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

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Sorry you had problems with the site, Helen ... but glad you persisted and posted a comment. Those little nudges in the small of my back help to keep me going. Sometimes I think the problems are just momentary glitches ... gremlins at work ... actually, my technical knowledge is so limited that I live pretty much in a world of "It works" ... "it doesn't" ... and I'm so thankful when "It works" is in play.

Another mystery, Featheredpines ... at least to me ... sometimes things work, sometimes they don't, and I'm always mystified as to how they "fixed" themselves ... an explanation from somebody would help us understand, I think ... but I'm glad you persisted. It's always good to hear a familiar voice.

Inside Job

Regular visitors to "Chosen Words" are aware that I don't often engage in structured verse. I enjoy reading well-crafted rhyme, but I find the process of making it difficult and frustrating.

This poem is an effort to reconstruct a minor crime that I became witness to as a child. You may notice that some of the details of the poem vary from the official version of what really happened:

We had a screened-in back porch, and a lot of cats. The porch was sometimes, but not always, off-limits to the cats.

Naturally, when my grandparents discovered the cats sitting on the inside looking out, I ... the most innocent of young children ... was the prime suspect.

I had not let the cats in, really. While there was no apparent punishment for my "crime," I was determined to clear my name, and clear it I did.

With careful watching and waiting, I caught the real culprit in the act. One of our cats ... not "Fuzzy," I hasten to add ... had learned that if he sank his claws into the opening edge of the screen door, he could pull it open just enough for his buddies ... and him ... to slip inside.

I showed my grandparents this feline felon in action ... and we lived happily ever after.

Today's art? It's one of my photographs from Cox Arboretum, which happens to be one of my favorite walking places.

I know, it doesn't serve to illustrate today's poem, but I don't seem to have any pictures of six cats peering out the window, and this photo just sort of popped out at me again today, so there it is.

The poem:


INSIDE JOB

When we got home the cats were all

At the front window, looking out;

Six, countingFuzzy, standing tall,

And purring to themselves, no doubt.



Picture perfect, but then chagrin.

"They were supposed to be waiting

Outside," I heard myself grating,

"That rat, Fuzzy, has let them in."

© 2005

(originally published in Grit magazine)



***
Today's word: chagrin

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for those kind words about the photo ... and the poem. Certainly, you may feel free to turn the photo into a painting. I'm not sure what kind of flowers they were/are. I just couldn't pass them by without snapping a shot of all that color spilling down the rock wall ... and I'm glad I've been able to share it. First time one of my poems has been called cute, I believe ... and it doesn't seem to mind at all.

" ... purple flowers tumbling down the rock wall ... " I like the sound of that, Featheredpines. Thank you for stopping by ... and for that insight on the cats, too.

Hot Pursuit

OK, so I couldn't stand the suspense.

I wanted to take a picture of my funny hat. I didn't want a straight-on shot, but a profile, which would really show off the hat, since it was the primary subject.

So I set the timer, put the camera on a shelf, posed and waited ... and waited ... and waited.

I was so sure the camera had snapped the picture without my hearing anything, so I stole a look -- at just the wrong moment!

The result: a blurred photo of myself with two noses. Serves me right. Bottom line: I hate to throw anything away, so I kept it, then remembered this little poem which seems the perfect match for it:

HOT PURSUIT

I go tramping

the echoing stairs

of this old house,

pursuing things

forgotten here,

remembered there,

getting exercise

enough for two.
© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: tramping

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, thank you, Helen, for those kind words about the photo. I hopeI haven't triggered an epidemic of similar mishaps across the land, but if you want to try it, here's the secret, as I recall it: The camera must be precisely placed (as to height and distance from the subject), the subject is preferably seated (and not in a swivel chair ... or, heaven forbid, a rocking chair), the timer must be activated (your camera probably has more precise instructions regarding this), and then ... this is crucial ... remember that timing is absolutely the key to the whole project. I couldn't have pulled it off, unassisted, if my own timing had not been absolutely HORRIBLE. In fact, I don't know how I pulled it off that one time ... and I haven't been able to repeat the performance. Also, I probably should warn everybody ... don't try this at home ... but I did, and I survived. You probably can, too. Let me know how it turns out.

