The Leaky Roof

First, this just in: A new installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" has been posted ... with a freshness day of Monday, May 12 ... but it should retain its freshness for a few days after that ... if you're too rushed to pay a visit now.
And if you do visit, I'd recommend that you go by way of the link in the lefthand column of "Chosen Words" ... you see, S&G has a "new address" ... just new enough ... with just a teeny change in it ... enough to make life complicated.
So, please try that link ... and let me know what you think. (Say, could that be the beginning of another poem?)
Meanwhile, we've had more than our share of rain recently in this part of Ohio ... with just a touch of rough weather thrown in ... makes the heart grow fonder of sunny days ... you know, those events which have something to do with that strange glowing object in the sky.
This morning is starting off with fog ... most of my mornings seem to start that way, even when the sun is shining brightly ... so it was no surprise when ...
I woke up ... late, thirsty ... thinking foggily of clouds, rain, roofs, leaky roofs ... and this poem came to mind:

THE LEAKY ROOF
We knew just where

to put pots and pans

when the rain came
suddenly weeping

through our roof,
its pit, pat, pit-pat

lullaby lingering
long after the storm

had droned off into
distant, grumbling

thunder, leaving
a morning residue

of splatters
and puddles,

blankets on a line,
featherbed sprawled

like a newborn calf
broadside of the sun.

© 2001

(received an honorable mention award in Ohio Poetry Day competition; subsequently published in my first collection, Chance of Rain ... Finishing Line Press, 2003)

***

Today's word: grumbling
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Thank you, Southernmush, for stopping by again ... and pausing to exchange a few thoughts. First, I'm sorry you're feeling sad ... but I hope you found some comfort in the poem ... especially the ending which, I think, offers the promise of something better ... "like a newborn calf/ broadside of the sun." I think moments of sadness are, as you indicate, like rain ... but then I think ahead to what follows ... the sunshine which always comes ... the flowers which answer the sunshine ... and I hope you will soon find that sunshine which follows the rain. Here's to happier days for you, Southernmush ... and soon.    

If It Rains

As are most of my poems, today's is fairly straightforward, dealing with harsh realities. These are still just as harsh, and just as real, I'm sure, as when I was growing up in Southern Illinois.

How dependent, how at the mercy of the weather, were those who tried to make a living from the soil.

Life was one big gamble, and nobody knew the odds, exactly, except that they always seemed to be against the players.

Rather than a single, memorable incident, this piece represents an accumulation of impressions, and is about no particular, single farmer, but all farmers who face the odds and keep playing this most difficult game, betting against the weather year after year.

The poem:

IF IT RAINS

Paper-dry corn emits a sigh

as an arid breeze riffles

the long, dead rows

of ochre and gray, searching

for moisture. Even weeds

are limp with thirst.

Last year had been a good one,

so he paid down some debt

and, less burdened,

plowed and planted once more

on gentle, warming slopes

as spring returned.

It may rain tomorrow, he says,

knowing that it's too late

to salvage this crop.

But if it does rain tomorrow,

next week, or next month,

that may be enough

to sustain last spring's hopes

through the rages of winter,

and he will plow again.

© 2003

(originally published in Capper's, this poem is from my first collection, Chance of Rain, published in 2003 by Finishing Line Press)

***

Today's word: if

Hard Times

Not all of my poems are about sunsets, the beauty of cobblestone clouds, the wafting scent of roses. Life has a gritty side, too, and some of my poems reflect that.

This encounter came a long time ago at a bus stop, a favorite trolling spot for panhandlers. There was a time when I would almost automatically hand over a bit of change. I could remember tough times, too.

But I had grown tired of being hit up day after day. My initial response was not very charitable, I know, but I relented. I imagine there's a lesson in there someplace, perhaps having something to do with the poor sparrows of this world.

The photo is mine. OK, so it doesn't show a downtown street, but I think it does serve as a backdrop for that "snow-blasted morning."

The poem appeared in Pebble Lake Review's Fall/Winter issue of 2005, and now is part of a manuscript (Strawberry Wine) in search of a book publisher.

And here it is:

HARD TIMES

Suddenly he's in my face,

dirty, wind-blown, muttering,

Spare a quarter? Refusing to let

his question assault me,

I turn away. Then back. My own

No, can you? comes spilling out

like a shot, freezing us there

in the snow-blasted morning

until finally his uncertain

chuckle descends into breath-

stealing, chest-stabbing coughs

and I fish deep in the warmth

of a pocket for a quarter,

hand it over, stand watching

as he moves away, this poor,

tattered sparrow with his crumb.

© 2006

***

Today's word: tattered

Glass, Drinking

Such an ordinary subject ... and I'm sure the editor who once scrawled something to that effect on one of my poems would agree ... but I find many of my subjects in "ordinary things."

So much depends, I think, on how one looks at them.

I'm not exactly sure where ... or when ... the particular glass of this poem caught my attention.

It was a cheap green drinking glass ... I'm sure of that ... but it wasn't a recent observation, because the trains don't run past the house where I live. So it had to have been in the past ... perhaps the distant past.

But I do remember how that glass caught the light, and I can still see those few remaining droplets dancing.

The moment could have passed unnoticed. I'm sure there were other things ... far more important things ... going on. But I did notice, though I had no idea I would ever write a poem about it ... or write any poems, for that matter.

