Brittle Poems

Still another poem about writing, but without any technical advice.

No how to- piece. Instead, some sounds, some images painted with words.

Add a bit of a twist with "fireflies ... looking for someone with a jar," and there you have it.

Many of my poems are "little thoughts" ... whether they blink on and off is another matter ... but they are ordinary little topics, depending a great deal on what the reader brings to them for completion.

Also, I keep saying that poems are meant to be shared ... so much depends on "someone who/ will catch them, enjoy/ them, let them fly again."

And there are so many out there worthy of being caught ... enjoyed ... shared.

The poem:

BRITTLE POEMS

My poems are written
on brittle paper, little
thoughts that blink
on and off like fireflies
scouring summer nights
looking for someone
with a jar, a quick
hand, someone who
will catch them, enjoy
them, let them fly again.
© 2001
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: brittle

At Daybreak

Okay, so I'm a little preachy in this one. So be it.

That's probably sufficient commentary on this particular poem. After all, I'm not really a morning person ... never was, probably never will be ... but I have to admit that morning is ... can be ... a beautiful time of day.

There is just something about the kind of quiet which accompanies a sunrise, especially if you've pitched your tent in a good spot ... or if you're just rolling out of bed at home, feeling rested, ready to face another day.

There's something about seeing each day as an opportunity ... a new beginning ... no great need for fanfare or ceremony ... just a new beginning.

And I don't think it's too much to ask of ourselves ... myself ... (I'm not big on forcing others to see things as I do) ... to do our part to avoid ruining our environment ... after all, this is our home, this is where we live ... any more than it already has been.

That said, here's the poem:

AT DAYBREAK

The day glistens
with natal dew,
freshness riding
still-cool air,
booming red sun
nudging thin clouds
aside, a perfect
setting for pursuit
of the serious
business of saving
this while we can.
© 1998
(originally published in Candlelight Poetry Journal)

Today's word: environment

An Iowa Night

Time flies.

It seems such a short time ago that I was there in Iowa, participating in that study of biography ... but it was actually many years ago ...

We had come from all across the country that summer, people from various professions, gathering at the University of Iowa for an intensive study of biography.

I was one of the participants in that National Endowment for the Humanities seminar. I had looked forward to it as a means of escaping, if only briefly, a work situation with constantly demanding deadlines.

What could be better than to get far, far away from that, to focus on something entirely different?

Deadlines? Oh, we had those in the seminar ... every day. We had a mountain of reading material to cover, to digest, to discuss. It was definitely not playtime.

But it was valuable ... when I returned to work, and all these years later. It helped to steer me in the direction of more writing and, eventually, into what I'm still doing today, exploring the avenues of poetry and a bit of art.

Today's poem recalls one particular evening when we were invited out to the rural home of our seminar moderator.

I recall our standing on the porch ... but let's let the poem tell it:

AN IOWA NIGHT

Day's work done, we
gathered on a farm porch,
watching the lush, dark
corn trembling toward us
as rain slid
through the dusk.

No towering buildings
muffled the crumpling
thunder, no traffic
softened the sound
of plump drops spattering
thirsting shingles.

It was the velvet edge
of an Iowa night.

I have bridged back
to it many times, seeking
those faces, wondering
what happened next,
what the others became,
where they are now.
© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review; also included in my first collection of poems, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press in 2003)

Today's word: wondering

Waiting to Play

This is another "walking" poem.

I had no idea, when I took up walking as a regular, daily pursuit, that it would also lead to poetry ... or at least fragments of thought that might become something akin to poetry.

But there's something about the rhythm, the cadence of walking, that seems to stimulate words and phrases.

When this happens, I try to keep them in mind until I get home ... where I used to sit at the kitchen table while I jotted them down to share with Phyllis later.

Now I usually head to the computer.

In this case a scattering of leaves on the sidewalk caught my attention.

It struck me that they looked like colorful, broken pieces ... how the sunlight danced across them ... and some of them seemed to come to life when a breeze came gliding through.

