Ice-Cold Memories

I don't know if the weather is becoming more extreme ... or if I am becoming more sensitive to changes ... or it's all my imagination.

I'm sure of one thing, though, today's poem was written in the middle of one of those sizzling summer months when the pavement starts turning to goo and thoughts turn to the prospect of frying an egg on the sidewalk.

And I know this, too, I was looking for ways of surviving.

Ice-cold memories, pressed to the sizzling brow, may not be the answer, but I think they help.

At least the thought of that possibility produced a poem:

ICE-COLD MEMORIES

In the root cellar

of my mind

I have memories

of last winter

lying on the shelves

to help me survive

these front-burner

days of summer.

I shall pull them out

one by one, to press

to my sizzling brow,

daily hoping that

I have stored enough

to carry me through

until autumn

comes galloping up.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: sizzling

Sliding Into Third

Don't worry.

I'm not about to slide into third base ... or even run the bases, for that matter. Not even slowly.

Still, there's the imagination which is stirred by the warm spring breezes, the proximity of a playing field, the sun on my back.

The possibilities ... and even that is a stretch, too ... are interesting.

If I were really to try it, I can imagine that I might have to call time out ... if and when I reached first base. From there it would be rapidly (or slowly, perhaps) downhill.

I can just see myself going into that slide ... sliding ... and sliding short of the bag ... just lying there like a bag of potatoes.

No thank you. I'll stick to the poetic possibilities ... thank you very much ... as opposed to the reality of these tired old legs.

But, for now, the poem has legs:

SLIDING INTO THIRD

Sometimes,

when I’m walking past

the empty field,

I’m tempted

to go legging it

around the base paths,

sliding into third,

maybe stealing home,

but then I think

about getting caught

in a run-down

between second

and third, cut down

trying to extend

a beseeching leg

to hook the refuge

of that dusty bag,

and the vision

of that humiliation,

the disgrace of being

the winning run

tagged out, finished,

game over, is more

than I can chance.

Still, on one of my

better days,

I just might try it.

© 2000

(originally published in Potpourri)

***

Today's word: beseeching

Reunion

My earliest memories include family reunions ... noisy gatherings, it seemed to me, as people hugged, slapped each other on the back, stood around trading stories ... then there was the food, acres of it, it seemed ... and the bees or yellowjackets who always seemed to know where to find us.

I was puzzled in those early years. I couldn't understand how all these people ... most of them absolute strangers to me ... could possibly know each other ... how they could all be part of the same family.

With time and understanding of that came. I also came to know ... and need ... that annual gathering of family ... that renewal of links to others ... the mending of neglected fences ... the promises of "same time next year."

Unfortunately, some were destined not to make it to the next reunion ... but they would be remembered as remaining members of the family gathered once more.

I don't know if family still maintain the "reunion" practice. I hope the do. In my case, though, I've become a dropout, of necessity, since my driving ... all kind of travel, in fact ... is almost entirely local.

But I have my memories of those gatherings ... kept like pressed flowers in the pages of a favorite book. I look at them, one by one, on occasion, and remember ... oh, how I remember ...

The poem:

REUNION

Like worn pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,

we came back together, sliding

into place at that agreed-upon time

in the room provided for us, drawn

by the prospect of a field-hands meal,

the sound of children pattering

and laughing, the clatter and fury

of games, hum of quiet conversations,

memories burnished by renewed handling,

but mostly drawn back to this place

by that strongest pull, family.

It was not as easy as it once was,

this coming back together, but we did

come back from our scattered places

to be near that place where we began

our journeys along a single path,

then diverged as circumstances and

choices led us away, coming back now

to cross paths for this day, at least.

It was a day for remembering those

pieces missing from the puzzle, a day

for savoring the picture we still make

by our presence, a day for a few tears

as we touched scars of old wounds,

a day given over to hugs and handshakes,

welcomings and lingering farewells,

a bittersweet, pressed-flower day,

this coming home, this healing.

©

2005

***

Today's word: remembering

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you so much, Helen. I'm always pleased to receive an electronic pat on the back, of course ... but I'm doubly rewarded when a reader adds dimension to my posting with comments that serve as a sounding board ... an amplifier ... of the heartbeats of the poem.

Quiet Nights at Fuzzy's

Fuzzy's was a real place in my hometown. It still is, as far as I know ... Fuzzy's Tavern.

I was never inside, but I was always intrigued by the swinging doors, just like in the movies, and by the mixture of sounds ... music and voices ... and those alien smells, a mixture of smoke and booze, I suppose, which came flowing out onto the street.

Fuzzy's is among my earliest memories of my hometown. I recall how Grandma would take my hand and guide me past.

As I say, I've never actually been inside Fuzzy's, so "Quiet Nights ..." is a product of a combindation of early memories and my imagination. Oh, how that always enhances the memories.

When I wrote this poem, I imagined how it would have been to have followed the smoke as it drifted slowly through ... like a movie camera taking it all in ... then out the screened back door, out into that darkness "teeming with crickets and stars."

Someday I may go back to that little town where my life began.

I'll go strolling down the east side of Main Street and, though I may feel that Grandma is still watching over where I go and what I do, I may venture inside to see what it's really like.

Then again, I might just go strolling on by, like when Grandma led me past. I'd kinda hate to learn that it isn't anything like I imagined it to be.

The poem:

QUIET NIGHTS AT FUZZY'S

A lazy blue haze wove its way through

a tide of voices rising against

the solemn blare of the jukebox,

curled past booths lining the walls

like dark coffins, crawled into the dim

light hanging forlorn, discontented,

at a tattered table where the deliberate

clack and roll of spheres marked

the ebb and flow of local riches,

back where lonely drinkers got serious

in the grips of sweaty brown

bottles, washing themselves beyond

remembering the din of summer rain

on the tin roof, beyond even caring

about fighting, then the smoke seeped

out the screened back door, off,

night after night, into a darkness

teeming with crickets and stars.

© 1999

(second-place award winner in a Dayton Metro Library literary contest, and now part of a manuscript, a work in progress)

***

Today's word: memories

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thanks, Kelly~ ... I'm glad you enjoyed your visit to "Squiggles & Giggles" and will drop by again. I think you'll find us a friendly crowd ... and Professor Squigglee isn't nearly as gruff as he appears sometimes. He does peer over his glasses at people, but he ... so far ... hasn't given any tests on the material we've covered ... and I like that. I like that a lot.

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