Purchase of Sleep

You'd think ... for someone who has never really been a morning person ... oversleeping would be a real blessing. After all, I generally have no set schedule to meet ... except that which I impose on myself.

But, not being a morning person, getting a late start actually feels like I'm digging my way out of a deeper hole than usual.

Don't worry ... I'll get over it. I always do ... at least I always have. It's just that I don't start my day by popping a wheelie ... it's more like slow and easy ... slow and easy ... for the rest of the day.

And where does that take us?

To the other side of the coin: Not being able to sleep during the night. That brings to mind ... guess what? Another poem.

Sometimes I wake up ... wide awake ... in the middle of the night. I'm not sure what triggered it ... a noise perhaps ... a barking dog ... or maybe just an interval of absolute quiet. In my neighborhood, sudden quiet can be startling, too.

It's almost like someone has flicked a switch.

The cure? Well, I don't pop a pill ... I've found something cheaper and more effective.

I explain in the poem.

It has also occurred to me that, since I often have the itch to write, perhaps crawling out of bed for a few minutes to scrawl a few nagging thoughts on a scrap of paper is simply the equivalent of scratching where it itches.

And what a great feeling it is to go drifting off again.

The poem:

PURCHASE OF SLEEP

I cannot sleep

when thoughts assail me,

forcing me to rise

wearily from my bed

to find pad and pencil.

Hurriedly I scratch

on the patient page,

uniting it with these

its straying children.

Only then may I reclaim

the cradling pillow

and my rest.

© 1996

(originally published in Mind Matters Review)

Today's word: purchase

Once, Perhaps

I've found it true that writing involves a lot of "stone gathering," a lot of writing that is ... well, just writing. 

While that can be satisfying ... and I find that it's good activity ... it keeps my mind occupied ... keeps me from dwelling on things I needn't ... or shouldn't ... what is really rewarding is that piece of writing that has a certain quality about it ... has a gemlike quality.

Finding one of those ... or maybe two, if I'm really lucky ... is what keeps me going. 

And just keeping on keeping on can be important, too.

I keep looking for that subject ... that turn of phrase ... that word which will send images dancing across the ballroom of my mind.

I hope that your quest will bring a large share of those "gems" to you.

Meanwhile, the poem:

ONCE, PERHAPS

Of all the stones
we gather,
all the poems
we write,
once in a lifetime
there is one, perhaps,
that gathers light
as no other, juggles
it back aloft,
sends bright beams
dancing into the dark
that stretches
across the ballroom
of the mind.
© 1996

(originally published in ByLine Magazine)

Today's word: dancing

Now They Offer

Story of my life. 

I never thought I would end up walking as much as I do. At first it was a little difficult. Actually, quite difficult. When I first started trying, my goal was to walk to the corner ... and back. 

Then, over time, I was able to make it all the way around the block and back home.

That was years ago, at the suggestion of my doctor, and with the encouragement of Phyllis, who became my daily walking companion.

And now I just walk, walk, walk.

The poem was written in those early years. I must admit that I was sometimes tempted to accept the offer of a ride from a neighbor or a friend. But I always managed to tell them, "Thanks ... I'm taking a walk." And kept on walking.

And now? Well, I can't remember the last time one of them actually offered me a ride, although they do sometimes slow, wave, and go on their way.

The poem:

NOW THEY OFFER

Skinny years,
when I could've
used a ride,
nobody stopped.
Now that I'm
walking it off, 

everybody slows

to offer a lift.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: everybody

Morning Songs

Back in the days when I was known as "The Cake Man" among my co-workers, it was, as you might guess, my favorite food. Any kind of cake could get my attention ... and have me reaching for a fork at the same time.

Even the smell of a freshly-baked cake would catch my attention as little else could.

I still relish the smell of that now-forbidden food.

Where am I going with this? I'm wandering just a bit down memory lane. Just as I still relish the smell of a freshly-baked cake, I relish old memories.

They don't feed me like present events do, but they bring me comfort ... and I like that.