Yes, Featheredpines, Professor Squigglee is back ... after a long hiatus. There was some speculation that he had simply wandered off ... Not true, I hasten to add. It's my understanding that he has just been lost in deep thought. We shall see, I suppose. In any event, I advise you to keep up on your reading ... there may be a test ... one of these days ... on all that he's said.

Green Glass Bottles

Whoa! Seems like only yesterday ... but it may have been longer ago ... you know how time flies when you're having computer problems.

To make a long story short ... and how unlike me that is, eh? ... I got up early this morning (you'll have to take my word on that) ... but my computer decided to sleep in.

I suppose it was out partying all night ... or up watching late TV ... or (most unlikely) reading a good book until all hours.

For some reason unknown to me, it decided it didn't want to let me online this morning. I tried and tried ... and, just as I was about the decide that maybe I should resort to green glass bottles for sending out today's installment, the computer relented ... and here I am (I hope).

Strangely enough, all that struggling brought me to this:

As I've said before, I write quite a bit about writing, not because I've become expert on the subject, but because certain aspects of it remain a mystery to me and are, therefore, so intriguing.

Some of that mystery, an uncertainty, surrounds the process of submitting poetry to others, not just to seek their opinion of it, though that can be valuable, but on the outside chance of its being accepted for publication.

The result of that game, of course, is mostly rejection ... at least in my case. Sheer numbers argue against the chances of any particular poem's seeing its way into print.

Still, we continue the game.

I sit on my island ... writers do so much of their work in that kind of isolation ... carefully selecting the poems which will go out to seek their fortunes among strangers. I compare the process to putting tiny, scribbled notes in green glass bottles, in hope that some of them will be discovered, accepted, published.

Then there's the waiting game, the suspense of wondering how the submissions are being received, and, when the green glass bottles return, the excitement, the anticipation ... still ... about what, precisely, has been their fate with that particular editor.

Meanwhile, there are more poems ... more green glass bottles ... that surging sea upon which so many of our hopes will ride. Oh, what a wonderful game it is!

This one was originally published in Midwest Poetry Review:

GREEN GLASS BOTTLES

If the wind is right

and the sea is surging,

I shall place another poem

in a green glass bottle

and send it bobbing off.

But mainly I shall sit

on the windward side

awaiting those bottles

sent off months ago,

scattered distant dots

nodding now and glinting

in the froth of return,

finally clinking ashore

to my trembling, bony

fingers, fingers fearing

the messages inside.

© 1997

***

Today's word: mystery

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I'm glad you liked the imagery, Featheredpines. Thank you! I do have plans ... somewhere down the road ... for adding more art, including some of my watercolors, I hope ... to the new S&G page, or others, maybe both ... but I need to get better organized for that to happen. I'll keep trying, though ... I really will.

Fishes and Loaves

Some mornings, when I'm just getting my eyes open, beginning to bring objects into focus, the computer decides to cooperate, and things go ... well ... reasonably well. I get something posted, and I'm off the hook for the rest of the day.

But there was one morning a few months ago that signaled it just was not going to be one of those good days.

I'll spare you the details. Bottom line: There was no way the computer was going to let me get online. Why? That's probably destined to remain a mystery.

Just one of those things, I guess.

So what did I do? Well, this time ... I skipped the hand-to-hand combat with the desktop despot. I just didn't feel like doing all-out battle with it.

Instead, I decided just to go with the flow. I still had a guilty conscience about giving in so easily, but I spared myself tons of frustration.

So there it was, mid-afternoon. I'd had my walk. I had a nice, quiet lunch with a lady I've known since the previous century, and I'd had a nap ... -- er, an interlude of concentrated meditation in one of my favorite chairs ... and the computer seemed to have come around, reluctantly, to my way of thinking.

And there we were, finally, with a poem.

As I explained, the "fishes and loaves" bit in the poem may be something of a stretch, but it got somebody's attention, right? They read it, liked it, published it.

