Because We Must

Some of you may have seen today's poem before.

It even made a guest appearance on "Squiggles & Giggles," my weekly ... free, mind you, free ... e-mailed newsletter about writing ... and a multitude of other subjects.

But then AOL put a stop to that.

Ah, but "Squiggles & Giggles" is back ... not as a newsletter ... sorry ... but as an online posting (not on AOL) ... now, with a link (under "Favorite Sites") in the left-hand column of "Chosen Words," it's just a click away ... any time you care to take a look.

And it doesn't clutter your mailbox now!

I'm always a little surprised ... on the verge of amazed ... at the amount of discussion this little poem fires up. But that's what the newsletter ... we called it "S&G" ... was all about.

"Because We Must" created a lot of discussion ... but none of those ugly fights in the parking lot afterward. I like that.

I was thinking about "Because We Must" this morning.

Mainly I was thinking about what I had said about this little poem once before:

When we strip away the outer trimmings, the pretense, the spins which have become the standard of the day, what do we have left?

The truth.

I like that. Writing, with a few exceptions, is certainly not for the money. Not really. That's true, even with those who write for pay.

They ... and we ... write because we must. Because we're looking for a truth ... The Truth, perhaps.

The poem:

BECAUSE WE MUST

A voice whispers

and we listen.

Again. We answer,

more rapidly now,

with paper and pen.

We write

because we must.

No ear may hear

our stories, nor

voice answer our

earnest pleadings,

and still we write.

Because we must.

© 2005

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

***

Today's word: impelled

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, I miss the old S&G, too, Featheredpines ... it was like sending out a letter from home each week, keeping in touch with all those who had asked to be put on the mailing list. But now it is back, though in a different form ... and I do appreciate the comments on it ... and on "Chosen Words." They serve to keep the conversation going ... and they keep me going, too ... knock on wood.

Thanks for your comment, too, Helen ... I'm always delighted when you like the poem ... and I like your mention of painting ... another area in which I'm trying to expand my knowledge ... finding it an ever-healing process.

I hope you both had a great day ... and I hope you'll forgive my slowness in responding ... I try to excuse such lapses in keeping up my end of the conversation as being "thoughtful pauses."

Accepting Change

I was out late a few nights ago. No, I wasn't partying ... well, it was a party of sorts ... I was sitting in with a poetry group ... a small group which meets fairly regularly to celebrate poetry.

And celebrate it is!

We all enjoy poetry. We sit in a small circle, share our most recent discoveries, pass around copies, discuss each offering briefly ... simply savoring some ... trying to unravel the mysteries of others.

And ... after nibbling on a slice of raisin bread ... fresh and piping hot from the oven ... well, yes, it was a party.

All the way home, then, the words of the evening kept coming back, singing to me and Phyllis. It almost seemed that The Little Red Car was humming along, too.

So I was out late. Not too late, mind you. It was afterward ... when I sat down at the keyboard, that time really slipped away from me.

As a result of that, there I was ... lost ... well, not completely lost, but still bumping into things in the morning fog. Sleep deprived, I believe it's called.

I had hoped to enumerate some of the changes I've accepted ... even welcomed, in some instances ... along the way ... and some of those which I'm still resisting. I'm sure there have been many of each.

But I think I'd better wait until I'm fully awake ... like, maybe in another day or two.

Meanwhile, the poem:

ACCEPTING CHANGE

I'm not always

a willing partner,

but I must go

with the times,

leaving a trail

of scuff marks

where I've been

dragged along.

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: change

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Featheredpines, for that comment ... truly music to my ears. I'm glad you find music lurking in the words I've chosen ... or rather, the words which have chosen me (often the way I feel when a poem starts humming through my head) ... as I often say, though, so much depends on what the reader brings to the poem. Actually, though I hasten to point out that I don't read music ... and don't play real songs ... I do sit down sometimes at that "other" small keyboard and noodle away, picking out sounds that appeal to me. I lose track of time there, too. But enough of my life story ... for now. Thanks for keeping in touch.

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 a 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

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I'm sorry your day didn't get off to a good start, Helen (as a non-morning person myself, I understand) ... but I'm glad the poem gave you a smile. Your own comment paid a great dividend for me ... a smile of my own in late afternoon ... even though I'm reminded that I've fallen behind ... again ... on my responses to comments on "Chosen Words" ... and must get moving. Thanks for your patience while I get up to speed again.

Sleepless Night

I guess everybody has at least an occasional sleepless night. I'm having one tonight ... a night essentially without sleep.

At the moment, shortly after midnight, I'm in the midst of preparations for a medical procedure which is scheduled to take place early in the morning.

Just routine, but it does take prep, and, as I go into the home stretch on that, it looks like there will be little sleep before I report in.

Meanwhile, there's a new installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" (note the link on the left side of "Chosen Words") just waiting for visitors.

Today's poem addresses another type of sleepless night ... and is for all those nights before air-conditioning ... or without it ... when I was growing up, when I was in military service, later, in a rented room here and there ... and even later.

There were a lot of those.

It's for those lonely nights when a siren would signal the approach of flashing lights which would go dancing across the ceiling and splashing on down the street.

