Defying Gravity

Oh, wouldn't it be great to be able to rise above the everyday problems that continue to plague us?

I thought about that.

I thought about literally rising above them, sailing off as carefree as a bird ... or more like a big red balloon which had just gained its freedom.

Of course, I came back to earth, to the reality that things would still bug me, but I felt better able to cope.

How's that for a bit of therapy ... at least in the realm of things which, in the long view of things, aren't all that important?

Maybe if I practice on the little things I will be better able to rise above the larger, more serious hurdles which lie ahead.

It's a thought, anyway. Now the poem:

DEFYING GRAVITY

With practice, I fully expect
someday to defy the gravity
of situations that bug me now.

A promise broken beyond repair,
an umbrella gone inside-out,
the spilled beans of some urgent
secret, the hole in my sock,
a lost mitten, broken shoelace,
a bookmark gone astray,
my coffee cup gone stone cold,
things I’ve forgotten,
crawling out, feeling old.

I see myself like a giant
red balloon, rising easily 
above them all. And don’t you
dare grab the string.

 © 2002

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: balloon

Been-Rejected Blues

Rejection is never funny. I've learned not to take it personally, though. I work on the assumption, at least, that it isn't personal.

Oh, there are still twinges sometimes. If I've spent a lot of time on a particular piece, studied the markets, read the publications, and  have the feeling that I've selected the exact poem(s) that the editor is looking for, then there can't help but be a slight twinge of disappointment when the poems come back with a little note attached.

But I know it isn't a personal thing. Maybe I was a little late, and that particular issue was filled with great writings by the time mine arrived. Maybe the issue had a theme that I overlooked.

Maybe the editor was just having an off day.

But it's not personal. Besides, I learned over the years that a poem rejected by one editor may be precisely what another editor has been looking for.

So I keep trying.

And when another editor likes something I've written ... though it may have been rejected someplace else ... that's cause for celebration ... and I do some dancing on the table ... figuratively, of course.

Then I get back to work. There are other poems to write, other markets to try ... and sometimes I even venture into an area which I generally avoid ... because, as I've said many times, "I can't rhyme worth a dime."

For example:

BEEN-REJECTED BLUES

I've got those

low down,

good for nothin'
been-rejected blues.

My meter seems fine.
My rhyme? Sublime.
So why, I whine,
this awful mess
I find myself in,
so sad and unseemly,
loaded with chagrin?

Beats me. I've just
got 'em. Bad as they
can be, I guess,
those unexpected,
pain-injected,
stripped down nekked,
been-rejected blues.

© 2001

(received an honorable mention award in an Ohio Poetry Day competition)

Today's word: unexpected

An Iowa Night

Time flies.

It seems such a short time ago that I was there in Iowa, participating in that study ... but it was actually many years ago ...

We had come from all parts of the country that summer, people from various professions, gathering at the University of Iowa for an intensive study of biography.

I was one of the participants in that National Endowment for the Humanities seminar. I had looked forward to it as a means of escaping, if only briefly, a work situation with constantly demanding deadlines.

What could be better than to get far, far away from that, to focus on something entirely different?

Deadlines? Oh, we had those in the seminar ... every day. We had a mountain of reading material to cover, to digest, to discuss. It was definitely not playtime.

But it was valuable ... when I returned to work, and all these years later. It helped to steer me in the direction of more writing and, eventually, into what I'm still doing today, exploring the avenues of poetry and a bit of art.

Today's poem recalls one particular evening when we were invited out to the rural home of our seminar moderator.

I recall our standing on the porch ... but let's let the poem tell it:

AN IOWA NIGHT

Day's work done, we
gathered on a farm porch,
watching the lush, dark
corn trembling toward us
as rain slid
through the dusk.

No towering buildings
muffled the crumpling
thunder, no traffic
softened the sound
of plump drops spattering
thirsting shingles.

It was the velvet edge
of an Iowa night.

I have bridged back
to it many times, seeking
those faces, wondering
what happened next,
what the others became,
where they are now.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review; also included in my first collection of poems, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press in 2003)

Today's word: wondering

Waiting to Play

This is another "walking" poem.

