Catching a Wave ...

Down the avenues

of my early-morning

mind zooms a flood

of crowded, honking

thoughts that seek

a place to park.

I’m too tired

to direct traffic,

too stressed

to sort them out.

That must wait

till later, tongue

losing its taste

of suede, on the

verge of talk.

But then they’re

gone, not a thought

in sight, not a word

remaining of that

early-morning roar,

so here I sit,

listening, waiting

for the next wave.

Perhaps tomorrow.

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

I don't think I was intended to be a morning person. Mornings have always been a struggle for me.

I know, I know. Morning is the best part of the day for the writer. Other concerns have not begun to intrude. The house is quiet. The brain is rested, ready to rev. Here's a whole new day beckoning.

But for me it's ... well, it's just morning. It takes me a little while to build some momentum.

I roll over, get one foot on the floor, then the other. I stand. I go teetering off in the general direction of the keyboard. I find the switch, flick it on.

By this time I have both eyes open. Things are starting to come into focus. And then, look out. Oh, look out! I'm starting to roll.

Sun Catcher ...

A film of frost

gathered the gold
of morning sun
on the window,
poured it softly,
like warm milk,
into the kitchen
where Delia
stood working,
embracing her
with a radiance
like the words
of her prayer
being whispered
to the music
of preparations
for another day.
© 1998

(originally published in A New Song)

Delia was my grandmother. I can still see her in that cold kitchen, the old wood-burning stove starting to throw out some heat, the skillet in place, waiting for warmth, a dab of oleo, an egg.
The kitchen faced west, but there was a side window that caught a bit of the morning sun. That's where the "film of frost gathered the gold ... poured it softly, like warm milk ... "
Of course, our memories become polished with much handling ... they take on a sheen far beyond that of the original event, and that has happened with this mental picture I still carry with me.
Oh, how I treasure it.

Beach Music ...

Waves come tumbling

onto the docile shore,
flinging foamy fingers
across the ochre plane.
Teeming with bubbles,
they search and settle,
soothingly diminuendo,
on a healing chord.
Eliciting a sigh
from pliant, sandy keys,
the fingers slide off
into the lap of the sea,
where joyous whitecaps
merrily urge them,
jostle and encourage them
to play it all again.
© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)


When it all began ...
Ah, there's a thought. It all began, I suppose, with that first acceptance for publication. An alert editor at Capper's spotted eight lines lurking near the middle of a longer poem I had submitted. She suggested that we keep those eight lines and my title, and that became:
Chance of Rain
The rain comes
in great galloping gulps,
faster than the soil
can sop it up.
It drums on the roof,
dances in the yard,
celebrates
all the way down the hill.
For sentimental reasons, this became the title poem ... nine years later ... in my first collection of poetry, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press.
Perhaps it began in mid-February, when it occurred to me that I could get some additional mileage out of my published poems by posting them online ... and sometimes explaining them ... along with samples of my paintings and photography. (Today's art is my watercolor entitled "Surf's Up").
That was the beginning of "Chosen Words," this online journal which has been blessed with more visitors than I ever dreamed would come its way. I especially appreciate all those electronic pats on the back which have made this a much easier trip than I thought it would be.
Perhaps it all began long, long ago, in Cobden, that small town in Southern Illinois where Miss Pearl, my eighth grade teacher, instilled a love of reading and struck the spark that would later become writing, real writing. It may have been with my grandmother, who first read to me.
It's hard to tell.
All of these things eventually led to "Chosen Words." And when this online journal, this new adventure, began in mid-February, I had no idea it would be one of those achieving featured status on AOL, as I understand it just has.
I am, of course, delighted.
Tonight the adventure continues with a book signing for Chance of Rain in Reader's Choice Bookstore, Centerville, Ohio.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow I resume dancing on the table.

Autumn 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)

I Could Have Played Piano ...

My long, skinny fingers

itching for things to do,

toes just barely reaching

the pedals, and my bottom

gripping the slippery edge

of the bench, I dreamed

of playing ragtime, gospel,

boogie-woogie, maybe even

some of that girl-pleasing,

tough, classical stuff.

What I did was what

seemed to come naturally.

With only one lesson,

I flung myself into all

of the old favorites,

playing each several times

before going exuberantly

to the next. Finally,

Grandpa admitted he was

sorry he had taught me

what could be wrought

with a comb and paper.

Oh, I could have played

piano, no doubt, but my lips

wouldn't feel all numb

and fuzzy, like they do now.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Aromatherapy ...

The freshness

after summer rain,

honeysuckle wafting,

pie still bubbling,

smoke of a wood fire,

that new-car smell.

In a former time,

our aromatherapy.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Running the Hurdles ...

Have you

ever noticed

how many more

things go wrong

when you're trying

to get away

early, or make up

for lost time?

© 1997

(originally published in Capper's)