Autumn! ...

My temperature rises

When leaves begin to fall,

Piling up to my thighs as

I try to rake them all.

© 1997

(originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal)

OK, so "piling up to my thighs" is a slight exaggeration. That's one of the building blocks of humor, right? Rhyming "rises" and "thighs as" is a bit of a stretch, too. This is all done in an effort to be funny, at least to elicit a smile.

Enough said.

***

Today's word: exaggeration

Strawberry Wine ...

We stood gazing through the tangle
of dark branches suddenly still,
holding the moon in a vast silence,

watching, as others must have done
eons ago, wondering at this sight,
this transfiguration taking place

as the silvered moon glided slowly
into the shadow of a frozen earth,
going golden, pink, then deepening

red of strawberry wine translucent
in the glass, bearing the aroma
of fields snowed over with blossoms

and redolent of ripeness, that fruit
hiding in the quivering green leaves,
the sun bearing down, and now this,

this sweetness of witnessing a most
ancient of miracles, going to bed
with the distinctive taste of it

on our tongues, the scent of it
lingering on our measured breaths,
sleeping heavily, as though drugged.

© 2005
(published in the Fall, 2005 issue of Plainsongs; received a special honorable mention in a ByLine contest; title poem of a manuscript in search of a publisher)

This is a poem about lunar eclipse. I think it's about other things, too: It's a love poem, a poem about the exhilaration, if not intoxication, that comes from quietly, thoughtfully observing nature.
That's what I thought when the poem came to me after watching a lunar eclipse with Phyllis.
Those moments on that winter night brought back so many memories for me, principally the red of all those strawberries against all that green of the fields. It reminded me of the strawberry wine I once saw as a child. It reminded me of so many things.
I had faith in that little poem. I had faith in it when I presented it at a workshop, where the moderator dismissed it with the comment that "the writer was obviously drunk on words when he wrote this."
I couldn't help thinking that he had given it a rather superficial reading. But he was partly right. I was "drunk on words." I still am ... in the sense of enjoying that elation which comes from having listened carefully to the words coming to me, then having written them equally as carefully on the page.
I maintained my faith in this little poem, and I am so glad I didn't give up on it. Now it has been publishedin the noted literary journal, Plainsongs. It is also the title poem of a 64-poem collection looking for a publisher.

***

Today's word: redolent

Autumn? Caught 'em ...

Sometimes we look all around, searching desperately for a subject. And sometimes all we need to do, particularly at this time of year in Ohio, is just look underfoot. And so it was that I noticed this gathering of leaves and snapped a photo (in this age of digital cameras, do we still "snap" photos?) The photo itself, given the proper composition, exposure, etc., can be the art, but my interest goes beyond that. I'm hoping that the photo will later inspire a painting. This one, for example, has potential with its interesting assortment of shapes and colors, its texture. It could become a painting, precise in every detail, or it could be an abstract. In any event, I'm glad I looked underfoot, liked what I saw, and preserved it with this photo.

***

Today's word: underfoot

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)