The Moment

Memories. We can't live in the past, of course, but memories can help to make the going easier in the present.

Today's poem is based on earliest memory.

I find it hard to believe that I'm going all the way back to the cradle in recalling my mother's words ... not the specific words, but the memory of the sounds, enhanced, perhaps, by the distance, the years since I heard them.

Or I may just be imagining it all, the product of my wanting to "hear" them.

When I was about two years old, I went to live with my grandparents, who reared me to adulthood. My contact with my mother was limited after that.

It would be natural for me to have more memories of my grandparents than my mother. Still, there is that connection, that need to go back as far as I can to those earliest days.

It's a wistful poem, a semi-dream poem. And I found a certain healing in the writing of it, a certain comfort in reading it again this morning. It was originally published in Capper's:

THE MOMENT

In the moment

between sleeping

and waking,

when morning light

drifts strangely

through the trees

and sounds seem

borne aloft

by distant voices,

my mother’s words

come curling back

like wood smoke

on a rainy night,

and I am comforted

by that memory.

© 2001

***

Today's word:

wistful

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for those kind words about the poem. Even more mysterious than the workings of poems which seem to present themselves to me are the workings of memory. I find great comfort in both.

I'm delighted that you discovered "Chosen Words," Kelly~ ... and left that comment ... I like the thought that looking back on memories helps heal the heart. I might also suggest ... if you have a few minutes ... that you take a side trip to "Squiggles & Giggles." A new installment has just been posted, with a recording of my reading of "Building Poems" ... and there's a link in the lefthand column.

Loss of a Tree

Long-time visitors to "Chosen Words" may recall having seen today's poem before ... way back in 2005.

At that time it was ... as are many of my poems ... part of a manuscript in search of a publisher. Well, it has found a publisher ... or a publisher has found it, I suppose.

"Loss of a Tree" is in a small collection, Wood Smoke, which is scheduled for publication by Finishing Line Press (remember Chance of Rain and Hollyhocks?) later this year.

So, this is not really a summer re-run ... though I suppose it could be considered that ... but a sampling of things to come.

The poem:

LOSS OF A TREE

Streets, the inexorable ooze of cities,

were already there when you arrived

to be ritually planted as recompense

for what had been stolen from the land.

Thus began life among strangers, thirst

of confinement, trimmings when you

reached for wires, the salt-laden spray

of passing cars, signs tacked to your

trunk, bark-scarring injury from a van

run amok. Despite abuse, neglect, you grew

through recession, depression, ebb and flow

of fashion, through those times called

war, interludes known as peace. You grew

over the curb, began upending sidewalk,

but provided shade for strollers, let fall

showers of crinkled leaves for children

to go kicking through. Finally, when winds

tried to break you, but, failing that,

uprooted you with a horrible groan, you

took with you an anachronistic jumble

of flashing trolley wires and lay, silent

and dying in the street, waiting for crews

to gather you up, truck you away, leaving

only your winged seed, scattered and golden.

©

2005

(from Wood Smoke, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press)

***

Today's word:

inexorable

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen. I'm glad you liked the poem. As for Wood Smoke, I think I caught a wisp of it on the horizon just a little while ago ... so please stay tuned. Best to you, too.

It's Only Darkness

Sometimes I think it's best just to let the poem speak for itself. This is one of those times ... although I'm tempted to say something about so-called Daylight Saving Time ...

I always have a comment or two ... mainly to myself ... as I make the rounds ... twice a year ... setting the clocks back ... or forward ... and back ... then forward ... no, back ...

My usual thought is ... why do we have to fiddle with the clocks? Why, if we're so intent on "saving time" ... can't we just adjust our work schedules ... to have a work schedule for the summer months ... another schedule for the rest of the year?

Wouldn't that work just as well? Or would we not be able to remember ... Oh, now I report in at seven, instead of eight ... ?

I usually end up commenting ... to myself ... that it's all just a ruse to provide farmers with more time to play golf in the afternoons (and I'm kidding about that, kidding!).

Don't get me wrong ... I'm all for saving energy ... especially when it's costing us all an arm and a leg ...

But I'm not going there today ... because ... well, actually, the poem isn't about Daylight Saving Time ...

The poem:

IT'S ONLY DARKNESS

There's such an absence

of light this morning,

it's like scaling a wall

of darkness as I rise

slowly on familiar stairs.

My feet seek supporting

places, my hand searches

for a railing I know

is there, but still hiding

from my straining eyes.

I’m a child again, bad dreams

still haunting me while my

sleep-numbed brain struggles

to convince me there’s nothing

to fear: It’s only darkness.

My hand reaches for a hand

no longer there and I pause,

listening, waiting, almost

expecting a touch, a word

to guide me in my climb.