I'm glad the memory was stored somewhere in the recesses of my mind, just waiting there for the right moment to show itself to me again.

It's just a small descriptive passage ... a single sentence, if it were presented as a bit of prose ... but I treasure the memory it represents ... and the other memories which keep it company.

Oh, how I wish I had a picture of it to share with you. Instead, there's a photo I snapped during one of my walks at Cox Arboretum.

GLASS, DRINKING

It gathers the light to it, sparkling

with morning warmth, wraps itself

in rings so bright they might be taken

for some kind of pretense, but it’s

only a cheap green drinking glass,

empty except for a few remaining

droplets that tremble and dance

to the passing song of a rickety train

and then subside like an echo yielding

itself to the cold of late autumn fog.

© 2006

(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)

***

Today's word: rickety

Frozen Flight

I'll never understand computers.

One recent morning I woke up to what appeared to be just a normal day. I bounded out of bed when the alarm finally went off ... dashed to the computer to see how many visitors had stopped by to take a look at "Chosen Words" ... and maybe left a comment.

I stretched and yawned and sat in my squeaky chair in front of the screen. I checked "Chosen Words." Mmmm ... not bad. The numbers are still clicking right along.

Time for another entry.

I said ... Time for another entry. The computer wasn't listening. I tried to log on. I could look, but couldn't touch. I tried again ... and again ... and again.

As usual, I wondered what I had done wrong.

I closed the door softly as I left Brimm Manor and went about the business of running some errands ... getting out for my morning walk, etc.

Much later I returned ... tried again ... and things were working. Mystery solved? Nope.

And things seem to be working this morning ... and I have a summer poem.

No, sorry, I don't have a picture of a sweat bee to go along with the poem. Those rascals are too tiny, too unpredictable, too fast for me and my camera.

I do have a reminder of summer, however, with today's photo, one of many I've snapped during my daily wanderings ... -er, walks.

The poem itself is almost a haiku moment, a tiny flicker of activity broken off before I became fully focused on what was happening.

But it became a little more than that ... and it carries so many memories of all those places this kind of "stare down" has happened to me over the years.

Originally published in Capper's:

FROZEN FLIGHT

A sweat bee

hovers in my face,

wings invisible

in the heavy air,

then, satisfied

at having won

this stare down,

darts away.

© 1996

***

Today's word: invisible

Delia's Dream

 

Today's little poem is about my grandmother, who took me into her care when I was two years old and guided me until I was 18 ... when I went into military service ... and even beyond. I still feel that gentle hand in the small of my back. 

Times were not just hard, but really tough, requiring frugality with those few material things which came her way. Still, those circumstances seemed to inspire in her an exceeding generosity.

She knew that others had needs greater than hers. She accepted the fact that her good works might be received without thanks.

And she didn't talk much about "those distant places," but I know she dreamed about them sometimes, especially those where her children were.

She did get to visit them, but she never got to be there, as she would say, never got to "pull up and settle down" there.

It was simply not to be. And she accepted that, too. How I love her, for all the things she taught me ... for all the butterflies she pointed out to me ... and paused to watch with me.  

And now, the poem:

 

DELIA'S DREAM

How she'd say

nothing is ever lost,

meaning wasted,

pieces of string,

each carefully coiled,

or a rubber band

snapped around her wrist,

her good works received

without thanks,

and thoughts,

especially thoughts

of those distant places

where she dreamed things

were better, where she

hoped to be someday,

but never was.

© 1997

(originally published in Riverrun)

 

                              ***

Today's word: guided

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for those kind words about the poem ... and for that insight on economic boundaries ... about being "wealthy in many ways," in spite of those material restrictions ... a lesson for us all. 

Clouds at Sunset

(Speaking of clouds ... there's a mention of clouds in the latest installment of "Squiggles & Giggles" ... see the link below, to the left ... posted so recently that it's probably still warm)

But now, today's poem ... an ekphrastic poem, that is, one written about a painting ... one of my own creations.

It's one of the poems I shared with the audience recently in the "Poets Respond to Art" series at the Dayton Art Institute.

Sorry, I don't have a photo of the painting. I didn't get a shot of it before it went off to a new home in Illinois.

Still, I hope the poem will convey the images ... I keep trying to "paint pictures with words" ... that the poem will, at the very least, give the reader the feeling of being there in front of the painting, studying it.

The poem:

CLOUDS AT SUNSET

Mountains tower

on the left, clouds lie

piled like bubbles on the right,

while the sun

lowers itself into the sea,

and a white sail with

a horizontal red stripe

leans across the curving waves

in the foreground.

It's such an old painting,

it might have been the thirties,

awash in Depression, an art

seeking escape while accepting

the realities of that time,

or something as recent

as yesterday, made

to freeze-frame things

in the midst of change,

the clouds, the sun, the sea,

even those sturdy mountains,

eroding while we watch.

It could be just a dream.

© 2003

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

***

Today's word: foreground

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you so much, Featheredpines. I like description of my poems being like portals ... I'm still basking in that this morning ... one of the reasons that I'm running a bit late. Running? Don't worry, I'm not carrying scissors ... and I'm certainly staying away from stairways ... but if I find that I can't avoid them, I hold onto the handrail now.