Fishes and Loaves

Some mornings, when I'm just getting my eyes open, beginning to bring objects into focus, the computer decides to cooperate, and things go ... well ... reasonably well. I get something posted, and I'm off the hook for the rest of the day.

But there was one morning recently that signaled it just was not going to be one of those good days.

I'll spare you the details. Bottom line: There was no way the computer was going to let me get online. Why? That's probably destined to remain a mystery.

Just one of those things, I guess.

So what did I do? Well, this time ... I skipped the hand-to-hand combat with the desktop despot. I just didn't feel like doing all-out battle with it.

Instead, I decided just to go with the flow. I still had a guilty conscience about giving in so easily, but I spared myself tons of frustration.

So there it was, mid-afternoon. I'd had my walk. I had a nice, quiet lunch with a lady I've known since the previous century, and I'd had a nap ... -- er, an interlude of concentrated meditation in one of my favorite chairs ... and the computer seemed to have come around, reluctantly, to my way of thinking.

And there we were, finally, with a poem.

As I explained, the "fishes and loaves" bit in the poem may be something of a stretch, but it got somebody's attention, right? They read it, liked it, published it.

Take away that part, though, and you still have the heart of what I'm trying to say: If what I have said, or what I may yet say, touches someone, helps them in some way, simply gives them a better outlook, improves their understanding of some issue, helps them to make it through the day ... then that's "miracle" enough for me.

And when a poem I've written resonates with someone in a particular way ... especially if they are moved to tell me about it ... then that's "miracle" enough for me, too.

This one was originally published in Explorer:

FISHES AND LOAVES

The fishes
of what I have said
and the loaves
of what I may yet
have to say
would never feed
the multitudes,
but, if one crust
of my writing
has benefitted
just one person,
that's miracle
enough for me.
© 1996

Today's word: miracle

Echo

(Today ... for no particular reason ... one of my watercolor sketches)

Today's little poem recreates a childhood memory of the sound of my voice coming back to me, not literally saying, "lonely, lonely," but giving me a feeling of being alone in those woods, with just that echo for company.

Of course, this was only a momentary feeling, for there were other adventures to pursue, other trails to explore, other bluffs to climb, other voices to hear ... either those voices answering me or those calling me on.

Still, recognition that, for the moment, I was all alone there, listening, not to someone else repeating what I'd just said, but to my own young voice bounding faintly back to me, was a feeling not easily forgotten.

I still think of it sometimes when I become immersed in a certain kind of quiet.

Memories! How we cherish them, make them forever ours, polish them, enhance them, store them away, pull them out to comfort us in our old age.

The poem:

ECHO

The sound of my voice
hurried through the woods,
past sandstone bluffs,
went running across
cooling ridges,
dipped into hollows,
then came back to me,
repeating
lonely, lonely ... lonely.
© 1997
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)


Today's word: repeating

Departure

Today's poem is not literally true. If it were, it would be about the heat of summer ... like Southern Illinois was when I left home to go into military service.

I've looked back many times on that departure.

I had been awarded a scholarship to study at a large state university. Trouble was, it didn't include bus fare ... and I didn't even have bus fare to get to campus.

Oh, I had been assured that there would be part-time employment opportunities ... when I got to campus ... but I never got there ... not to that particular campus, at least.

Instead, I let the scholarship go to someone else ... and entered the only door open to me at the time ... military service.

It was certainly a turning point in my life, a new beginning. It was the biggest move I'd made in my young life. There were to be others. Many others. But none quite as wrenching as this decision ... which had been forced on me.

What I've tried to capture in this metaphor for growing up ... for that entry into what passes for independence ... is the feeling of loneliness that creeps in, the sudden sensation of isolation, the cold, of looking back, being torn between what was ... what is going to be.

The poem:

DEPARTURE

I looked back once,
seeing lights
grown small now,
and dim, silently
giving up their warmth
to the bare-limbed trees.

I kept walking
through the weeping snow,
my collar upturned
against any call
that might somehow
overtake me.
© 1995
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: loneliness

Catching a Wave

(No waves evident here; I just thought it might be good to share one of my peaceful photos ... this one taken at Cox Arboretum ... with this particular poem)

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 even 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

Behold, the Dogwood

I know, this new year has hardly begun, and I'm already looking at the calendar for reassurance that ... well, spring is coming ... even though that means summer weather ... with its searing temperatures ... is lurking somewhere on down the line.

When summer comes sizzling in, I try to nestle into a bed of cooling thoughts ... about winter ... about autumn (one of my all-time favorites) ... and ... yes, spring.

Spring also brings to mind the struggling little dogwood that stands on the front lawn of Brimm Manor ... near the sloping driveway where The Little Red Car comes and goes ... on its various adventures.

Twice a year the little dogwood gives us a magnificent show ... particularly in the spring ... with its remarkable display of blossoms ... but again in the fall, too ... with its fiery red foliage.

I think today's poem pretty well tells its own story (and if you discover one of my "sermons" in it, well, so be it):

BEHOLD, THE DOGWOOD

Poor, struggling,
glorious little dogwood,
you have survived
drought and freezing,
even neglect, and yet
this year you bestow
an abundance of blossoms,
you teacher of lessons.
© 1996
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: teacher

Autumn Dreams

It wasn't raining as I stirred, turned my pillow cool side up, and went drifting off again, but I thought about the coolness of that pillow, later, while I was shaving, thought about the sound of rain ... and about this poem.

So here it is again:

AUTUMN DREAMS

Softly, the rain
descends, puddling
in the darkly
glistening street,
pausing to quench
the thirsting roof
before dripping,
a muffled sighing,
to the ground.

Wind chimes stir,
and the cows
are suddenly home,
winding along
that narrow path
where the sun
lately streamed.

I stir, savoring
quilted warmth,
softness of pillow,
go drifting off
again like a puff
of milkweed.
© 2000
(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)

Today's word: puddling

Winter Glow

Today's poem is another example of the kind of subject I write about most frequently ... an ordinary, everyday event or topic ... but perhaps seen in a slightly different way ... as though with "new eyes."

I try to impart that difference ... and I'm greatly rewarded when a reader sees that difference ... or perhaps points out something about the topic that I hadn't quite seen myself.

It's all about the learning process ... and I love it!

The photo? That's me ... somewhere in my teen years ... standing between the grandparents who reared me.

The original was rescued by one of my relatives ... passed along to me ... and is now one of my most prized possessions.

Oh ... and Happy New Year!

The poem:

WINTER GLOW

Cracked, yellowed snapshots
surrender from inside
a musty box

circled with twine, speaking
of times gone, like thin
ribbons of vapor

slowly curling and uncurling
from a neighbor's
chimney

while I sit in this cold
attic space looking
at relatives

and places I never knew,
their images saved,
but stories lost,

beginning to sense a feeling
of warmth, a winter
glow, spreading

over me as I touch the faces
of these strangers again
and close the box.
© 2006
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: warmth