Grandfather Writes

Here's what I said when I first shared "Grandfather Writes" with you on "Chosen Words":
Who knows? Perhaps it was my early witnessing of my grandfather's attempts at learning to write his name, the effort he was willing to put into it so late in his life, the obvious importance he attached to it ... perhaps it was all of these - or none of these - that impelled me to write.

I'm sure there were other factors, too, other lessons he taught me by example, as he and his wife, my dear grandmother, undertook the task of rearing me, of making me the person I am today.

I remember watching him, first at a distance, then a bit closer, and, finally, quite near as those shaky letters took form.

I remember the feeling of shared pride in this accomplishment, in knowing that the painfully written X ("his mark") no longer need be his signature.

It was a quantum leap.

My only regret, as I say in the poem, was that I neglected to tell him how proud I was of his achievement. But I think he knew. I think he always knew I was proud of him.

Now the poem:

GRANDFATHER WRITESMy grandfather sat
in sweltering shade
beside the house,
holding a pencil stub,
practicing, practicing,
ignoring the heat,
the droning flies,
straining to focus
with dime-store glasses
while his cramping
fingers sent the pencil
crawling on the page,
strange, angular marks
scratched on the back
of the sale bill,
letters later emerging
in more fluid shapes
as he labored to write
his very own name.
How proud I felt
of his achievement.
How I wish
I had told him so. 
© 2000
(second-place winner in the 2000 Ohio Poetry Day Contest)
Today's word: quantum

The Frozen Pond

There were a lot of ponds in the area where I grew up, but this poem is about one particular pond ... on the property where my brothers and sisters lived at that time.

When I got to visit them (but that's another story), it was our favorite gathering place. I did my first fishing there. I went sledding down the hill and out onto the ice of that pond.

It was one of the first places I wanted to see when I came home on furlough after completing basic training.

Years later, during a visit back to Illinois, I drove out in that area to show my wife that pond. But the house was gone, the land was overgrown, and we didn't even get a glimpse of the pond.

For all I know, the pond may not even exist now, but it's very much alive in my memory. The poem was originally published inCapper's ... and I know, I know ... some of you have heard it before ... but it talks to me about a special place ... and I hope you won't mind.

The poem:

THE FROZEN POND

The pond was always home
for wayward leaves,
adding, in late summer,
the yellowed offerings
of the black walnut tree,
then the reds and golds
of maple and tulip trees,
like tiny boats lazing
among the ducks, twirling
at the tiniest stirrings
of air or water, remaining
trapped below the surface
when winter came, as though
waiting for us to come
thundering down the hill
on our sleds, out onto
the ice, that marvelous,
jeweled surface spinning
us around and around,
our laughter spilling out,
still echoing back.© 1998
Today's word: echoing

Escaping Gravity

Spring! It was a time of celebration, a time of emerging, at last, from the cold of winter into the beginnings of warmth, a time when kites were tugging at their strings, pleading for more ... when jackets were left lying on the school grounds ... when we gave in to the call of the hills in which we were growing up ... and went galloping down them.

And gallop we did ... a few "no brakes" strides and a leap ... strides ... leap ... strides ... all the way to the bottom sometimes.

Other times we'd fall to the softening turf well before reaching bottom, and lie there, laughing at the picture we must have made, long legs carrying us careening down the slope, with little hope of reaching the bottom still standing.

It was as if we could ... if we tried hard enough ... defy gravity, that if we gained enough speed we might fly. The descent felt like flying. The air seemed to be trying to lift us. And those leaps! They were almost like flying.

Even as we lay there, laughing, our run completed, finally rolling over to look at the clouds, we still felt we might somehow break free of gravity ... next time ...

We had been so close to doing it this time!

In selecting the poem's title, "Escaping Gravity," I wanted it to serve double duty ... to say something about running down the hill, yes ... but also about the need to take our minds off the seriousness of life, even if only briefly.