Once or twice that siren and those lights were for me. But "not this time ... old pals."

It's for the times I listened to the crickets picking up the threads of conversation in the darkness ... and I lay listening to the night ebbing away.

I don't dwell too much on the past, but it does provide the foundation for today ... and tomorrow. It does bear some thought. I try to give it that, and I'm glad when a poem results, especially when that poem eventually finds a good home. This one was originally published in Riverrun.

SLEEPLESS NIGHT

A sharp-edged siren

comes careening through

my open window, scant

warning of lights

that will go slashing

across my ceiling,

tumbling pell-mell

in the littered street,

spattering buildings

with fiery colors

that ooze and fade.

Not this time

for me, old pals.

Not this time.

Slowly, like strangers

waiting for a bus,

crickets pick up loose

threads of conversation,

and I lie listening

to another night

burning itself out,

the welter of chirrups

reeling in another

sweltering day.

© 2000

***

Today's word: threads

Passing in Review

Today's poem is another example of material ... fodder, if you will ... lurking almost anywhere.

Naturally, I keep an eye out for subject matter, possibilities for a small painting, perhaps, or even a poem, when I'm out walking ... when I'm sitting, waiting for a bus ... whatever.

In this instance, I had passed the flowers many times, casually observing their color, their sprightliness, but not feeling any particular connection with them ... until one day when there was a slight breeze. Their movement, "nodding their heads," caught my eye well before I was in front of them.

It was then, I think, that it seemed they were the "reviewing stand" and it was I, the lonely marcher, who was being inspected as I strode past.

Hardly more than a haiku moment, but that impression, that image, stuck with me all the way home, where I sat at the kitchen table and started writing.

Originally published in Capper's:

PASSING IN REVIEW

Flowers arrayed

like a reviewing stand

in my neighbor's yard

seem to be nodding

recognition of me,

and perhaps they are,

for I march by twice

on my daily walk.

© 1995

***

Today's word: nodding

Only the Best

I can't imagine being restricted to writing only one word on a given day. There are so many of them clamoring to get out of my head and go skittering across the page ... or to be posted on the screen.

On the day that I wrote this little poem, though, I must have been trying to imagine what it might be like to have to settle on just one word ... and I picked "friend," with its dictionary meaning of a person one knows well and is fond of ... plus all its other shades of meaning, depending on the reader's experience.

It has so many meanings. It conjures up images of a handshake, a hug, of sharing a conversation with someone, or just sitting quietly with them ... helping someone, being helped by someone, of someone you can trust, someone with whom you can share your thoughts ... secrets, even ...

It seems to be an all-purpose word, but it's a very precise word, too ... not a musical word, but one that can bring "music" to us, put a spring in our step, a glow that counters even the cloudiest of days.

The poem:

ONLY THE BEST

If I could write

just one word today,

what care I'd take

to pick the best

from the great array

of "previously-owned,

runs great" words,

for example: Friend.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: friend

New Growth

Sometimes it's a meandering path which takes me to the poem for the day.

It was something like that last night at the Dayton Art Institute, where I joined David Lee Garrison, of Wright State University, in sharing some art-related poems.

On the way to the principal pieces of art I had written about, I shared, among others, the piece I posted here yesterday, "Morning Mist" ... a piece about a finger painting that I treasure beyond words (it was done by my grandson) ... a piece about one of my own paintings, now residing in a good home in Illinois ... one about Vincent Van Gogh's "Starry Night" ... one about a scene I observed while looking OUT of a window at the DAI.

Then I shared a piece about Charles Sheeler's "Stacks in Celebration" and one with a reference to Georgia O'Keefe's "Purple Leaves" ... both a part of the DAI collection.

I also shared one titled "After the Muffin" ... one of my favorite art forms ... ranking right up there with cake of any kind.

Sorry you missed it. I'll try to make that up to you in coming days.

Meanwhile ...

Today's poem contains some thoughts about what has happened to so much of our land ... thoughts driven largely, I suppose, by my having grown up in a rural area, where the poor, worn-out soil was gentled into producing food and flowers.

I have no special agenda, no axe to grind ... just some observations that simply came to me on a rainy day in a shopping center parking lot.

I may be wrong about grasses someday retaking"these smothered acres."

I take no comfort in the possibility that I might be right. Right or wrong, I shall never know, but it seems logical, reasonable to expect that the sprawl of what we've come to treasure as our way of life cannot be sustained forever.

Something to think about, perhaps.

The poem:

NEW GROWTH

Where crops once grew,

the skin of commerce

stretches into the distance,

acres in all directions.

On verdant prairie land

now grow waving fields

of carts, cars and customers.

They bring the green

to a soil long bereft

of plants, except token trees

planted as memorials

to what once was.

And when it rains, the rain

finds no welcoming soil.

It piles up at the drains

as it flees this alien surface.

What strange things

we now grow, and

how great the cost.

Someday the grasses

will retake

these smothered acres,

rightfully theirs

by prior claim.

The rain will come

in its gentle way

to bless this soil,

and it will prosper

as it did before.

© 1996

(originally published in Poetic Eloquence)

***

Today's word: smothered