Catching a Wave

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. I may be writing soon.

This one was first published in Capper's:

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 of that

early-morning roar. Perhaps tomorrow.

© 1999

***

Today's word: momentum

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Yes, Kelly, there are many times when those early-morning thoughts ... fodder for poems, I always hope ... converge to form a huge traffic jam. Then, later ...

Interesting, Helen, that a real morning person can also have the problem that I have ... "traffic" seems to start thinning out, and soon there's nothing in sight in either direction. That's my problem ... and there are times that I feel not only that I'm not a morning person, a fact well established over the years ... but that I'm not a midday person ... or even an evening person. But I keep plugging away, and try to ignore the time of day.

Butterflies

 

So many times, it seems, poems simply come to me of their own accord. I think of them as gifts. They are definitely gifts to me ... and I'm glad when I can share them with others.

When this one came to me, it was speaking of those poems ... and notes ... random jottings ... scribblings ... items on their way to becoming poems ... all of which I will leave behind ... as someday I must.

I don't dwell on that a lot, but the thought intrigues me ... particularly the idea of these little poems ... or the notes written on scraps of paper ... thoughts which never quite made it into poetry ... being able to flit around, like butterflies released ...

I like that mental picture.

And now, the poem:

 

BUTTERFLIES

 

Someday they'll find

these little things

I tried to write,

things that might have

become poems, had I been

able to find the words

I needed for the beauty,

the sorrow, the pain,

the joy of what they

really were. Had I just

found the words.

 

I hope they will turn

them loose, let them

fly like the butterflies

I always supposed them

to be, free to find

a flower, another, and

ever another, across

the sunlit valleys

of thoughtful minds.

© 1998

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

 

 

 

***

Today's word: sunlit

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thanks, Kelly. I'm glad you liked that butterfly image in the poem ... and I hope your sunlit day brought you some great, warm memories to pull out and savor when the snow starts falling. Oh, and I couldn't help noticing ... the counter has crept past the 40,000-mark.

I think you've got something there, Kelly ... I can see it now, a large neon sign on the front lawn of Brimm Manor ... "Chosen Words has served               readers." On second thought, maybe I should finish my celebratory dancing on the table ... then give it some more thought. Meanwhile ...                

Already Pocketed

"Writer's block"? I'm not sure it exists.

Oh, there are times when the ideas flow with the slowness of cold molasses ... there are times when the well seems to have gone completely dry ... but usually not for long.

I always carry a scrap of paper and a pen or pencil, just in case.

Then there are times when the thoughts come gushing forth ... and I wish I had my handy-dandy pocket recorder with me, so I could capture them in the midst of the heavy traffic that I'm trying to pick my way through.

Thoughts ... writing-related ideas ... are, indeed fleeting ... and the intervals between them can seem to be endless ... but "writer's block"?

I don't really think there is such a thing ... and I hope I'm right. I hope I can keep riding down this seemingly never-ending trail ... writing and sharing ... until ... well, until the very end.

And now, today's poem:

ALREADY POCKETED

Sometimes,

when I search

the rock pile

of my mind

for new ideas

to grind

and polish,

my hand goes

to a pocket

where one lies

already shaped

and shined,

just waiting

for a setting

worthy of it.

© 2000

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: pocketed

When the Frost Comes

Most of my poems are pretty upbeat. Oh, there are those I've written just for myself ... a little less than upbeat in instances, I suppose ... poems that deal with pain ... and healing.

I find some release ... some relief ... for having written them. They are unlikely ever to be shared.

Then there are those like today's.

It's not an upbeat subject ... this matter of loss ... personal loss. Still, in coming to grips with loss, we sometimes do find a degree of comfort ... I don't know if that's the right word ... an easing, I guess, of the burden imposed upon us.

I hope that comes through in today's poem:

WHEN THE FROST COMES

We miss the flowers

that kept us company

during summer months.

Well into the winter

we savor the memories

of their nodding under

the weight of foraging

bees, of their colors

lifting our spirits.

And so it is

with dear friends

and companions.

When they have gone,

we remember the bright

times we shared, how

we cheered each other,

and we cherish these

good memories, flowering

long after the frost

to give us sustenance.

