news came to us from ships gliding

surely, softly up to the gull-laden docks,
when bicycles roamed the streets carrying
stacks of luggage, a forgotten letter, a loaf

of freshly-baked bread, a time of lovers
pedaling slowly past, oblivious of all else.
It was a time in the embrace of silence

like it was meant to be, not even the distant
drone of engines, the clamoring of the hurried,
a silence through which the clop-clop-clop

of horses came drifting in the night, a lullaby
reassuring to those unaccustomed to such
an absolute absence of the clutter of noise.
© 2005

Today's word: interlude

The Milk-Soft Call

Usually, when I'm engaged in coversation ... or just sitting quietly with my own thoughts ... the words come together, clickety-clack ... well, usually with these pauses which have been a lifelong presence in my speech pattern ... but, otherwise, with virtually no effort at all.


But there are times that it takes some searching.


Like the time that I became acutely aware of a dove's call. Oh, I had heard doves many times before, had savored the softness of their calls. 


But this time, for some reason ... or perhaps no reason at all ... I wanted to find the words to describe what it was really like.


I remember searching ... for the precise words ... the ones which would help me to preserve that particular moment ... words which would help me to "say the unsayable" ... about that distinct sound floating to my ears ... carrying a certain air of mystery about it.


It's so unlike other bird calls, so soothing, so ... well, so milk-soft.


That's it! I decided that's the term I've been looking for, and I walked on into the woods, hoping I would remember to try putting it in a poem someday.


The result:



THE MILK-SOFT CALL


I pause where
tall swaying trees
verge the meadow,
billowing their
thick green
clouds of leaves,
for a stirring
liquid breeze
has carried to me
the milk-soft call
of a dove,
and I am seized
for that moment
in an amber block
of tranquility.
© 1997
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)


Today's word: tranquility

If Elected

Don't worry. I'm not running for office.

Honest. I'm not planning any long-winded speeches, I won't be asking for money ... or even your vote ... and I certainly won't be making any promises I can't keep. I promise you that.

Then what?

Today's poem was written at another time ... in another place ... when and where it seemed that everybody else in the whole universe was vying for a position at the public trough.

It was a time when politicians were talking our ears off ... and dogs were barking all night. What a wonderful combination, I thought ... and there's no disrespect for dogs intended in that, I assure you.

If I WERE to be elected ... to anything ... it seemed to me at the time ... I would prefer to be the officeholder responsible for "mudging" curs (whatever that means) ... not the first time that a responsibility has been invented out of pure air (remember when we still had some of that?) ... in order to garner the votes of the undecided ... and unsuspecting ...

Well, from there it was strictly downhill ... and fast. But I had fun with the poem (remember, no disrespect for dogs intended). Here it is:

IF ELECTED

When finally I have
attained full growth,
I think that I
should like to be
a curmudgeon, which,
I'm told by my pal,
clear-eyed Ed,
is one who
mudges curs.

It's the least they
deserve for barking
all night at nothing
in particular while
decent folk are
pounding pillows,
trying to sleep,
but only attaining
grouchyhoodedness.

I promise, if elected,
not to be stingy
with my curmudgeoning.
© 1997

(originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal)

Today's word: curmudgeon

The Good Dreams

I'm always searching for poems ... my own published poems ... that I can share with you.


My search this time led me to my little poem which celebrates a beginning, the arrival of a new member of the family.


I also see the arrival of new life in our midst ... this symbol of the continuation of life, this vision beyond the present day, beyond us ... as a symbol of hope.


The pairing with today's art naturally followed: the sunlit path that leads on, inviting us to see what lies beyond the next turn, and beyond that.


The poem:

THE GOOD DREAMS
Your grandparents treasure the joy
of having been there within hours
of your arrival, taking their turns
cradling your downy head in their
arms, marveling at perfect tiny
fingers and toes, your eyes fluttering
open and shut, brief lusty crying,
eager, hungry feeding, your
drifting off into well-earned sleep.

Some distant day you, too, may hold
your own grandchild and know such joy,
may sit wondering, arm growing numb,
what adventures lie still years ahead.

But for now it is sufficient
for you to sleep. So sleep, sleep,
sleep, Thomas, and in time
the good dreams will come to you.
© 1999
(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: sleep

Emergency Kit

I beg particular patience from those who have seen today's poem before. It seems to have worked its way to the top again.



It's still a good little poem, I think ... a bit whimsical ... and I think we can use a sprinkling of whimsy with the world in which we live today.