Take away that part, though, and you still have the heart of what I'm trying to say: If what I have said, or what I may yet say, touches someone, helps them in some way, simply gives them a better outlook, improves their understanding of some issue, helps them to make it through the day ... then that's "miracle" enough for me.

And when a poem I've written resonates with someone in a particular way ... especially if they are moved to tell me about it ... then that's "miracle" enough for me, too.

This one was originally published in Explorer:

FISHES AND LOAVES

The fishes

of what I have said

and the loaves

of what I may yet

have to say

would never feed

the multitudes,

but, if one crust

of my writing

has benefitted

just one person,

that's miracle

enough for me.

© 1996

***

Today's word: miracle

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for those kind words. I'm glad you find the poems still hold their flavor on a second sipping. That's as much a tribute to the reader as to the writer ... as I keep saying, and I really believe this ... so much depends on what the reader brings to the poem.

And thank you, Southernmush, for paying another visit and leaving those very generous comments here. Continued best wishes ... oh, and have you taken a look at the "new" Squiggles and Giggles? There's a link in the column to the left ... I'm trying posting S&G online so it won't be cluttering up everybody's e-mail boxes. Let me know, please, if you have any problems reaching it.

End of the Day

Today's poem is about a bit of "ancient history."

Written well after the fact, it's a recounting of a time when I traveled much more than I do now, a time before interstate highways began crisscrossing our country, when passenger trains were still in abundance.

It was sometimes faster, or "more convenient," to travel by car. Oh, how I recall trying to think of that convenience as I fell into bed somewhere along the way and tried to get a few hours' sleep before pressing on.

Ah, those were the days.

But for now, the poem:

END OF THE DAY

The ceiling grows vague

and cold, its tiles swirling

like snowflakes toward me,

and I taste them, melting,

the bed sways under me

as though bearing me away

to some strange place, my eyes

close, and I see highway,

an undulating ribbon whirring

toward me, narrow out there,

broadening here where it gains

speed, goes threading beneath

my car, as it has all day,

dull pewter funnel pulling

me in, pouring me out here

where I lie on a strange bed

in a cheap motel, thinking

of the events bringing me

here, thoughts drifting

like the slow, curling smoke

in a room suddenly empty,

being pulled toward the ache

and soreness of tomorrow,

not caring, not caring at all.

© 2000

(originally published in Waterways; now part of a manuscript, Wood Smoke, slated for publication later this year by Finishing Line Press)

***

Today's word: fatigue

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thanks for that observation about passenger trains, Featheredpines. They were very much a part of my young life ... since we didn't have a car ... there were "locals" which carried passengers from one town to the next ... and trains were still around when I was in military service. I miss them, too.

The Dawning

Those who know me well ... family and friends ... will be surprised to find I've written somewhat favorably about the beginning of the day.

Mornings have generally not been easy for me.

But this poem is not just about morning. It's about the experience of returning to an awareness of surroundings, discovering "words already dancing/ across the softly-lighted/ ballroom of my mind," of being on the verge ... after all that struggle ... of beginning to put words on paper.

Yes, it speaks to me about what I like best, writing, that activity which takes over after that "ballroom" activity, the real "dawning" that occurs with the writing itself.

The poem:

THE DAWNING

When the earth is still

hovering between sleep

and consciousness, when

birdsong is finding voice

and a distant bell

sways in the gentle wash

of sound, I come floating

out of a recurring dream,

yawning, stretching, eyes

struggling in darkness,

feet reaching cautiously

for the reality of floor,

words already dancing

across the softly-lighted

ballroom of my mind.

© 1999

(originally published in Sisters Today)

***

Today's word: yawning

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, I like it, too, Featheredpines ... when the words go waltzing smoothly across the "ballroom of the mind" ... but when they start jitterbugging (now there's a term from the previous century) ... that's when I know it's going to be a rough morning.

Thank you, Helen, for bringing my slightly bumpy day to a smooth landing with your comment. I'm delighted that you like these little pieces I've pulled together and posted here.