Inscrutable Scrap

(Again, the photo has no direct relationship to the poem ... just something that caught my eye when I was out walking)

I have this thing about thrift stores.

I find it difficult to pass one without going inside.

Once there, I have trouble getting back out without buying something ... at least a book. At the very least, a book.

Aside from the story the book may have to tell, there are other stories, too ... a note on the flyleaf from the person who originally gave the book to someone else ... marginal notes, sometimes ... underlined passages ... a bookmark indicating a favorite portion ... or where the previous owner stopped reading.

All of these are dividends, I think. I'm curious about people and their reading habits. I like to "know" who the previous readers were.

Then, in this one instance, I got an extra dividend.

When I got home with my "prize," I noticed a bit of brown paper ... like a tiny piece of a grocery bag ... peeking out from the book.

I pulled it out ... and discovered ... and, well, that's what the poem's all about:

INSCRUTABLE SCRAP

A scrap of paper
jaggedly torn
from a husky brown bag,
held prisoner
by the dusty book;
a frayed finger,
beckoning, pleading,
it surrenders
its shakily-penciled
long-lost message:
I LOVE YOU
but keeps its
secrets, too, like
who wrote it, and why
had she kept it
all these years?
© 1995
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: secrets

Homecoming

I think I tend to be too wordy. Not only in my poems, sometimes, but in my commentary, too.

Sorry about that.

Still, I do try to boil things down ... to reduce them to their essence. Readers are busy, in a hurry, have other things to do, so many other things calling for their attention.

I owe them some brevity ... and the more I talk about that, the less I'm giving them. Right?

What I started out to say was that the poem simply attempts to express the feeling that, while it's good to get away ... on a vacation, or even for a few days ... it's good to get back, too ... to be home again.

I could have said much more than that, but I was under the mistaken impression that Capper's only published eight-line poems ... with short lines, at that.

For example, I could have talked about the curving gravel road leading to the barn on the place where I lived at one time ... about the lilacs and maples along that road ... about the big gray house ... the light in the window ...

More about that later, perhaps. For now, the poem:

HOMECOMING

No matter how great
the vacation, there's
no sweeter song
than a quartet
of travel-weary tires
harmonizing
on the gravel
of your own driveway.
© 1994
(originally published in Capper's)


Today's word: harmonizing

Finally, Sleep

Sleep, that blessed escape from the cares of the day, is not always easy to come by ... but I recently slept well for two nights in a row ... and woke up thinking about a certain poem.

It's a poem about those mortal enemies - writing and sleep.

At least I've found them often directly opposed to each other. When I'm in the throes of writing, sleep is the last thing I want ... and then, sometimes, when I sleep before I've finished a project, I wake up feeling writing-deprived.

"This attic room" used to be the place where all of my serious writing took place. Excluding, of course, those frantically written notes while waiting at the bus stop, or in the doctor's office ... any place I had a few free moments and an idea that just wouldn't wait.

You know the story about that.

That place just beneath the roof was peaceful and quiet ... and when it rained, I enjoyed rain's gentle cadence that accompanied the tick-tick-tap-tick of the keyboard, the rustling of papers, the stifled yawns, and ... finally, a bit of sleep.

But I've grown more sensible. It's only occasionally that I climb that extra set of stairs in search of that quiet place. Nowadays, I find other, more accessible places to do my serious writing.

Still, I miss those evenings up there. Especially on rainy nights ... I find myself pausing to think about those crinkling ribbons of light, the words which came streaming across the screen as I continued my quest for a poem, in this case:

FINALLY, SLEEP

Ribbons of light
crinkle across
the glass atop
this attic room,
moving slowly
to the cadence
of gentle rain,
then vanish
in the quiet
of these small
hours that call
me to sleep.
© 2001
(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)


Today's word: ribbons

Enjoy That Silence

Today's poem was written at a time when I was thinking about my writing ... how I might improve it ... what subject to tackle next ... how to tweak some of the tons of things I've written ... and about how ... someday ... for me ... all this will come to a halt ...

That can be a gloomy thought, I know ... but I prefer to look at the bright side of the coin, even while knowing, all along, that the coin has another, darker side, too.

Today's poem deals with that other side, but in a way, I hope, that simply looks at reality ... with a dash of hope for the reader ... the knowledge that things will go on, as always.

This morning, though, the poem came to mind as I thought about another bit of silence ... my neglecting to keep up my portion of the conversation with readers ... namely, in "Afterthoughts," where I respond to readers' comments.

