Autumn Surprise

Speaking of memories, it's time and distance which make memories so sweet ... they've been stored away for such a long time ... seasoning, taking on new flavors with each visit back to them.

Today's poem deals with some of my earliest memories ... living with my grandparents ... beginning to discover the wonders of the world around me ... seeing things for the first time.

I still try to look at things that way ... as though I'm seeing them for the first time. I discover so many things that way ... and, if I can get my observations on paper soon enough, they may go on to become a poem:

AUTUMN SURPRISE

My mind's long lens
goes zooming back
to pre-school years
when I first discovered
those magic leaves,
a sea of crinkly color
lying like carpet
on my grandparents'
dusty front yard,
swirling, scattering
like scared kittens
when I went charging
through fiery reds,
golden yellows,
browns, all the way
to Grandma's hug,
her chuckle joining
my own laughter
at being a part of
that autumn surprise.

All these years later,
I still see those
magic leaves as though
for the first time,
hear that chuckle
so close to my ear.

 ©1998

(originally published in Candlelight Poetry Journal)

Today's word: discovery

Who Writes Poetry?

This is a rather whimsical piece which began when a certain intriguing question popped into my head and triggered a series of images.

I had fun writing it, I've enjoyed sharing it, especially with its eventual publication. Oh, and was I ever excited when it was called out for an encore appearance!

Marion Roach, whose program, "The Naturalist's Datebook," is heard on Sirius Radio ... Martha Stewart Living Radio, Sirius 112 ... read "Who Writes Poetry?" for her listeners.

In my seemingly perpetual situation, clinging by my fingertips to the trailing edge of technology, I didn't have access to Sirius Radio ... and I still don't ... but I was excited about what had happened to this little poem.

And today's art? It has no direct connection with the poem, but I liked the way the sun was breaking through the clouds ... a metaphor for a glimmer of hope, perhaps ... maybe just an interesting moment captured with my small digital camera ...

Meanwhile:

WHO WRITES POETRY?

Horses, standing head-to-tail
beside each other, the better
to swish the flies away,

are they thinking up poems?
How about cows, studiously
worrying their warm cuds?

Do mules stubbornly pursue
clip-clopping couplets, compose
sonnets, sestinas, villanelles?

Perhaps it's the tiny finch,
singing his easy promises
while she builds the nest.

But I think it might be
the solitary snail, crawling
through the night, leaving

lines going this way and that
on the sidewalk, evidence,
surely, of some kind of angst.

© 2000

(originally published in Kaleidoscope)

Today's word: solitary

There's Fire Tonight

Today's poem is about picking up coal from alongside the railroad tracks. It's about the crackling fire those found lumps of coal brought to us during what we knew then, and recall now, as "hard times."

It was an adventure for a young boy growing up in the care of his grandparents. It was a lesson never forgotten.

But the careful reader will also note that it's a poem about writing. Take a look at the opening: "Words." Hold on to it as you follow the thread of the poem.

I do feel that words are, indeed, like those lumps we thrust into that burlap bag. They have the potential for heat, if we lay them carefully in the stove ... and ignite them with our own inspiration ... fan them into flame.

They will bring us comfort on long winter nights. They will warm our hands ... maybe our hearts, too.

This one was originally published in Southern Humanities Review, and has become the title poem of a manuscript in search of publisher:

THERE'S FIRE TONIGHT

Words, how like
the lumps of coal
Grandma and I found
along the tracks
where hopper cars,
lurching, loping
up the long grade
toward Cobden,
had dropped them,
each a gift
in our dirty hands,
holding promise,
as they were thrust
into the burlap bag,
of shared warmth,
soft, crackling song,
sooty smoke rising,
telling our world
there's fire tonight,
all's well.

© 1997

Today's word: lurching

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

Reunion

(I know, I'm repeating myself with this, but the approach of summer always brings certain memories to mind ... again ... and again.)

What a great surprise it was when our tired old mailbox offered up a DVD, titled "Homecoming 1988." We relished the memories it stirred ... and we're eternally grateful to our niece, Julie, for having rescued it from old, old movie footage of a  family gathering, then  providing us with this copy ... calling today's poem to mind.

My earliest memories include family reunions ... noisy gatherings, it seemed to me, as people hugged, slapped each other on the back, stood around trading stories ... then there was the food, acres of it, it seemed ... and the bees or yellow jackets who always seemed to know where to find us.