We all need to do that sometimes.

The poem:

ESCAPING GRAVITY

How we challenged gravity's pull then,
our lanky legs held captive so long
by the dull gray of winter months, but now
freed, carrying us in ever lengthening
leaps until we finally fell, exhausted,
on the wet, green softness of earth,
laughing, pained with the joy of what
we had done, resting, trying again,
each new leap seeming to take us
ever so near that unreachable dream.

© 1998
(Originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: unreachable

Discontent

Today's poem, I think, states the obvious.

When we've always had little in the way of material things, we're content. Ah, but when we have more, the appetite is whetted. We want more.

I was interested in the content/discontent relationship as I jotted these few words on a scrap of paper. 

Later, it seemed to me that it had a certain feel, a certain sound ... a poem, perhaps.

Here it is:


DISCONTENT
I was content

with what I had,

until I had more.

After that,

I discovered,

I could not

be satisfied

with any less.
© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)


Today's word: satisfied

Delia's Morning Quiet

Delia was my grandmother. I went to live with her when I was two years old ... and she reared me until I grew up and went into military service.

Little wonder that I've written about her ... even when cautioned by one instructor that he didn't want to see any "grandmother poems."

This particular poem is a combination of memories of her, of things she said, or might have said. I may have taken some liberties, but, knowing her the way I did, I don't think she would mind.

I don't think she would mind at all.

DELIA'S MORNING QUIET

Morning quiet was
always best, Delia said.

Not the soft silting
of minutes after a day
in the fields, not those
first precious seconds
after childbirth,
nor the calm after
summer storms, tearing
of an envelope, labored
reading of its words,
evening fire, supper done,
dishes stored, children
in bed.

But the kind
of quiet that came
stealing up with the sun,
sharing rooster crow
and the crackling murmur
of fire, a skillet sliding
across the kitchen stove,
sound of an eggshell
breaking with importance.
© 1999
(originally published in Poem)
Today's word: crackling

Cold Winter Nights

(No, it hasn't snowed at Brimm Manor ... not in these July temperatures. But it's coming. I know it's coming!) 
Aha! Another poem about writing ... touching on a process that remains something of a mystery to me ... but also reaching the heart of the matter, I think, the satisfaction that comes from putting thoughts on paper.


The poem:

COLD WINTER NIGHTS


I have dreamed
that my poetry
might go like
wildfire lighting
the emptiness
of night, dancing
ahead of the wind,
smoke of creation,
furious burning,
rising to join
the lingering clouds,
drifting, drifting.

Ah, but a smaller
fire it is,
burning within,
chasing nothing
before it, raising
no alarms, warming
only me on these
cold winter nights
with a lamp
keeping me company,
and these scratchings.© 1996
(originally published in ByLine)

Today's word: wildfire

Bouncy Pine

Things I say, particularly in those pieces which may eventually become poems, are not always intended to be taken literally.
That's the case today, of course.
Anybody who has ever looked even casually at a pine tree, knows it doesn't have springs, concealed or otherwise.
But it doesn't take much observation to lead one to the thought that it looks like there must be some kind of mechanism at work there.
There have been times when I've been in the company of pine trees, unaware of a slight stirring of air, but there is movement in their needled branches.
How else explain that movement?
It seemed to be the way to describe them at the time. The moral of the story ... the "lesson" ... the "mini-sermon" ... seemed to follow naturally.
It's a thought, at least ... and I use it sometimes to cheer myself up.
Here's the poem:

BOUNCY PINE
The boughs of the pine
ride on concealed springs,
rising and falling
at the slightest touch
of a summer breeze.
Oh, that we could be
as resilient, as quick
with our enthusiasm.© 1996

(originally published in Explorer)
Today's word: concealed

Autumn Crossing

Autumn is one of my favorite seasons ... largely because I tire of blazing hot weather ... thank you very much ... and start looking forward to cooler nights ... good sleeping weather ... the fall colors, which I always enjoy ... the sight of leaves sifting gently to the earth ... the sounds and the feel of them as I go kicking through on my daily walk.