© 2003

(originally published in Brave Hearts)

***

Today's word: sustenance

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I'm glad, Helen, that you found an upbeat aspect to the rather solemn subject of this poem ... I was trying for that, even while the poem was speaking to me of personal loss. I think it needed that little ray of light toward the conclusion, and I'm glad you spotted it.

Thanks, Kelly, for that reaction to the photo ... a snapshot taken during one of my walks (I'm always looking for an excuse to pause a moment or two before trudging on) ... and thanks for those kind words about the poem ... and, yes, I'm enjoying the week ... while steadily falling behind on my responses ... almost as though I nodded off in the midst of the conversation. My apologies all around. Oh, yes, we're, indeed, approaching that 40,000th-visitor mark! I never thought I'd see that ... guess we should have a celebration ...

Tomato Patch

How long ago ... and yet how vivid the memories of those childhood summers helping in the garden that my grandparents had each year.

I'm sure I wasn't much help in those early years. That came later, when I had the stature and muscles to be an effective weed chopper.

Oh, but how I still recall how hot and steamy it was there ... how a bit of shade and a drink of water did seem to be so far, far away. But, as the poem indicates, those memories are still valuable to me ... I still treasure them.

Of course, memories tend to lose their rough edges over time. They become smooth and shiny ... much like the blade I remember, chopping those weeds, loosening the soil to help retain the moisture the plants so sorely needed.

The poem:

TOMATO PATCH

I found no poetry

in the tomato patch,

drone of a horsefly

drilling the silence,

drops of my sweat

salting the soil,

my hoe dispatching

smartweed, with shade,

a drink of water

so far away. Why,

then, do I miss

that seasoned handle,

so glassy-smooth,

sliding in my hands,

that dark blade

worn thin and shiny,

glinting like

treasure in the sun?

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: glinting

Summer Showdown

Think back a few mornings ... I was lulled into a sense of invincibility (OK, so I'm exaggerating just a bit) ... actually, I was thoroughly enjoying the somewhat unseasonably cool weather we were having.

I tried to contain myself, though, and speak cautiously about it, for fear of bringing it to a sudden halt.

Apparently I didn't speak cautiously enough ... story of my life.

The heat is back. As I sit here at the sizzling keyboard at mid-morning, the temperature is still rising. I can almost hear those eggs frying on the sidewalks around town.

Summertime is back ... at least for a curtain call ... and, personally, I hope that's all it is. I'm ready for some cool ... not COLD, mind you ... but cool, pleasantly cool weather ... ple-e-e-e-ase.

Excuse me, please, while I reach for another ice cube.

Meanwhile, the poem:

SUMMER SHOWDOWN

Summer sun’s so boiling hot

I can almost hear the soft

clinking of spurs, stealthy

creaking of the boardwalk,

a sudden, smothering silence

in which the buzz of a fly

sounds sinister, foretelling

a showdown on the sun-baked,

hoof-pocked, clatter-plaited

street, where a tumbleweed

pauses in the sanctum of shade

cast by a tumble-down saloon,

where I stand, suddenly struck

by a lightning flash of thirst.

© 2003

(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger; now part of a manuscript in search of a publisher)

***

Today's word: tumble-down

Outside Ann's Cafe

Sadly, Ann's Cafe is just a memory now.

While it was there on Watervliet Avenue, though, it was an oasis, a welcoming refuge along the route of our morning walks.

During the cold months we sat inside, in the embrace of all those delicious cooking aromas.

On milder days we enjoyed the freedom of the tables on the sidewalk, the sounds of passing traffic, the wafting blandishments of wonderful baked goods coming from inside.

Oh, the memories, the sweet memories we have of that place.

The poem:

OUTSIDE ANN'S CAFE

The cars

go purring past

while we enjoy

the morning cool

on the sidewalk

at Ann's Café.

It's too pretty

to stay inside,

we say, settling

into our chairs

like two tired

teddy bears.

The sweet smell

of baked goods

comes stealing out

to where we sit,

tempting us, but

we are steadfast,

unmoved by this.

The steady click

of our spoons,

the clunk of cups

against the glass

tabletop give

more than adequate

testimony

to our resolve.

But then . . .

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: steadfast