I certainly don't live in the past ... any more than I can experience a future which hasn't arrived yet. I do like to pay visits to some events of the past, though ... just like I enjoy "visits" to the possibilities of a future which lies vaguely ahead somewhere out there.

That said, the poem:

MORNING SONGS

Cold mornings,
when I fold
my towel, drape it
again on the rack,
I sometimes hear
the music of eggs
sizzling, gravy
burbling softly
in the frying pan,
coffee perking,
leaping against
its knobbed glass
ceiling, muttering
in darkening tones,
and sometimes
I catch the scent
of that kitchen,
that magic time 
so distant, but
still wafting.

© 1998

(originally published in Moose Bound Press)

Today's word: sizzling

Lost in Thought

I sometimes like to take a figurative statement and pursue it as though it were literally true ...


I remember a teacher who pointed out the mental images brought up by "catching a bus," for example, if taken as literally true ... likewise with "taking the plunge," "beating the bushes," etc.


In this case, I considered "lost in thought."


Literal pursuit of that concept takes us rushing down the winding path toward several improbable possibilities, all the way to the somewhat illogical conclusion. Or is it?


The poem:



LOST IN THOUGHT


If I were to become
lost in thought,
would I wander forever?
Would anybody notice
that I hadn't come
home for supper?
Would search parties
form sagging lines, go out
into the darkness,
beating the bushes
and calling my name?
Would I be
on the six o'clock news?
Would I ever
be myself again,
or would I return
as someone completely
different, a person
I have never met?

© 1999
(originally published in ByLine)
Today's word: literal

In the Choir

How many times I've wished I could sing, if only for singing in the shower ... but that gift seems to have been taken from me forever when my voice changed.


I have become an avid listener, instead.


It is from this listening that the metaphor for this poem arose. I do wish my voice might rise, realistically, not as a singer, but as a writer.


Even there, I am reconciled to the possibility that mine might not be a voice intended to be heard above the chorus of other writers' voices.


If that's the case, then, let my voice ... my writing ... remain steadfast, I say in this little poem.


There, now that I've explained the whole poem, I hope you will still take a look at "In the Choir," originally published in Capper's.


As always, I know that the reader brings a special point of view ... a special knowledge ... to the poem ... and I do enjoy the reader's perspective, the added dimension this gives to what I've written.


I appreciate your taking time to drop by ... even if it's just to "sit for a spell" and listen to my ramblings ... but if you choose to join the conversation by leaving a comment, well ... that's always icing on the cake. In either event, many thanks. I'll keep trying.


Meanwhile:



IN THE CHOIR

Oh, that my voice
might soar like
a tenor's rising
as clearly as a bell
from the choir,
but if that wish
is not to be, then
let me remain
a faithful voice
among the many,
my song steadfast.
© 1998


Today's word: dimension

Hard Times

Not all of my poems are about sunsets, the beauty of cobblestone clouds, the wafting scent of roses. Life has a gritty side, too, and some of my poems reflect that.

This encounter came a long time ago at a bus stop, a favorite trolling spot for panhandlers. 


There was a time when I would almost automatically hand over a bit of change. I could remember tough times, too.


But I had grown tired of being hit up day after day. My initial response was not very charitable, I know, but I relented. I imagine there's a lesson in there someplace, perhaps having something to do with the poor sparrows of this world.


The poem appeared in Pebble Lake Review's Fall/Winter issue of 2005, and now is part of a manuscript (Strawberry Wine) in search of a publisher.

And here it is:

HARD TIMES

Suddenly he's in my face,
dirty, wind-blown, muttering, 

Spare a quarter? Refusing to let
his question assault me,

I turn away. Then back. My own
No, can you? comes spilling out

like a shot, freezing us there
in the snow-blasted morning

until finally his uncertain
chuckle descends into breath-

stealing, chest-stabbing coughs
and I fish deep in the warmth

of a pocket for a quarter,
hand it over, stand watching

as he moves away, this poor,
tattered sparrow with his crumb.
© 2006

Today's word: tattered