My Song

Eleven years ago, when I wrote today's poem, I had no idea I would still be writing in 2008 ... or even that there might still be "wisps of thought gathering softly in the valleys of my mind."

But I am, and there still are.

Writing, of course, is a gift. I view it not as a talent which few others have, but as a gift, because the words simply come, freely, to the patient writer ... all writers know this. When they are ready, the words will come ... showing themselves softly, perhaps, like a thistle drifting past, or like a blast entering through a door suddenly opened to it. But they will come.

Writing derives from other gifts, as well. The gift of time, for example. I have been given time to write, thanks to Phyllis, who allows me the quiet moments I need, who gives me the encouragement I crave, who is so patient and caring, so vital to me ... like the air I breathe.

Then there are the gifts of support, words of encouragement, advice, concern, from other family members, from friends and fellow writers, from editors who've liked my work, from those who listen attentively at readings.

These things make writing the greatest gift I can imagine receiving ... they keep making me feel "like a teakettle on the verge of song." And I thank you, one and all.

The poem:

MY SONG

Like a teakettle

on the verge of song,

I have endured

the silent years

and now give vent

to the poems welling,

willing themselves

into being.

My joy-filled song

is the scratch

of pencil on paper,

racing to catch

the wisps of thought

gathering softly

in the valleys

of my mind.

© 1997

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: verge

Lost in Thought

First of all, class ... before I forget ... Professor Squigglee wanted me to announce that a new installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" has been posted. There will be no test on the material, but you might want to take a look anyway (link in lefthand column).

Meanwhile:

I sometimes like to take a figurative statement and pursue it as though it were literally true ...

I remember a teacher who pointed out the mental images brought up by "catching a bus," for example, if taken as literally true ... likewise with "taking the plunge," "beating the bushes," etc.

In this case, I considered "lost in thought."

Literal pursuit of that concept takes us rushing down the winding path toward several improbable possibilities, all the way to the somewhat illogical conclusion. Or is it?

The poem:

LOST IN THOUGHT

If I were to become

lost in thought,

would I wander forever?

Would anybody notice

that I hadn't come

home for supper?

Would search parties

form sagging lines, go out

into the darkness,

beating the bushes

and calling my name?

Would I be

on the six o'clock news?

Would I ever

be myself again,

or would I return

as someone completely

different, a person

I have never met?

© 1999

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: literal

Into Warm Light

Those of us who write ... and there are a lot of us ... thank goodness ... know about obstacles.

My day ... and I'm sure yours, too ... is filled with little distractions, interruptions, barriers, hurdles which must be cleared, if I am going to have a few minutes that I can devote just to writing.

I must.

I have this burning need to write ... for myself, if nothing else ... possibly to share what I've written ... possibly to submit it to an editor who may ... or may not ... have time to give it a leisurely, thoughtful reading.

But finding time ... those few minutes for scrawling something on paper ... or, these days, sitting at the keyboard and watching the words as they appear across the screen ... is the problem ... a major problem.

Somehow we do find a few minutes to listen to those voices which beckon us ... and we do write ... and we do sometimes emerge, then, into the warm light of understanding.

The poem:

INTO WARM LIGHT

An afghan draped

on my legs, fingers

aching with cold,

fatigue slowing

the curl of letters

unspooling to become

words, I write

in a house gone quiet

except for random

creaks and groans,

the laboring clock,

going where voices

softly beckon me,

down the corridors

that eventually

widen out, opening

into the warm light

of understanding.

© 2001

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: understanding

Hungry Eyes Feasting

Quite often the art which accompanies my "Chosen Words" entry doesn't directly reflect the poem or the commentary.

But I thought today's photo, one of my "foggy mornings" collection, was fitting. It has a certain mysterious quality about it ... an eerie feeling that ... well, something is about to happen.

I don't want to frighten anybody, but I do want to set the stage for the suspense which the poem may convey. I'm looking at the photo now, trying to remember exactly where and when it was taken, but that apparently has gotten lost in my own early morning fog.