© 2003

(published in ICON, Spring issue, 2003)

***

Today's word: darkness

Hope Renewed

Today's poem reminds me of the good old days, way back when I was putting together a free, weekly e-mailed newsletter (anybody remember "Squiggles & Giggles"?).

One of our annual rituals was a countdown toward spring.

It was not unusual for it to begin with the first frost in the autumn, struggle through the gray days of winter, then go marching toward brighter, sunnier, warmer ... growing ... days of spring.

This poem also reminds me of a time when Phyllis and I shared a sleeping room high under the roof of the house, where the sound ... the music ... of rain was so soothing, so reassuring.

Though I can't hear the rain thumping on the roof now, the sound of it slanting against the bedroom window is still a pleasant interlude, a reminder ...

The poem:

HOPE RENEWED

Spring rain

thumps on my roof

as though testing it

for ripeness,

and in the sunny

back yard of my mind

I see red roses

blossoming again.

© 1994

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: blossoming

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, thank you, Helen, for letting me know that this little piece came together as the word picture(s) I'd hoped it would. As for other readers ... the welcome mat is always out ... I keep a light in the window ... and I'm listening, listening ... for quiet footsteps ... a whispered comment ... a chuckle ... I'm listening.

Deadly Sin

Let's see, now. I was riding along on a city bus. My stop was coming up, so I had put my magazine inside my briefcase, snug there beside my lunch, and I was sleepily watching the street signs.

Actually, I guess I was watching buildings and store signs, more than anything. I had ridden this route so many times, I hardly had to watch for street signs.

Then I heard it.

The click of a ballpoint pen was unmistakable. The sound came from the seat immediately behind mine. Obviously, somebody was preparing to write something.

Was it a thought which had just jumped out at them? A line for a poem? Maybe just a reminder. Maybe another item on the grocery list. But writing.

Someone writing! Another writer? Someone who, like I had done so many times on the bus, was jotting something down that would later become a real poem?

Oh, how tempting it was to turn to see this person ... to ask, "Are you a writer?" To ... well, the poem says it all:

DEADLY SIN

I heard the click of a pen

in the seat behind me,

imagined the scratch of words

across paper, the beginnings

of something so compelling

I was tempted to turn, to peer,

suggest, but resisted as though

in the presence of deadly sin,

and at the next stop got off

the bus, feeling I had been cast

out of The Garden as the doors

folded firmly shut behind me.

© 1998

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: tempted

Caught on the Brink

Have you ever found yourself in "the twilight zone," that location which lies vaguely somewhere between sleeping like a baby ... and being fully awake?

Well, I have. Many times.

Thank goodness, it has only happened to me a couple of times when I was behind the wheel ... and without serious outcomes in either instance.

Oh, on one of those occasions ... one very dark night ... I was pulled over by a highway patrolman somewhere in Indiana ... but that's another story.

But let me settle into my favorite chair ... with a favorite book ... and it's like I've been given a knockout potion. Soon the words become blurry ... the room seems to melt away ... the book grows heavy ... my eyelids grow heavier ...

Whoa! I'm getting ahead of myself here. I'll just step aside and let you glide right into the poem:

CAUGHT ON THE BRINK

Something I had just read

struck a chord with me,

sent sympathetic vibrations

dancing down the corridors

of my mind. I could feel

something stirring deep

within me, a new knowledge

coming like a rescuer's lamp

shooting fingers of light

this way and that,

drawing nearer in the murky

darkness, promising a sip

from the cup of understanding,

a way to come clawing out

of this abyss, into fresh air

and natural light. "Bob!" I

heard the distant voice calling.

"Bob! Put down your book,

take off your glasses, recline

your chair!" It was as though

the Thought Police had me

surrounded. What could I do?

What else? I surrendered.

© 2000

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: murky

(Oh ... by the way ... another installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" has been posted)

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Welcome back, Featheredpines! We've missed you. I'm glad there was a timely poem waiting to greet you on your return ... and I hope you found that Robinson Jeffers piece. I also hope you're finding some refuge from that horrible heat. I am really sorry that you can't hear the latest poem posted on S&G. I just tried it, and it played for me (I really hope I'm not the only one who can get it to play). Perhaps it's just a temporary glitch with your connection ... and I know that's not very helpful ... but my technical knowledge is almost nil. I believe it's recorded and posted in the .wav format, if that's any help in solving the mystery. Let me know what happens, if you try again, please.

Body of Work

Sometimes when I'm scribbling on a scrap of paper, I turn thoughtful ... and when that happens I try not to spoil the mood by talking too much.

Today's poem:

BODY OF WORK

No massive volumes

nor learned footnotes

preserve my tracks,

no ripples mark

my gentle passage,

yet my being here,

scribbling away,

may have made

a difference

to someone else.

If that's the case,

I am pleased,

verging on proud,

of my body of work.

© 1996

(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

***

Today's word: verging

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you so much, Featheredpines. Hearing someone say that is ... well, my highest reward.