Slice of Summer

Now I've done it.

In today's poem I've used a made-up word to describe what I think is going on.

I was going to say that I made it up out of thin air, but I think thick air would be more like it ... thick, moisture-laden summer air, so heavy with dampness that it feels like layer-upon-layer of water bearing down on us.

There's a related ... real word ... that has something to do with water and a cavity created in it.

I pictured the fan as doing something similar  with the heavy summer air. So, not finding a suitable word in my handy-dandy dictionary, I made up one.

It's like grabbing a tool ... one not really intended for the task at hand ... and making it serve a different function.

And my photo which accompanies today's entry?

Oh, that's a tranquil scene at Cox Arboretum, a local favorite walking place, with lots of shady places in the summer to sit and just enjoy the view.

But enough of that. The poem:

SLICE OF SUMMER

The cavitating fan,
patiently oscillating,
slicing the air,
lets it fall
like cold bacon
across the griddle
of my overheating
horizontal body.© 1996

(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

Today's word: cavitating

Renewable Glue

Someone, a person I'd never seen before ... likely would never see again ... had paused, held the door, and motioned for me to enter the store ahead of them.

I thanked them and walked on in.

Big deal. A few minutes later, when I was leaving the store, I had already forgotten about this small act of thoughtfulness, but I paused, held the door for the person behind me, then strode off to my car.

That's when I started thinking about these small acts of kindness that we bestow -- or withhold -- as we go about our daily routines.

How easily they become a part of our lives. Or how easily they are forgotten, neglected in our rush to get to the next red light ahead of everybody else.

They are such simple things, so easily given. They cost us nothing, yet have the potential of great dividends. 

What fragile threads they are, holding together the fabric of this thing we call civilization.

They are the "renewable glue" that holds us together, these little gifts we bestow on others, whether at the door, in the checkout line, or out there in the jungle that we call traffic.

What does it cost us to let someone else go ahead? 

As in the simplest childhood game, we'll "get our turn." 

Meanwhile, we've done a good turn, no matter that it's almost unnoticeable, for someone else. They may then do a good turn for someone else.

It has the potential for going on and on, this "renewable glue." It might even work on a larger scale than just person-to-person.

End of sermon ... now the poem:

RENEWABLE GLUE

An act of kindness,
a nod, a smile,
the door held open --
gifts easily bestowed,
yet vital as droplets
of renewable glue
keeping civilization
from falling apart.

 © 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: renewable

Passages

Strange how ... and where ... poems sometimes reveal themselves to a person.

As I recall, I was sitting in the car in front of a Post Office, waiting for Phyllis to go in, mail a letter, and return.

I noticed the reflections of the vehicles going by on the street behind me ... how the warped window made them appear to be leaping ... like horses or hunting hounds ... bounding over a hedge.

I thought about reflections I had seen in store windows in my home town ... and of one window, in particular, on one of my last visits there. That store was vacant. Oh, the memories I had of that little country store!

Then the poem started asserting itself ... I reached for a scrap of paper ... always waiting in a handy pocket ... and began writing.

And now, the poem:

PASSAGES

The cars change shape
as they come and go
in the warped window glass
of a store that once was,
dusty now, this begrimed
keeper of secrets,
these windows that
have seen it all
in this small town: deaths,
funerals, weddings, births,
departures of its young
who sometimes come back,
stand beside a grave,
listen to an acorn falling,
slow ticking of eternity.

© 2007

(originally published in Waterways)

Today's word: ticking

Ordinary Moments

(Just an ordinary gathering of leaves at curbside ... but they caught my eye with their colors, shapes, texture ... and I captured the moment with my camera)

Sometimes it seems that all my poems are rooted in memory.

This one is no exception.

From those distant beginnings ... the foundation stones of all those "ordinary moments" in a young boy's life ... to today ... there's a long bridge of discovered excitement, adventure.

I often go trudging back across that bridge, in search of those beginnings, because I see them now as more than just ordinary events.

Isn't that always the case?

The poem:

ORDINARY MOMENTS

... in which I discover

travel-rounded stones

on the meandering

creek bed of my mind,

each a found treasure

whirring me back

to rainy days spent

with musty books, nights

floating in wood smoke,

mornings with eggs

frying in a dark skillet,

moments when the world

seemed to be

just waiting for me

to kick off the covers,

resume my pursuit

of this great adventure.

© 2001

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: travel-rounded

Mother's Song

Today's photo is just a sample ... a sip, if you will ... of the blossoms on the dogwood tree which graces the front lawn of Brimm Manor each year, well after the snows have retreated.

It seems to outdo itself each year ... and I take great comfort in its abundance ... its splendor ... the quiet beauty that it brings to those who pause to consider it. I've also done some paintings with it as the subject. 

But the poem ... I think I sometimes get in the way of the poem by talking too much about it, instead of letting it speak for itself.

It's a bad habit, I know, and I'm trying to break it.

Still, there are times when I feel that just a few more words are needed ... to set the stage for the poem ... to give it a bit more depth.

Let me just say that I was thinking about this poem when I woke up.

As some of you know, I was reared by my grandparents. I learned early, I think, the meaning within the saying, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

There was a certain longing, a searching for explanations where there were none. I never knew, precisely, why I grew up with neither of my parents.

I did have my grandparents at my side, though, guiding me, nudging me on, hoping I would turn out OK.

Through it all I tried to search out and cling to earliest memories ... of both my parents ... and I have some which have helped to sustain me through the years.

Today's poem deals with one of those early memories.

The poem:

MOTHER'S SONG

It was so long ago,
perhaps in a dream,
or certainly before I knew
the meanings of words,
but I felt the music
of her fine soprano voice
caressing, soothing me,
and how I wish I could
sing that same gentle
song back to her now,
saying softly, sweetly,
simply, I love you.

© 2000

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

Today's word: soothing

The Leaky Roof

The morning seemed to start off with a bit of fog ... most of my mornings seem to start that way, even when the sun is shining brightly ... so it was no surprise when ... I woke up ... late, thirsty ... thinking foggily of clouds, rain, roofs, leaky roofs ... and this poem came to mind:

THE LEAKY ROOF

We knew just where

to put pots and pans

when the rain came

suddenly weeping

through our roof,

its pit, pat, pit-pat

lullaby lingering

long after the storm

had droned off into

distant, grumbling

thunder, leaving

a morning residue

of splatters

and puddles,

blankets on a line,

featherbed sprawled

like a newborn calf

broadside of the sun.

© 2001

(received an honorable mention award in Ohio Poetry Day competition; subsequently published in my first collection, Chance of Rain ... Finishing Line Press, 2003)

Today's word: grumbling

Hello, Morning

During my working years, mornings were not my favorite time of day, largely because of the early hour at which my work days began, partly because of the pressures of work.


Ah, but retirement brought a change. Now I could sleep in, if I chose, and I could ... within certain limits ... set my own agenda for the remainder of the day.


So what did I do? Miracle of miracles, I started getting up early ... voluntarily ... and I found things to occupy my day ... a bit of art, a bit of writing, a bit of walking, a bit of watching the sun come creeping up over the horizon ... or watching it melting slowly into the western rim of the world.


The poem:



HELLO, MORNING

Early light
feels its way
across the top
of my fence,
gently warming
weary, weathered
boards, faint
yellow softness
spreading like
creamy frosting
on this new day.

© 1997
(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: melting