Let's just say that I snapped it while out on one of my morning walks, camera always ready, sketchpad in the small backpack that I sometimes lug along.

As to the poem: Here we go again, eh? Maybe it's my age ... or maybe it's just that I feel certain poems ... like a snatch of a favorite tune ... or a favorite phrase ... can bear repeating.

Sometimes repetition doesn't hurt ... it may even help ... like a second glimpse of something, in which you see some detail you missed before.

But enough of alibis.

This is one of my dream poems. No, I'm not saying it approaches perfection ... not in any respect. It's a poem about one of my dreams.

It seemed so real to me because it took place in familiar surroundings, much of it in my home neighborhood. The familiar went streaming through my sleep, in one of those dreams which seems to go forever.

I thought it would never end ... especially when it took the mysterious, sinister overtones of my feeling that, although I was on a deserted street, I was being watched.

Usually I wake up, the dream bubble bursts, and that's that.

Not this time.

I reached immediately for that pad and pen which are always nearby, just in case. I'm glad I put down some of those images before they got away from me.

This poem went on to become published in Waterways:

HUNGRY EYES FEASTING

Awash in the buzz and crackle wafting from

The Hillside Tavern’s enchanted neon signs,

I wake to the sound of nothing in my room,

Find the aching cold of yesterday's shoes,

Then, exploring the hall's echoing darkness,

Hear the ticking clock, the click of the lock

Before I go strolling past houses haunted

By the absence of dreams, empty windows

Staring back, thousands of broken promises

That will not be mended - not this night;

Slowly I march to the song of something

I can almost hear, feel its hungry eyes

Feasting on me, sense its crouching, tensing,

Preparing to pounce, and I dare not scream.

© 2005

***

Today's word: feasting

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Ooooooo ... You're right, Kelly ... it does sound like Halloween. I hadn't thought of that when I wrote it, but it does, now that you mention it. Another example of the reader providing a new dimension to a piece of writing. And I thank you.

Gently Falling

It was a quiet, rainy evening, and I had been working at the computer in the attic (not as primitive as it may sound ... it's a finished attic space, carpeted, well-lighted ... I also call it "my studio" now).

I leaned back in my chair ... trying to decide whether to tackle just one more task ... or call it a day.

It was then I noticed that a gentle rain had begun. I could see the tiny droplets speckling the skylight, gathering, beginning to trickle down the slope.

Something about that scene brought the word "weeping" to mind. I just had to write that phrase down. There followed others ... the thought that rain sometimes is sometimes soothing, but that it can also elicit feelings of loneliness.

The poem started out in the direction of loneliness, sadness, but took a rather abrupt turn at the end with the question: "Or is it joy?" ... and my implied answer then was definitely in the direction of joy. It still is. Most definitely. Joy.

Now, the poem:

GENTLY FALLING

The rain

comes weeping

to the pane,

early few drops

catching late light,

pearly beads

trickling

down the glass

in remembrance

of some loss

long forgotten.

Or is it joy?

© 1997, 2003

(originally published in The Christian Science Monitor; subsequently included in my first published collection, Chance of Rain, Finishing Line Press, 2003)

***

Today's word: joy

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I'm sorry you're having computer problems, Helen, and I hope they're cleared up soon. I've enjoyed ... and needed ... those electronic pats on the back that you've provided. I do appreciate the feedback you've given ... the perspective and insight you bring with your reading of my postings. Thanks for making that extra effort ... It's good to know that you're not hiding out ... and haven't given up on "Chosen Words." Continued best wishes.

Thanks for dropping by, Kelly ... for your "late night/early morning poetry fix." As we say, "Chosen Words" ... er, the Late Night Poetry Cafe ... never closes ... and there's always a seat available near a window, or within reach of the coffee pot ... and ... it's always good to hear your voice amid the quiet conversations which take place here. (I spend a lot of time in my attic studio savoring them.)

Falling to Zero

No, it hasn't snowed in Ohio ... not yet. But the temperatures did drop overnight here ... to a delicious, blanket-clutching briskness somewhere in the fifties overnight ... and when I woke up, feeling rested and a bit chilly, today's poem came to mind.

