Reverie

I've never been a skater ... on ice, that is ... but it seems to me that daydreaming is something like TWO skaters on ice.

You're vaguely aware of your surroundings ... but then you're also off somewhere else ... like a skating partner off somewhere on the ice, whirling ... and gliding ... maybe leaping ... while you're over here, doing your thing.

Then ... POOF! Back to reality.

That happened to me.

I had submitted three poems ... by e-mail, no less! ... to one of my favorite publications ... or I thought I had. Then I discovered that all of my efforts had come flying back ... wrong e-mail address!

Well, a little research fixed that ... and off they went again.

Then, just as I was winding down for the day ... checking for incoming e-mails one more time ... half-listening to the news on TV ... I got confirmation that all three of those little poems had been accepted for publication in three upcoming issues.

Wow! Did that ever set off a chain of images ... including one very brief thought about dancing on the table in celebration ... talk about reverie!

Speaking of which:

REVERIE

My tired brain,
sponge that it is,
busies itself
sopping up sights
and sounds, giving
nothing back
as we drift apart,
like two skaters
arcing slowly away
on a vast blue rink,
curling, curling
back, linking hands
again, a flurry of
upbladed ice
marking our sudden
juncture, skates
flashing in unison
again as though
we'd never parted.

© 2000
(originally published in A New Song)

Today's word: sponge

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

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

My Three Loves

I think a love poem might be in order today ... this one  mainly about my eighth-grade teacher, who stirred an abiding interest in reading in me.

But it's also about the librarian I met at another time, in another town, as a result of my interest in reading.

That librarian and I are still sharing a mutual interest in reading, and she is the one who listens patiently to the things I've written.

But, getting back to the main thread of the poem: I was so glad when I was able to visit my former teacher, Miss Pearl, a few years ago, to thank her for imparting her love for reading ... and to introduce her to that librarian, my wife, Phyllis.

The poem:

MY THREE LOVES

Could Miss Pearl have known

that her own love of reading

would so transform the life

of a hungering eighth grader

whom her gentle, healing voice

touched with daily readings?

Fragile fingers softly turning

the pages of her beloved books,

she made visions of mere words,

openings to worlds where people

could dream, hope, and achieve.

These, she told us, were worlds

where we, too, might go, in fact,

belonged. Did she know, or did she

merely dream the teacher's dream

that the tiny seeds might endure,

take root, flower? Did she know

that her devoted love of reading

would become my own, eventually

leading me to that certain library

where I would find you? How else

could she have sustained herself

through those despairing years?

Questions still seek answers,

but of this I'm sure: Her gift,

so freely given, became more dear

than I, or even she, ever dreamed.

© 2001

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: sustained

The Lost Line

There's something about the rhythm of walking ... especially alone, nobody to talk to ... which can set a phrase to coursing repeatedly through your brain.

Perhaps it's something you recall from a conversation, or it may simply pop out of the blue.

The more you think about it, the more entrenched it becomes. Then you start hoping it will stay in place until you get back home, or until you find a curbside bench where you can sit and commit that persistent phrase to paper.

Sometimes it's a series of phrases, thoughts that are beginning to shape themselves into a poem.

It was at this point in one of my walks, when I found myself in mid-street ... but let's let the poem tell the story. "The Lost Line" was originally published in ByLine magazine.

THE LOST LINE

Walking, engrossed
in the troubling
task of untangling
a difficult line,
I looked up
at mid-street
into the whites
of the eyes of a car.

The startled driver
swerved and went on,
as did I, trembling
at the thought
of being cut down,
end-stopped,
in such a way.

I left the line
lying there where
I had dropped it,
a broken lanyard,
the possibility
of starting
something big
scared out of it.

I doubt that I

can ever reclaim it,

poor frayed thing,

abandoned, lost,

turned to a frazzle

by tires that sing

without ceasing

on Wayne Avenue.

© 1996

Today's word: lanyard

Hope Renewed

Today's poem reminds me of the good old days, way back when I was putting together a free, weekly e-mailed newsletter (anybody remember that version of "Squiggles"?).

One of our annual rituals was a countdown toward spring.

It was not unusual for it to begin with the first frost in the autumn, struggle through the gray days of winter, then go marching toward brighter, sunnier, warmer ... growing ... days of spring.

This poem also reminds me of a time when Phyllis and I shared a sleeping room high under the roof of the house, where the sound ... the music ... of rain was so soothing, so reassuring.

Though I can't hear the rain thumping on the roof where we are now, the sound of it slanting against the bedroom window is still a pleasant interlude, a reminder ...

The poem:

HOPE RENEWED

Spring rain

thumps on my roof

as though testing it

for ripeness,

and in the sunny

back yard of my mind

I see red roses

blossoming again.

 © 1994

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: blossoming

The Good Dreams

I'm always searching for poems ... my own published poems ... that I can share with you.


My search this time led me to my little poem which celebrated a beginning, the arrival of a new member of the family.


I also see the arrival of new life in our midst ... this symbol of the continuation of life, this vision beyond the present day, beyond us ... as a symbol of hope.


The pairing with today's art naturally followed: the sunlit path that leads on, inviting us to see what lies beyond the next turn, and beyond that.


The poem:

THE GOOD DREAMS

Your grandparents treasure the joy
of having been there within hours

of your arrival, taking their turns
cradling your downy head in their
arms, marveling at perfect tiny
fingers and toes, your eyes fluttering
open and shut, brief lusty crying,
eager, hungry feeding, your
drifting off into well-earned sleep.

Some distant day you, too, may hold
your own grandchild and know such joy,
may sit wondering, arm growing numb,
what adventures lie still years ahead.

But for now it is sufficient
for you to sleep. So sleep, sleep,
sleep, Thomas, and in time
the good dreams will come to you.

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: sleep