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 "Squiggles & Giggles"?).

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 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

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, thank you, Helen, for letting me know that this little piece came together as the word picture(s) I'd hoped it would. As for other readers ... the welcome mat is always out ... I keep a light in the window ... and I'm listening, listening ... for quiet footsteps ... a whispered comment ... a chuckle ... I'm listening.

Deadly Sin

Let's see, now. I was riding along on a city bus. My stop was coming up, so I had put my magazine inside my briefcase, snug there beside my lunch, and I was sleepily watching the street signs.

Actually, I guess I was watching buildings and store signs, more than anything. I had ridden this route so many times, I hardly had to watch for street signs.

Then I heard it.

The click of a ballpoint pen was unmistakable. The sound came from the seat immediately behind mine. Obviously, somebody was preparing to write something.

Was it a thought which had just jumped out at them? A line for a poem? Maybe just a reminder. Maybe another item on the grocery list. But writing.

Someone writing! Another writer? Someone who, like I had done so many times on the bus, was jotting something down that would later become a real poem?

Oh, how tempting it was to turn to see this person ... to ask, "Are you a writer?" To ... well, the poem says it all:

DEADLY SIN

I heard the click of a pen

in the seat behind me,

imagined the scratch of words

across paper, the beginnings

of something so compelling

I was tempted to turn, to peer,

suggest, but resisted as though

in the presence of deadly sin,

and at the next stop got off

the bus, feeling I had been cast

out of The Garden as the doors

folded firmly shut behind me.

© 1998

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: tempted

Caught on the Brink

Have you ever found yourself in "the twilight zone," that location which lies vaguely somewhere between sleeping like a baby ... and being fully awake?

Well, I have. Many times.

Thank goodness, it has only happened to me a couple of times when I was behind the wheel ... and without serious outcomes in either instance.

Oh, on one of those occasions ... one very dark night ... I was pulled over by a highway patrolman somewhere in Indiana ... but that's another story.

But let me settle into my favorite chair ... with a favorite book ... and it's like I've been given a knockout potion. Soon the words become blurry ... the room seems to melt away ... the book grows heavy ... my eyelids grow heavier ...

Whoa! I'm getting ahead of myself here. I'll just step aside and let you glide right into the poem:

CAUGHT ON THE BRINK

Something I had just read

struck a chord with me,

sent sympathetic vibrations

dancing down the corridors

of my mind. I could feel

something stirring deep

within me, a new knowledge

coming like a rescuer's lamp

shooting fingers of light

this way and that,

drawing nearer in the murky

darkness, promising a sip

from the cup of understanding,

a way to come clawing out

of this abyss, into fresh air

and natural light. "Bob!" I

heard the distant voice calling.

"Bob! Put down your book,

take off your glasses, recline

your chair!" It was as though

the Thought Police had me

surrounded. What could I do?

What else? I surrendered.

© 2000

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: murky

(Oh ... by the way ... another installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" has been posted)

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Welcome back, Featheredpines! We've missed you. I'm glad there was a timely poem waiting to greet you on your return ... and I hope you found that Robinson Jeffers piece. I also hope you're finding some refuge from that horrible heat. I am really sorry that you can't hear the latest poem posted on S&G. I just tried it, and it played for me (I really hope I'm not the only one who can get it to play). Perhaps it's just a temporary glitch with your connection ... and I know that's not very helpful ... but my technical knowledge is almost nil. I believe it's recorded and posted in the .wav format, if that's any help in solving the mystery. Let me know what happens, if you try again, please.

Body of Work

Sometimes when I'm scribbling on a scrap of paper, I turn thoughtful ... and when that happens I try not to spoil the mood by talking too much.

Today's poem:

BODY OF WORK

No massive volumes

nor learned footnotes

preserve my tracks,

no ripples mark

my gentle passage,

yet my being here,

scribbling away,

may have made

a difference

to someone else.

If that's the case,

I am pleased,

verging on proud,

of my body of work.

© 1996

(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

***

Today's word: verging

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you so much, Featheredpines. Hearing someone say that is ... well, my highest reward.

After the Chores

A poem, sometimes, is an accumulation of memories.

This one is like that. It goes all the way back to my childhood, when I would sit on the steps and watch the sky in the evening. It was like magic, the way the stars would start popping out.

It was magic, too, the way the moon would come floating up over the hills, like a giant balloon set loose to spend the night with us.

Lightning bugs would emerge, and there would be a chorus of sounds from the trees and the nearby fields. Occasionally there would be the hooting of an owl, or ... somewhere in the distance ... the mournful call of the whippoorwill.

I thought of those evenings many times, when I was in places distant from that beginning. There weren't always steps to sit on in the evening, and it was often a day job, rather than "chores," that brought fatigue settling onto me at the end of the day.

But I found comfort in thinking about those evenings, so long ago. I still do.

And now, the poem:

AFTER THE CHORES

Night voices rise

in growing chorus

as I sink to the steps

and sit, watching,

waiting like a child,

for a first twinkle

on that darkening

blue dome of sky.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: darkening

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for finding time during your travels to stop by for a visit here ... and for that electronic pat on the back. I'm delighted that you found this a comforting poem. Happy trails ...

When, at Last, It Rains

I learned about rain, or its absence, at an early age. That happens when you grow up in a rural area. So much ... in fact, everything ... depends on rain, whether you have it or you don't, whether too little or too much.

That early experience shaped me, no doubt about it. It shaped my writing, too, when I finally took that up. It created the shape of my first collection of poems, published in 2003.

This particular poem requires little explanation, I believe. Except ... except that, while it is written as something which happened one evening, it is the sum of many evenings ... spent on the front porch, "watching the stars, counting the days since last rain."

It embodies my reaction to the ending of a long drought.

It could be taken further than that, if you wish, to a celebration, not just of the return of rain to the parched soil, but to the ending of one of the many kinds of droughts we endure in our lives.

WHEN, AT LAST, IT RAINS

I sense its talking to me in the depths

of my sleep, hear its melody settling

softly on my ear like a lover's whisper,

see it, with my mind's eye, falling

into a steady rhythm, slipping slowly

down the slope of the tattered roof

on the porch where I sat last week

watching the stars, counting the days

since last rain; then with a shout,

a slam of the screened back door, I'm

standing in the crusted yard, greeting

the rain with my arms outstretched,

dancing wildly with it, receiving its

healing kisses on my upturned face.

© 2006

(published in my first collection, Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press, 2003; included in Common Threads, issued by Ohio Poetry Association, Spring-Summer issue, 2006)

***

Today's word: healing

That New Diet

 

I can't really remember how long it has been since that four-letter word, c-a-k-e ... not to mention all forms of my favorite food ... dessert ...  was put on my forbidden list.

Oh, how I remember the good old days when cake was my favorite food. Oh, how sweet it was! But no more. Not even a nibble.

But go ahead. Enjoy. I won't knock your serving off your plate. I promise. Nor will I sit up and beg, like I used to. And if I whimper a little, just ignore me. I'll get over it ... someday.

The poem:

 

THAT NEW DIET

On the pastry shelf

of my mind cake

doesn't exist now,

but my poor stomach

keeps insisting that

it does. How much

longer can I take this

constant bickering?

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

 

 

***

Today's word (thanks to a suggestion by Southernmush): float