Teemimg Waters

Today's illustration is another of my photos ... a fuzzy little snapshot taken to preserve the moment ... I don't recall exactly where or when I snapped it ... but the tranquility of the scene appealed to me.

Teeming waters? Hardly. 

The juxtaposition of the pair of ducks ... and the reflection of the large tree caught my eye.

I'm always intrigued by the ducks we encounter on our walks ... the ways they interact with each other ... and with us ... and the way the young tag along behind Mother, as though being tugged by an invisible string.

And trees? I'm not really a tree hugger, but I do like trees. They were so much a part of where I grew up ... so much of my early life ... and now, in my current stage, I am drawn more and more to their shade during my summer walks.

So it seemed a very natural combination for a photo ... and now, maybe a match with today's poem.

In it, I guess I'm saying that while I consider myself a painter of pictures with words ... the words I find here and there ... I don't really paint the BIG PICTURE. 

Where word-pictures are concerned, I'm not a muralist. I stick to the small subjects I know ... and mostly just as an observer, at that, things I take note of as I stroll by.

I'm not a philosopher, sometimes not even a thoughtful observer. 

But I do relish the little word-pictures that come to me in quiet moments. This one contains some of those.

The poem:

TEEMING WATERS

No ocean liners ply the waters
of my mind, no freighters,
and no reefers sitting low
with their burden of hefty ideas,
but smaller craft keep them
teeming, shadows following
in the shallows, crawling
the paths where pebbles lie
travel-rounded and waiting,
always waiting, for that poem.

© 1996

(originally published in ByLine)


Today's word: teeming

So Quiet

Today's poem is another which preserves a family memory ... more specifically, a memory of a visit to the place where our grandson was starting his life ... and of the good times Grandma and he shared ... and, of course, I was not left out of the activity, either.

I think the poem pretty well tells its own story:

SO QUIET

The house was so quiet
this morning when I walked
down the hallway that I
could hear the clock ticking,

thought I heard tired fireflies
grumping softly to themselves
somewhere outside, searching
the grass for a cool place

to spend the day, the cicadas
climbing their leafy green trees,
almost humming to themselves
in their happiness, thought I

heard Thomas breathing peacefully
in his bed, still dreaming about
that dump truck he and Grandma
kept filling and emptying, sand

tickling their bare feet, and I
couldn't help smiling at myself
looking back from the mirror,
ready to clap my hands and dance.

© 2001

(received a third place award in a ByLine competition; now part of Hollyhocks, my second collection of poems, released by Finishing Line Press)

Today's word: grumping

Renewal

Symbolism isn't always apparent when I take a photo. 

In this instance, I was simply prompted by the colors, the reflections, the quiet of this spot in Charleston Falls Park. 

But now I see the greening of renewal, the fallen tree both as a symbol of decay which will lead to renewal and as a footbridge, offering a choice at that juncture, of wading through the stream of events, or of taking a dry, if somewhat acrobatic, crossing ... all symbols of passages.

Appropriate, I was thinking last night ... looking at the calendar, marveling at how fast this year seems to be going.

I know ... it's still a bit early to be thinking about year's end ... parties, resolutions, turning over a new leaf ... all that stuff.

But renewal, I think, can really come at any time of year ... any day ... any moment. 

End of sermon.

And now the poem:

RENEWAL

How sad sounding
the rains of spring
were, thudding
on the empty drum
of my young life.

Renewal lacked
meaning for me,
but the years
have washed away
that emptiness.

Now the song
of those gentle
drops on my roof
nurtures dreams
of beginnings
and new growth.

© 2002

(originally published in Brave Hearts)

Today's word: beginnings

Purple

(Today's photo is a worm's eye view of some hyacinths which caught my attention while I was walking in Lincoln Park ... not recently, mind you ... too snowy for that)

Memory is such a part of poetry - whether of something seen or envisioned, whether long ago or just moments earlier. Memory plays its role. 

In this instance, the memory was implanted so long ago I don't know exactly where or when I saw the sofa sitting on that front porch. It had to have been in my childhood, which would have placed it somewhere in a small town in Southern Illinois.

I remember how the light played across it, how I wondered what its story was, why it was sitting on that porch, neglected, but not really abandoned.

That image stayed with me, followed me, all these years until, finally, I put it to paper and, in doing that, gave it a life of its own. Perhaps it will now stir some memories for someone else, this tattered old sofa "where so many secrets still lie ... "

The poem:

PURPLE

Deep-purple couch sitting alone
in the darkness of the front porch,

lamplight threading a cracked
windowpane, settling like dust

across your back, cushions askew,
butt-sprung, cold, where suitors sat

enduring eternity, waiting, waiting
for that moment that never came,

where others, home from the wars,
found prickly refuge in your embrace,

slept nights away, bone-weary, safe,
where the sick found solace,

baby first slept, generations of cats
yawned, stretched, sank regal claws,

where so many secrets still lie
like lost coins, just beyond reach.