It had been one of those days. The snow had finally stopped, and, although we had no particular place to go that day, it seemed a good idea to clear the driveway, in case we did need to get out.

It was one of those heavy, wet snows which follows freezing rain. Deep. Too deep for our small snow blower to be very effective. Too heavy for piling many shovels full beside the driveway before pausing to catch our breaths.

Yes, I had help. Thank goodness, I had help.

And it was good to have company that evening as visions of all that ice and snow swept over us ... and we simply closed our eyes and enjoyed the fire.

Originally published in Capper's, now part of a manuscript in search of a publisher:

FALLING TO ZERO

We’ve spent the day

shoveling the drive,

freeing all those

ice-encrusted bricks

we’d carefully laid

in the steamiest

of months. The car

is fueled, waiting

for just the turn

of the key,

while the mercury

falls rapidly

to nothing, maybe

less. But we won’t

be going out; we’re

sitting, roasting

our shins while

the fire crackles

and leaps.

© 2001

***

Today's word: shoveling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Sue, for that warm response to the poem ... and the photo. I'm glad you enjoyed both. And Kettering, Ohio! That makes us neighbors, practically ... what a great surprise! You've no doubt heard of Dayton, where Brimm Manor is located. As a matter of fact, you may already have seen The Little Red Car, of "Squiggles & Giggles" fame, bouncing along, trying to stay out of trouble.

Good luck, Helen, as you keep an eye on Gustav to see what he's going to do. I would imagine that I would miss the "changing of the guard" as the seasons come and go ... if I were living in Florida ... but I would definitely NOT miss the shoveling that comes with winter weather in Ohio. And Massachusetts? I can just imagine that a much larger wintertime shovel would be required there.

Early Writer

How do I select the poems I post on "Chosen Words"?

I suppose the question brings up an image of a blindfold ... a pointer, perhaps ...

Sometimes it is left to chance ... but there are times that a poem is selected with some forethought ... a tiny bit of that, admittedly ... but forethought, nonetheless.

Today, for example, I'm obviously running behind my normal schedule of an early posting. Just disorganized, I think ... a carryover, I suppose, of following my own advice from yesterday.

But here I am ... with a poem selected with real intent ... because of what I perceive as a slight touch of irony in the timing.

Please read on.

I write any time I can, but I've found mornings best, before other details of the day ... yesterday's unfinished chores, today's agenda ... begin pressing in.

Still, I'm not naturally a morning person.

I don't spring out of bed singing and laughing and dancing. I'm not a total grump either. It's just that I'm not fully wound at that time of the day, as evidenced by this little poem ... which is, itself, further evidence of why I don't write much rhyme, and perhaps shouldn't.

But here's the poem:

EARLY WRITER

Up at the crack of dawn

After a restless night,

Sleeves rolled up, thinking cap on.

The time has come to write.

Outline great, title gold,

The rest should be a snap,

But I feel vaguely old,

Like I should take a nap.

Still, I grope for the keys,

Get set to take the leap.

One moment, if you please:

My brain is still asleep.

© 1999

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

***

Today's word: asleep

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Morning has never been the best part of the day for me, Helen. Oh, there were a few exceptions ... I have enjoyed some sunrises, here and there along the way. But I just don't get in gear until later in the day. Then I start waking up ... seeing things more clearly ... start actually functioning as a thinking being ... and then I quickly check to see what I wrote ... and posted. And sometimes ... well, sometimes I do a little needed tweaking. Story of my life. But, as I say, "Chosen Words" never closes ... you're welcome to drop by any time ... so please do.

Oh, Hopper, one of my favorite artists, Kelly ... and a favorite painting, too. And you're right about "Chosen Words" being open 24/7. I used to say that "management never sleeps" ... not entirely true. I'm not sure I would be categorized as "management" ... but I do sleep. And Professor Squigglee ... well, I understand that he nods off at times, too. But "Chosen Words"? There's always a light in the window ... and the welcome mat's out.