From there it was just a short leap to imagining that the leaves were really waiting for children to come out to play with them.

Those images turned into this little poem:

WAITING TO PLAY

The leaves lie
like broken pieces
of fine porcelain,
catching sunlight
in the autumn quiet,
stirring slightly
as a breeze comes
gliding through,
but mostly they’re
waiting for children
to come romping out
to play with them.
© 1999
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: romping

Two Below

(Not a recent photo, thank goodness, but an example of what a nearby fence does look like on occasion)

This is a winter poem. No doubt about that.

It's reminiscent of Northern Illinois, where we spent several bitterly cold winters, but it was written during, and about, winter in Ohio ... or any place where temperatures sink unmercifully low, then struggle to rise, fall again, struggle again ... fall.

Little wonder that we find an unnamed couple sleeping under that "pale slice of lemon floating in thin clouds" ... "like two ... bears dreaming of spring."

This one was originally published in Southern Humanities Review:

TWO BELOW

Pale slice of lemon
floating in thin clouds
far above temperatures
fallen, clicking,
struggling to rise
where they were
some time yesterday
before falling back
in the sullen darkness
that will cradle us
like two sleeping bears
dreaming of spring.
© 2006

Today's word: unmercifully

Spiraling Home

(One of my small acrylics which came to mind when today's poem got my attention)

I'm putting this together between a series of "sprints" ... efforts to make up for the time and distance I lost during my recent tussle with phone line/computer problems ... among other things.

I sometimes think I should just reconcile myself to the fact that I will not likely catch up ... ever again. But I keep trying.

Meanwhile ... this is National Poetry Month, right? So, last night I attended a most enjoyable program of readings by three area writers: Mary Jo White, Barbara Astor, and David Petreman.

One of them mentioned that autumn was her favorite season. At that very moment I felt that we had bonded.

It's my favorite, too ... although the other seasons have certain redeeming aspects, it's autumn that gets my vote.

There's just something about the colors, the quiet that seems to come with the transition ... at least I perceive it as a time of quiet ... of reflection ... such a peaceful interlude.

But let's let the poem speak for itself:

SPIRALING HOME

I have carried with me
Southern Illinois autumns,
fragile and enduring,
all these brittle years.

Still they comfort me,
memories showering down
in the autumn of my life.

Leaves spiraling to feathery
soft landings on woodland soil
waiting patiently for them,
children finally returning
to their beginnings.
© 1995
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: enduring

So Quiet

Yes, I've been quiet recently ... and I haven't been on spring break ... at least not in the usual sense of going off to cavort on the beaches.

Regular visitors to "Squiggles ... and Giggles" already know the sad story: I've had phone line and computer problems. Oh, have I ever!

But now I'm back (I think) ... and let's let it go at that ... except I did miss sharing thoughts with you ... hearing your take on what I'd posted ... and I'm looking forward to resuming our "conversations" here.

Last night, when I finally thought I could safely consider attempting another entry here ... assuming, of course, that I might remember HOW to do that ... the title of today's poem came to mind.

It's another poem which preserves a family memory ... more specifically, a memory of a visit to the place where our grandson lives ... and of the good times Grandma and he shared ... and, of course, I was not left out of the activity, either.

It eventually found its way into Hollyhocks, my second collection, published by Finishing Line Press.

I think the poem pretty well tells its own story:

SO QUIET

The house was so quiet
this morning when I walked
down the hallway that I
could hear the clock ticking,
thought I heard tired fireflies
grumping softly to themselves
somewhere outside, searching
the grass for a cool place
to spend the day, the cicadas
climbing their leafy green trees,
almost humming to themselves
in their happiness, thought I
heard Thomas breathing peacefully
in his bed, still dreaming about
that dump truck he and Grandma
kept filling and emptying, sand
tickling their bare feet, and I
couldn't help smiling at myself
looking back from the mirror,
ready to clap my hands and dance.
© 2001

(received a third place award in a ByLine competition; now part of Hollyhocks, my second collection of poems, released by Finishing Line Press)

Today's word: grumping