Today's poem happens to be one of my favorites, too. it was written on a bus, of all places. We were humming along northward, somewhere in Ohio.

The highway seemed to be an endless ribbon unspooling toward us ... but there on both sides ... oh, there was something to watch! The autumn trees were at their absolute peak, as though they were expecting us ... expecting "company."

And there we were.

I was struck by how the colors seemed to be parting, then closing behind us ... something like the parting of the Red Sea in those old movies.

Naturally, I dug out a scrap of paper and began writing ... and here's the result:

AUTUMN CROSSING

A sea of color
rages ahead,
parting for us
with the soft
hum of miles
falling away,
gently washing
back into place,
cloaking all
traces of our
safe crossing.© 1997
(Originally published in The American Scholar)
Today's word: crossing

At Daybreak

Okay, so I'm a little preachy in this one. So be it.

That's probably sufficient commentary on this particular poem. After all, I'm not really a morning person ... never was, probably never will be ... but I have to admit that morning is ... can be ... a beautiful time of day.

There is just something about the kind of quiet which accompanies a sunrise, especially if you've pitched your tent in a good spot ... or if you're just rolling out of bed at home, feeling rested, ready to face another day.

There's something about seeing each day as an opportunity ... a new beginning ... no great need for fanfare or ceremony ... just a new beginning.

And I don't think it's too much to ask of ourselves ... myself ... (I'm not big on forcing others to see things as I do) ... to do our part to avoid ruining our environment ... after all, this is our home, this is where we live ... 

That said, here's the poem:

AT DAYBREAK

The day glistens
with natal dew,
freshness riding
still-cool air,
booming red sun
nudging thin clouds
aside, a perfect
setting for pursuit
of the serious
business of saving
this while we can.© 1998
(originally published in Candlelight Poetry Journal)
Today's word: environment

Winter Rain

We have two towering maples in our back yard, one of them just outside our bedroom window.

I woke up one winter morning to the gentle sound of rain, looked out the window and was greeted by a view of those glistening tree trunks. It was a scene that sent my imagination into overdrive.

I probably put some of my thoughts to paper that morning in the midst of shaving. They often plague me so that I have to pause and write, pause and write.

The end result in this case, a poem. Other times these scribblings end up in an envelope labeled "Bits and Pieces," possible fodder for future works.

But for now, this:

WINTER RAIN

All night it comes,

falling as quietly

as snow, trickling

down our green roof,

a soft song drifting

among the branches

of our dark maples,

trunks glistening

like the taut bodies

of stevedores under

the summer sun,

like sailing ships

tossing and leaning,

rigging creaking,

brass bells ringing,

greeting a new day.

© 2003

(From Chance of Rain, my first collection of poems - Finishing Line Press, 2003)

Today's word: trickling

Transformation

I think today's poem requires little in the way of explanation.

When the idea came to me and I tried to capture it on paper, I struggled to squeeze as much into eight short lines as I possibly could.

I was operating then under the mistaken impression that Capper's ... where I was thinking I might submit it ... only published eight-line poems.

I believe, however, that I may have succeeded in conveying my central message: The world does take on a new aspect when we view it with "new eyes."

Oh, if we could just manage to maintain that perspective.

The poem:

TRANSFORMATION

The landscape
seems different
from yesterday,
brighter, softer,
and yet the same
in all details.
Could it be thatI have changed?© 1996
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: transformation

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'd 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 a distant
drone of engines, clamoring of the hurried,
a silence through which the clop-clop-clop

of horses came to us in the night, a lullaby
reassuring to those unaccustomed to an absolute absence of the clutter of noise.© 2005
Today's word: interlude

One to Grow On

Winter rain, under the right conditions, can be like a lullaby as it dances softly on the roof and goes running off down the street.