Bear with me now, while I dust off a bit of history:

I started carrying a printout of one of my poems in response to the recurring question from acquaintances: "What are you writing these days?"

Carrying a single printout, I thought, was a simpler, a more efficient approach than going into detail about all of the things I was working on at the time (I seem to go riding off in all directions, but I do bring some of my projects to completion ... honest).

From there it was a short leap to the image of some poor motorist sitting somewhere on a dark, poemless road, hoping someone would come to the rescue ... and, ta-DA! ... there I would be, poem at the ready ...

I have one regret - I neglected to offer an alternative, like regular fill-ups of poetry before heading out on those lonely roads ... or, I suppose, simply keeping an eye on the poetry gauge ... or pulling into the nearest library - where the price is always right - to top off the poetry tank.

But if you do run out of poetry, just hang in there. I should be along soon.

Meanwhile:

EMERGENCY KIT

I always carry
a spare poem or two.
Who knows? I may
find a motorist
stranded, run out
of poetry somewhere
on a poemless road,
looking for rhyme,
if not reason,
in the scheme
of things, someone
in need of metaphor,
simile, structure,
a triolet, perhaps,
but mostly free verse,
free for the taking,
and this one's for you.
Enjoy. Pass it on.
© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: emergency

Dandelions

Sometimes even the writer is not sure of the full intent of a poem.

This is an attempt to capture one of my earliest memories. 

I was a pre-schooler, and we lived in town then. I remember the long, sloping yard as always being flooded with sunshine.

There was a cat, perhaps more than one ... and those beautiful golden dandelions. I remember tiger lilies, too, but it's the memory of those dandelions that stands out.

Whose hands they were, I'm not sure. My mother's or my grandmother's, I suppose.

I do recall plucking the blossoms and running with them like newly-found nuggets of gold. They were so bright, so treasured. I just had to share them.

Then the memory blurs, becomes "a tangle of wilt." The poem ends, but there are those "promises of things to come." And I sit here wondering ...

Meanwhile, the poem:

DANDELIONS

Plucked like pats
of butter amid
the swirling hum
of puzzled bees,
taken at a run
toward waiting
hands, lying now
a tangle of wilt
and promises
of things to come.
© 1999

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: promises

Ceiling Monster

(Another of my little watercolors, an attempt to capture a sunset)


A summer poem? Could be ... but it could be an anytime poem, because the "monster" is always there ... has been, ever since I installed it.


But simmer - er, summer, it is. At least in today's poem.


Oh, how many times this has happened to me ... I settle into my favorite chair, pick up a book ... or a magazine ... and lean back. 


Next thing I know, I'm waking up again.


But this time, at least, I got a poem out of it:



CEILING MONSTER


Five blades embrace
heavy summer air
while four globes stare
at a pair of strings,
slender, descending
like spiders seeking
new worlds to claim,
and my eyelids flutter,
fighting against sleep,
for I have sat down
intending only to read
a few paragraphs,
but find I'm slipping
now, glasses off, my book
slowly rising, falling
as it rests on my chest,
both of us helpless
against that monster
whirring, soothing,
cooling, hypnotizing
us in the afternoon.
© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: hypnotizing

Before I Gallop

No, I don't have any immediate plans for a big move.

When I wrote this one, I was beginning to think about the time when downsizing would be the practical thing to do. I looked around at all the things I had accumulated over the years, and it seemed an impossible task.

It still does.

It's really hard to turn loose of things ... I have trouble seeing them as being only "things" ... because they stir so many memories.

I'm actually making the effort now to turn loose of some items ... to use up others ... to give some away. It's still not easy, but I'm trying.

When I wrote the poem, I tried to take a light-hearted look at this dilemma which faces so many people.

Still, after one reading before a small group, one listener told me that she liked the poem, but found the ending a real downer. She thought I was referring to someting very dark there ... death.

That hadn't occurred to me ... in fact, was furthest from my thoughts. I was actually thinking of Hawaii, a place I've never been, but wouldn't mind seeing someday.

Meanwhile, back to the shredder.

BEFORE I GALLOP

The time has come,
in this hunkered down,
bunkered up life
of mine, to start
turning loose of all
those precious papers,
stacks of things
left unread,
undone, untouched
these many years,
to end each day
with less than I had
at the beginning,
to divest, to shed,
to shred, to trash
all those dear things
that I can't take
with me, whether
I simply move
to more fitting
local quarters, or go
the whole route,
whisking away
my tell-tale tracks,
then galloping off
toward some
distant paradise.
© 1999
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: furthest

Accepting Change

I don't know where I'd be, if I hadn't accepted change ... a lot of change ... make that changes ... along the way.