© 1998

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: lamplight

Oh, by the way ... I noticed yesterday that the "hit counter" ... which clicks each time someone visits "Chosen Words" ... but collects no other info, I assure you ... had passed the 46,000 mark. Thank you, one and all, for stopping by to take a look, perhaps to comment, before getting back to your busy day. 

Morning Mist

Do you ever have trouble finding things? I do. I hope it's just a phase I'm going through, but I've recently found that ... no matter what it is ... it always seems to be in a secret hiding place.

Then ... surprise! ... there it is, right under my nose.

Well, my first search of the day didn't turn out that way this morning.

When I bounded out of bed ... not really, but I like the sound of that phrase ... anyway, at the beginning of the day I was thinking about ... well, about beginnings ... and how I might utilize them.

This brought to mind one of my little poems, "Beginnings" ... and it seemed to me that it would be the perfect piece.

I searched everywhere ... beginning with where it should be ... and then all the places it shouldn't be. No luck. Not even a whiff of it. I'm convinced at this point that not even a bloodhound could have found it.

So ... I've fallen back on one of the poems from my first collection ... Chance of Rain ... Oh, that sounds so much like ancient history now, doesn't it?

Meanwhile, the poem:

MORNING MIST

Invisible morning mist explores my face
like cotton candy melting at the touch,
reviving memories of that sweet softness

as droplets seek my eyes and slip inside
unseen. But there in the swirling distance,
there against the trees where it bivouacs,

ready to invade in ever growing numbers,
there against a sagging barn, there against
the dim, straining headlights of a silent,

bouncing car peering back at me, and here,
high above me in the drenched, dripping
leaves of a hickory giving what shelter

it can, the mist makes itself visible.
Such workings must be meant to conceal,
but what? The past which clings to me

like the smell of smoke? Or the future,
lost somewhere in the effervescing spell
that embraces these hills, their valleys?

Knowing mystical mist steals the vapors
of my breath and returns only a silence
that swarms about like tiny ghostly gnats

touching my ears and dancing on ahead, 
ever ahead, seeming to point the way
I should take as I labor back up the hill.

© 2003

(from my first collection, Chance of Rain)

Today's word: gnats

Lost Pencils

Phyllis pretends she's not with me when I discover a pencil lying on the sidewalk. She knows I can't resist. I'll simply have to pause, pick it up and put it in my pocket.

I've learned not to do that with pens. Sometimes they leak.

But pencils?

There's something safe, reassuring about a pencil.

Even the most chewed up, stubbiest, disreputable looking pencil has the potential of a few more words, of writing a few lines, perhaps, that could someday turn into something big ... maybe a poem.

Here's one now:

LOST PENCILS

I find them during my walks
past schools, lying there, poor,
fallen things, pointing forlornly
to some vague destination.

Many bear the jagged markings
from anxious scholars' teeth,
some have been sharpened
to the point of extinction,

some are broken, and might not
write again, without my timely
arrival to bring them home.
Handling each with the care

one would accord a fallen bird,
I slide it into the warmth
of an inner pocket to keep
it safe, for this could be

the one I've always needed,
the one with something to say
that I really need to hear.

© 2000

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: potential

How the Cinders Danced

This is a homecoming poem only in the sense that I had returned to the place where I grew up.

There were no welcoming crowds, no band ... and I hadn't expected any. I had walked around town, looking for a familiar face, but found none. I ended up at the site of the bridge where a frightening experience had etched itself on my memory.

And how frightening a steam locomotive could be to a youngster, especially up close, as my grandmother and I were caught walking across that bridge ... with a freight train passing underneath.

Standing there, alone, brought that memory rushing back to me.

How quiet now! How calm. How vivid the memory of those cinders "dancing" on the deck of that bridge! I just had to write about it.

It later received recognition as a Plainsongs Award Poem, published in their October, 2005, issue.

HOW THE CINDERS DANCED

Cold, I stand recalling
how the cinders danced
on the highway bridge

while I watched a slowly
swaying freight train
creaking beneath us,

its dark, hulking engine
chuffing like a dragon,
hot cinders swirling

up, dark clouds seeking
the walkway, our lungs;
how my hand lingered

in Grandma's after that
frightening train had
gone clacking off, and I

stand here now, alone,
a stranger come home,
breathing clear air,

no cinders dancing, no
engine chuffing, but
my gloved hand rising

to a sudden welling up

that causes a blurring

of childhood images.

© 2005

Today's word: chuffing

(OK, so I made up the word, but that's how I remember the sound that the steam engine made as it struggled underneath the bridge. Oh, and the art? One of my photographs ... and, no, that's not the bridge mentioned in the poem; it's a Nature-provided "bridge" along the trail at one of my favorite walking places.)