Hills

Today's poem pretty well tells its own story, I think. 

The hills I'm referring to are in the extreme southern portion of Illinois, an area that was sometimes referred to as "Little Egypt," perhaps still is. 

I grew up there. With military service, schooling and marriage, I left that area, but for many years we returned at least once each year. 

Now those kinds of travel are pretty much in abeyance ... as my orbit remains quite close to my present home ... 

Still, I travel back there in my thoughts ... and sometimes in my dreams ... particularly during those times when the peach trees are in blossom across the hills. 

My timing, I'm afraid, is a bit off ... but I have been thinking again of those beautiful peach trees "in full array" ... how the hills seemed so alive with them ... so inviting ... and, oh, how I miss seeing them in person!

The poem:

HILLS

Rolling smokey-green hills
keep calling me back to my
beginnings, where generations
of my people scratched out

a living, a sprinkling of small
victories for those, a stubborn
and proud people, laboring
to the cadence of the seasons,

while I, like so many others,
drifted away, lured by dreams
of a better world somewhere
just beyond the harsh horizon,

making a promise to return;
and now, with the peach trees
in full array, those hills are
calling again, and I must go.

© 2006

(Originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: array

Driving to Marengo

This is one of my favorites, largely because of the memories it has preserved of a young family taking affordable outings.

We were living in Northern Illinois at the time, and Marengo was one of our favorite destinations.

Memories of those outings were still "rotating on the carousel of my mind" as Phyllis and I returned from a now-rare outing, a trip out of town.

Traffic had thinned a bit (all the trucks, buses and cars of the world had gone zip-zip-zipping past us ... because I always poke along at the posted speed limit).

During those few moments when we had only the humming of our own car's tires to keep us company, my thoughts drifted toward those summertime outings.

What delicious memories! I had no choice. I had to dig out "Driving to Marengo" and share it with you again:

DRIVING TO MARENGO

We urged the old station wagon
along curving country roads
toward that place just across
from the school, to consume
those remarkable foot-long
hotdogs with chili peppers
and onions, dripping mustard
and juices, filling the air
with an aroma that lingered
all the slow, dark drive home,
and for days afterward,
like a spirit moving softly
among us, implanting memories
still turning, slowly rotating
on the carousel of my mind.

© 1998

(originally published in Raintown Review)
Today's word: delicious

Conversations

Today's poem is about those spring-time "conversations" which seem to go on so furiously around ponds. Frogs! There seem to be hundreds ... maybe thousands ... of them, all adding their voices to the din.

I remember them well from the place where I grew up ... they seemed to be in especially good voice at night ... somehow conveying a certain kind of "all's well" to the listener.

But, feeling my way back through the fog of memory, I don't think I heard them this year. Maybe I just wasn't in the right place at the right time.

Could it be that I haven't been listening? Or that I've simply ... well, forgotten?

Meanwhile, today's poem:

CONVERSATIONS

How vexing to hear
the voices of those
I could not see
abruptly going silent,
like the gabble of pupils
halting in the presence
of a new teacher.

Then, after I'd passed,
renewed murmur of gossip
growing rumor-upon-rumor,
going mouth-to-ear, flying
too swiftly to follow,
too dense to filter
into any semblance
of real meaning.

If I dared step too near,
I heard sounds like stones
plopping into water,
new silence ascending,
a sense of being watched
by large, careful eyes
judging me from the depths
of a green-coated pond.

© 1997

(originally published in M.O.O.N. Magazine)

Today's word: gabble

Butterfly

I will always remember that butterfly, and that once in a lifetime event, as described in today's poem.

I remember precisely the hillside on which I was sitting when the butterfly found me.

I had been mowing the grounds of a friend's summer home in Southern Ohio. It was a hot, steamy day. The mower had become balky, so I decided we both needed a rest ... a bit of cooling off.

I was just sitting there, hoping for a bit of breeze, when it happened. But let's let the poem tell what occurred:

BUTTERFLY

I remember sitting
so still, feeling
the sweat trickling
down my back, beading
along my forearms,
a touch like
an angel's breath
when a butterfly
fluttered down
onto my sunburned
hand and sat there
for the longest time
before sipping
that moisture born
of hard labor, then
lifted lightly off, wafted
away like a dream.

© 1996

(originally published in Read, America!)

Today's word: wafted

Autumn's Leaves

I know ... those who have long memories will recall having seen this one before ... but I hope they ... and you ... will forgive my repeating myself.

It is beginning to seem autumn-like again here in Ohio ... cooler temperatures ... and some of the trees in my neck of the woods have started hinting at autumn hues.

Now where did I put that rake?

Even with all the raking involved, I still consider autumn my favorite season. 

Oh, there are certain redeeming qualities about spring, the new growth signaling the end of winter. And summer, too, if it doesn't get unbearably hot ... I like the good walking that season provides. And even winter has its moments of beauty.

But autumn ... well, there's just something about autumn ... quiet, cool evenings ... the play of late sunshine across the colors of the foliage ... and sunrise ... oh, sunrise simply outdoes itself. 

I like the show that the trees provide. Always have. Always will ... even with all that raking.

The poem:

AUTUMN'S LEAVES

Across the fence,

my neighbor's trees

droop with tons

of gorgeous leaves,

and here I stand

with a single rake

to defend against

the inevitable.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: inevitable

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.

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

Tulsa or Bust

I've written about finding a broken pencil with only a few words left in it ... the frantic search for a scrap of paper ... any tiny piece will do ... to write down an idea before it flits away ... the hurdles, the barriers, the great feeling of success. All about writing.

It's not that I consider myself an expert on writing. Far from it. I continue to be mystified by the process ... curious about how ... and why ... poems sometimes come sneaking up on me ... but not baffled ... no, I would not say baffled ... not completely, any way.

"Tulsa or Bust" is also about writing.

As you may note, writing about writing sometimes takes some strange turns on the road to completion and eventual publication, in this instance in ByLine Magazine:

TULSA OR BUST

The paper's dry,
drier than
my driest poems,
threatening
to shatter,
turn to dust,
so I must write
quickly, softly,
cautiously,
choosing only
fluffy, light
subjects like
a "Wash Me"
written large
on the back
of a truck
lumbering
toward Tulsa.

© 1999

Today's word: lumbering