But if conditions are right for freezing, as they are here sometimes, it's an entirely different story. We venture out gingerly and pick away at the layer that's still gripping our driveway.

One consolation, we tell ourselves, is that we're a little nearer to the beginning of spring, and we're warmed by the potential that implies.

Meanwhile, back to the subject of a kinder, gentler rain ... the kind which inspired today's little poem:

ONE TO GROW ON

Winter rain
comes sliding down
the glistening trunk
of a sleeping tree,
delivering a sip
to be savored
when it awakens
early next spring.© 1995
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: glistening

New Growth

Today's poem contains some thoughts about what has happened to so much of our land ... thoughts driven largely, I suppose, by my having grown up in a rural area, where the poor, worn-out soil was gentled into producing food and flowers.

I have no special agenda, no axe to grind ... just some observations that simply came to me on a rainy day in a shopping center parking lot.

I may be wrong about grasses someday retaking "these smothered acres."

I take no comfort in the possibility that I might be right. Right or wrong, I shall never know, but it seems logical, reasonable to expect that the sprawl of what we've come to treasure as our way of life cannot be sustained forever.

Something to think about, perhaps.

The poem:

NEW GROWTH

Where crops once grew,
the skin of commerce
stretches into the distance,
acres in all directions.
On verdant prairie land
now grow waving fields
of carts, cars and customers.

They bring the green
to a soil long bereft
of plants, except token trees
planted as memorials
to what once was.

And when it rains, the rain
finds no welcoming soil.
It piles up at the drains
as it flees this alien surface.

What strange things
we now grow, and
how great the cost.

Someday the grasses
will retake
these smothered acres,
rightfully theirs
by prior claim.
The rain will come
in its gentle way
to bless this soil,
and it will prosper
as it did before.© 1996
(originally published in Poetic Eloquence)
Today's word: smothered

Messengers

"Chosen Words," which began in 2004, has welcomed more than 48,400 visitors, thanks to those who have taken a look ... and told others.


Without these "messengers" ... people telling other people ... the counter, elsewhere on the screen, would have moved hardly at all.


But it has, and that has been my inspiration, my impetus to continue, even on those days when I might prefer simply going with the flow.


I've gone through the ritual of selecting a poem for each day, thumbed through photos, drawings or other pieces of appropriate illustration ... and then undergone the sometimes-tedious process of putting them all together.


These elements have become my "light in the window," beckoning visitors to pause in their daily routines, to "stand in the shade a bit," to enjoy a few quiet moments, to listen to the murmur of words committed to paper, then to this new medium we're sharing.


I hope that when each visitor then resumes the journey, takes up the next task at hand, he or she is at least less burdened, if not inspired, for having paused here.


I hope these have been pleasant interludes for you. I appreciate your stopping by for a visit ... and I thank you for telling a friend about this place.


Thank you for making this a pleasant journey for me, too.


Today's poem:



MESSENGERS


Weary of the small,
murmuring fire
in the wood-burning
stove, I step outside
on a still, crisp night
to look at the stars.



Far overhead,
a flight of geese
moves slowly northward,
spreading the good news
to all who would hear
on this lonely night.© 2000
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: murmuring

Laughter

Have you listened ... I mean really listened ... to children laughing?

They are so completely given over to it. They can't help themselves.

Things are not just a little funny, eliciting a polite chuckle. 

They are really, really funny. There's a sudden explosion of laughter, and when they try to control it ... the more they try ... the more it comes bubbling out.

Even the most confirmed grump is likely to find a certain contagion in the children's laughter, may find himself beginning to smile, inwardly, at least, may find himself joining in ... remembering a time when things were just so unbearably funny.

Originally published in Capper's:

LAUGHTER

What luxury
the laughter
of children,
the champagne
of sounds
unexpectedly
uncorked,
cascading,
filling
the glasses
of those nearby,
tickling
their noses.
© 1996
Today's word: contagion