I can remember when television was just an idea ... something far, far down the road. 

Likewise the idea of sitting at a keyboard (I'd done that, thank you very much) ... but with the typed words appearing on a screen, much like a TV screen, in front of the writer.

Yeah, sure. I could accept the concept, but had serious doubts about ever witnessing such a thing in my lifetime.

And here I am, sitting at a keyboard, watching as the letters turn into words and the cursor keeps crawling across the screen.

Oh, and the idea of someone ... a human being ... actually ever setting foot on the moon. 

I came to accept that as reality, too.

I've even learned to accept some of the fashions I've seen over the years ... not for me, though ... but for others. 

But I think it's the smaller things ... smaller,  personal things ... and I won't go into detail here ... except to say that they involve habits, like hanging onto old magazines long after I've finished reading them ... or picking up a pencil or a crayon someone has lost near a school ... things like that ... habits that I simply find hard to give up.

Oh, and yes, the other day, as I finally discarded a watercolor brush which had worn out eons ago, it occurred to me that perhaps I should get some sworn statements from witnesses. 

How else was I to convince Phyllis that I had thrown something ... anything ... away?

And I guess we might as well include my inclination to say I won't go into detail ... and then unleash an avalanche of detail. I find it hard to break that habit, too.

I guess you get the idea. I find it hard to accept change ... in certain areas.

Meanwhile, the poem:

ACCEPTING CHANGE

I'm not always
a willing partner,
but I must go
with the times,
leaving a trail
of scuff marks
where I've been
dragged along.
© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: change

Solitary Candle

(Again, the illustration doesn't mesh readily with the poem, but this photo ... those stream-side rocks with their collection of autumn leaves ... happened to catch my attention ... there are so many vying for that ... and here it is)


I've shared today's poem with you before ... when I was having computer problems. And who hasn't had those?


I hoped that visitors would remain patient while my computer and I continued our recovery from our latest adventure/misadventure ... 


I was a little tentative, but I said that I thought the computer was working right ... "now" ... though the counter didn't seem to be counting ... 


As to whether I was "working right" ... I admitted that I still bump into furniture ... misplace my car keys (there they ARE ... in my OTHER pocket) ... trip on cracks in the sidewalk. 


You know, the kinds of ordinary things that ordinary people do as they pick their way through the fog of the day.

Meanwhile, today's poem:



SOLITARY CANDLE


My candle sculpts
itself in its corner
of the room, flame
gyrating in the draft,
tiny avalanches
of wax slithering
into the maw,
a fungible, seething
mass that labors
back up the wick
to sacrifice itself
as a bit of light,
distant warmth. It
flickers, warning me
that I shall soon miss
the warmth, its quiet
companionship, gently
flowing memories, its
solitary, sustaining
work of holding
the darkness at bay.
© 1996
(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

Today's word: fungible

Morning Talk

(Not the kind of tree I'm talking about in today's poem ... but I thought I'd share my little watercolor with you)


I like to think that poems come to me ... and they will, I've discovered, if I can just sit still in one place long enough.

This one may not have come to me, exactly, but I found the material for it in the tree just outside my window. 


I sat listening to a certain sound, then located its source ... and watched.


From there it was simply a matter of putting my impressions on paper before they ... the impressions, that is ... flew away.


I admit that I found more than just the sights and sounds of a mother-and-daughter exchange between two cardinals to write about.


Before I'd finished, I couldn't resist drawing the parallel between these two beautiful little creatures and the rest of us ... we superior beings who "own" so much of this material world ... and are, perhaps, so bent on possessing more of it ... that we neglect to build little bridges between us ... particularly between the generations.


End of sermon. 


And now, on to the poem:

MORNING TALK

Amid a rising tide of summer sounds,
I slowly become aware of one pair 
catching my ear more than the others.

Then there they are, a mother cardinal
and her offspring, flitting and talking
to each other in the blue spruce.

Talking of food, perhaps, or safety
in these thick boughs, weighty subjects,
or maybe just chit-chat between 

this mother and her young daughter.
I have no way of knowing, but they
seem to have found an understanding,

a quiet accord, like a gently swaying 
footbridge between the generations,
that we humans keep hoping to find.
© 2003
(originally published in Capper's) 

Today's word: chit-chat

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