I feel it's important to acknowledge these thoughtful entries which readers make ... they've found time in their busy days, after all, to pay me a visit, to read what I've written ... to contribute a statement which often throws new light on what I've said ... which adds to the understanding of what I was trying to say.

I've been neglectful ... other things have intruded ... like my recent "excused absences" ... yard chores ... computer problems ... errands ... hunting for things I've lost ... oh, the list goes on an on.

But it always comes back to one thing ... to me ... to the fact that I've neglected to keep up my end of the conversation here.

I am sorry ... really sorry ... about that ... and I'll try to do better.

Meanwhile, I have been blessed to be able to write, and to be permitted to share what I have written.

As much as the writing itself ... which sometimes comes in pauses and starts, and sometimes with difficulty, but always brings a certain satisfaction when it's finished, awaiting a polishing or two ... I have enjoyed the reactions of readers.

To say that I have basked in their comments is a vast understatement.

Still, I know it will all end someday. It must. It will.

This poem is about that. I think it pretty well tells its own story ... and I don't think it's a sad story, really, just an acknowledgment of the inevitable ... but also a celebration of the present. Thank you for being a part of that celebration.

The poem:

ENJOY THAT SILENCE

When all the leafy
branches have closed

behind me and my
footsteps have drifted

into nothing, I hope
there will be no

searching parties sent
to seek new meaning

in what I was trying
to say. I had no hidden

agenda, no secrets
in my surface-dwelling

statements. So when
the silence descends,

as it surely must, please
accept it. And enjoy.
© 2006
(Published in the Spring 2006 - 40th Anniversary Edition - of ICON)

Today's word: inevitable

Do They Sleep?

Sometimes, especially with a whimsical piece, any explanation is too much, so I'll spare you the details of my ordeal by squirrels, the pain and humiliation I've suffered at their hands (er, paws), the ongoing battle of wills, my refusal to concede that their ancestors were here in this country before mine ... all those things which went into the making of this poem.

If they were to write poetry ... perhaps it would keep them out of mischief for brief interludes, at least ... I suppose it would be as accusatory of me as this is of them.

I'm willing to settle for an uneasy truce. But are they? This one was originally published in Capper's:

DO THEY SLEEP?

I've seen 'em
nodding off
on a quiet limb
during the day,
but when do
pesky squirrels
really sleep?

And where?

Maybe they go
to little motels,
or perhaps they
go zipping off
to the suburbs,
where they plot
new mischiefs
on tiny laptops.

Some nights,
when the wind
sits and traffic
thins, I think
I see the glow
from their tiny
flickering
screens, hear
them chuckling
to themselves,
and I lie there ...
awake, wondering.
© 1998

Today's word: chuckling

Butterflies

So many times, it seems, poems simply come to me of their own accord. I think of them as gifts.

They are definitely gifts to me ... and I'm glad when I can share them with others.

When this one came to me, it was speaking of those poems ... and notes ... random jottings ... scribblings ... items on their way to becoming poems ... all of which I will leave behind ... as someday I must.

I don't dwell on that a lot, but the thought intrigues me ... particularly the idea of these little poems ... or the notes written on scraps of paper ... thoughts which never quite made it into poetry ... being able to flit around, like butterflies released ...

I like that mental picture.

And now, the poem:

BUTTERFLIES

Someday they'll find
these little things
I tried to write,
things that might have
become poems, had I been
able to find the words
I needed for the beauty,
the sorrow, the pain,
the joy of what they
really were. Had I just
found the words.

I hope they will turn
them loose, let them
fly like the butterflies
I always supposed them
to be, free to find
a flower, another, and
ever another, across
the sunlit valleys
of thoughtful minds.
© 1998
(originally published in PKA's Advocate)


Today's word: sunlit

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

A double thank-you to hannahthemaid ... and to This and That ... for dropping by and leaving those electronic pats on the back. And now, like a butterfly, I must be off to the next flower -- er, poem.

Autumn Dreams

There's something so soothing about the music of rain. It cradles us as we drift between sleep and that which becomes reality.

It wasn't raining this morning as I stirred, turned my pillow cool side up, and went drifting off again, but I thought about the coolness of that pillow, later, while I was shaving, thought about the sound of rain ... and about this poem.

So here it is again:

AUTUMN DREAMS

Softly, the rain
descends, puddling
in the darkly
glistening street,
pausing to quench
the thirsting roof
before dripping,
a muffled sighing,
to the ground.

Wind chimes stir,
and the cows
are suddenly home,
winding along
that narrow path
where the sun
lately streamed.

I stir, savoring
quilted warmth,
softness of pillow,
go drifting off
again like a puff
of milkweed.
© 2000
(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)

Today's word: puddling