I had no idea, when I took up walking as a regular, daily pursuit, that it would also lead to poetry ... or at least fragments of thought that might become something akin to poetry.

But there's something about the rhythm, the cadence of walking, that seems to stimulate words and phrases.

When this happens, I try to keep them in mind until I get home ... where I used to sit at the kitchen table while I jotted them down to share with Phyllis later.

Now I usually head to the computer.

In this case a scattering of leaves on the sidewalk caught my attention.

It struck me that they looked like colorful, broken pieces ... how the sunlight danced across them ... and some of them seemed to come to life when a breeze came gliding through.

From there it was just a short leap to imagining that the leaves were really waiting for children to come out to play with them.

Those images turned into this little poem:

WAITING TO PLAY

The leaves lie
like broken pieces
of fine porcelain,
catching sunlight
in the autumn quiet,
stirring slightly
as a breeze comes
gliding through,
but mostly they’re
waiting for children
to come romping out
to play with them.

© 1999
(originally published in Capper's)


Today's word: romping

Tall

I don't often do dream poems ... that is, poems about dreams ... simply because I have trouble recalling the dreams when I wake up.

This one was different, though.

I had this sense, as I say in the poem, of actually being taller than John Wayne on his horse. What a feeling that was. I wrote down what I recalled of that feeling.

Then, later ... that's right, pardner ... this one turned into a poem about writing, a subject that I find mysterious and perplexing. Even when the words come together neatly to form a poem, I'm sometimes puzzled as to how that really happened.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not completely baffled by the writing process, but it sometimes seems that poems, in particular, "write themselves," and I can't help expressing some amazement at that.

And now, the poem:

TALL

I dreamed that I
was tall, taller than
John Wayne, taller than
John Wayne on his horse,
and I just stood there
looking tall
and silent,

looking at all those
people looking up
at me, at last,
looking down at them,
but treating them
quietly as equals,

because that's the way

it is with me,
pilgrim,
no matter how tall
I get, nor how many
poems I’ve roped
and led home.

© 2000

(originally published in ByLine)

Today's word: equals

Solitary Candle

(Again, the illustration doesn't mesh readily with the poem, but this scene ... those stream-side rocks with their collection of autumn leaves ... happened to catch my attention ...  and here it is)


I've shared today's poem with you before ... when I was having computer problems. And who hasn't had those?


I hoped that visitors would remain patient while my computer and I continued our recovery from our latest adventure/misadventure ... 


I was a little tentative, but I said that I thought the computer was working right ... "now" ... though the counter didn't seem to be counting ... 


As to whether I was "working right" ... I admitted that I still bump into furniture ... misplace my car keys (there they ARE ... in my OTHER pocket) ... trip on cracks in the sidewalk. 


You know, the kinds of ordinary things that ordinary people do as they pick their way through the fog of the day.

Meanwhile, today's poem:



SOLITARY CANDLE


My candle sculpts
itself in its corner
of the room, flame
gyrating in the draft,
tiny avalanches
of wax slithering
into the maw,
a fungible, seething
mass that labors
back up the wick
to sacrifice itself
as a bit of light,
distant warmth. It
flickers, warning me
that I shall soon miss
the warmth, its quiet
companionship, gently
flowing memories, its
solitary, sustaining
work of holding
the darkness at bay.
© 1996

(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

Today's word: fungible

Matter of View

The thrust of today's poem, I think, can be summed up in one word: perception.

When the crow's call interrupted whatever I was doing, I found it rather grating ... actually, quite grating. It was like fingernails scratching across a chalkboard.

But after I gave it a bit of thought, it occurred to me that there might be another viewpoint, another way of hearing the crow's call, of seeing it as a means of communication, much as we humans try to communicate thoughts or information to each other.

Perception. It can lead to a better understanding of the world around us, if we'll let it.

Now, the poem:

MATTER OF VIEW

A crow's carping call
comes tumbling in
at my open window,
drowning out songbirds,
grating on my ears.
But to another crow
it's probably as sweet
as a baby's gurgle.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: gurgle