I was puzzled in those early years. I couldn't understand how all these people ... most of them absolute strangers to me ... could possibly know each other ... how they could all be part of the same family.

With time, an understanding of that came. I also came to know ... and need ... that annual gathering of family ... that renewal of links to others ... the mending of neglected fences ... the promises of "same time next year."

Unfortunately, some were destined not to make it to the next reunion ... but they would be remembered as remaining members of the family gathered once more.

I don't know if families still maintain the "reunion" practice. I hope they do.

In my case, though, I've become a dropout, of necessity, since my driving ... all kind of travel, in fact ... is almost entirely local.

But I have my memories of those gatherings ... kept like pressed flowers in the pages of a favorite book. I look at them, one by one, on occasion, and remember ... oh, how I remember ...

The poem:

REUNION

Like worn pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,
we came back together, sliding
into place at that agreed-upon time
in the room provided for us, drawn 

by the prospect of a field-hands meal,
the sound of children pattering
and laughing, the clatter and fury
of games, hum of quiet conversations,

memories burnished by renewed handling,
but mostly drawn back to this place
by that strongest pull, family.
It was not as easy as it once was,

this coming back together, but we did
come back from our scattered places
to be near that place where we began
our journeys along a single path,

then diverged as circumstances and
choices led us away, coming back now
to cross paths for this day, at least.
It was a day for remembering those

pieces missing from the puzzle, a day
for savoring the picture we still make
by our presence, a day for a few tears
as we touched scars of old wounds,

a day given over to hugs and handshakes,
welcomings and lingering farewells,
a bittersweet, pressed-flower day,
this coming home, this healing.
© 2008


(from Wood Smoke, my third collection of poems, published by Finishing Line Press in 2008)

Today's word: remembering

Nightsongs

As some of you know, I write a lot about rain. 

It was such a central part of growing up in rural Southern Illinois. There were many summers when our garden wilted ... never mind the grass that seemed to turn to confetti in our yard ... the cistern ran low ...

Ah, but there were summers, too, when there was an abundance of rain ... and all was well with the world.

We city dwellers tend to forget the importance of rain. We lose touch.

This poem is an effort to restore that touch ... to explore some of the possibilities in the music ... the magic, if you will ... of rain. In the end, I guess it all boils down to "this rain tonight, tremblng leaf to leaf ... to earth."

The poem:

NIGHTSONGS

I lie listening

to the summer night,

wondering what

it might have been like

before roofs came

to glorify the rain,

to magnify the sound.

Was there gentle

crackle and murmur

of a small fire,

a faltering lullaby?

A song kept going,

stick by stick,

until the words

finally surrendered

to deep silence?

The silence of

ashes giving up

their warmth?

Perhaps there was

only the faintest

of songs, like

this rain tonight,

trembling leaf

to leaf ... to earth.

© 2003

("Nightsongs" first appeared online on Poetry Tonight. It also became a part of my first collection of poems, Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press in 2003)

Today's word: murmur

Mere Words

Like I've said many times, I'm not a morning person.

But what is a non-morning person to do when he wakes up around five o'clock ... wide awake ... with a thought buzzing through his mind?

Well ... I lie there for a while ... watch the clock unscrolling the crawling minutes ... then reach for the small light I keep on the table beside the bed ... find a pencil ... and my multi-colored notepad in the shape of the letter B (thank you, Michelle) ... and start writing.

What I wrote is barely decipherable ... now that I'm fully awake ... and it's far from becoming a poem, but someday it might. I'll keep it, try to break the code, try to decide what it's trying to say to me.

And if it does turn into a poem, I'll feel compelled to share it with somebody ... I always have that "look what I found" feeling when something I've written does seem to make sense ... not "look at what I did" ... never that ... and when I share it with somebody, that somebody is likely to be a poetry editor.

I always treasure that second opinion ... especially on those rare occasions when the decision goes in my favor.

But if it doesn't ... well, I speak of that circumstance in today's poem:

MERE WORDS

You, my children,

offspring of my mind,

are going forth

into an imperfect world,

where you will be judged

by strangers. I hope

they will listen

and treat you kindly,

perhaps accept you

as their own.

If not, please return

and we shall comfort

each other.

© 1997

(originally published in Writer's Journal)

Today's word: comfort