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

There's Fire Tonight

Today's poem is about picking up coal from alongside the railroad tracks. It's about the crackling fire those found lumps of coal brought to us during what we knew then, and recall now, as "hard times."

It was an adventure for a young boy growing up in the care of his grandparents. It was a lesson never forgotten.

But the careful reader will also note that it's a poem about writing. Take a look at the opening: "Words." Hold on to it as you follow the thread of the poem.

I do feel that words are, indeed, like those lumps we thrust into that burlap bag. They have the potential for heat, if we lay them carefully in the stove ... and ignite them with our own inspiration ... fan them into flame.

They will bring us comfort on long winter nights. They will warm our hands ... maybe our hearts, too.

This one was originally published in Southern Humanities Review, and has become the title poem of a manuscript in search of publisher:

THERE'S FIRE TONIGHT

Words, how like
the lumps of coal
Grandma and I found
along the tracks
where hopper cars,
lurching, loping
up the long grade
toward Cobden,
had dropped them,
each a gift
in our dirty hands,
holding promise,
as they were thrust
into the burlap bag,
of shared warmth,
soft, crackling song,
sooty smoke rising,
telling our world
there's fire tonight,
all's well.© 1997
Today's word: lurching

Sunflowers

(No, they aren't sunflowers, but I liked the color, the patterns, when I took the photo ... and just now when I was searching for something to go with today's posting)

I remember tooling along the highway somewhere in the Midwest.

The sun was shining, the landscape a quilt of varying shades of green, a sprinkling of houses and farm buildings.

Then suddenly ... it seemed sudden at the time ... I became aware of those acres of sunflowers "staring" at me. 

I was reminded of a classroom, not as a teacher, for I was never privileged to have that role, but as a visitor entering quietly, yet becoming, for the moment, the center of attention ... all those young heads turning, those eyes all focused on me, evaluating, questioning.

Oh, how that field of sunflowers reminded me of that moment. And now, this morning ... I'm enjoying the memory of that sun-drenched scene ... and how it set the wheels turning toward another poem.

It goes something like this:

SUNFLOWERS

Great gray ribbon

of road unspooling

steadily beneath me,

then, to my left,

acres of big brown eyes

all intently focused;

first day of school,

teacher's talking.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

                            

Today's word: focused

Seventy-Year Locust

Yes, today's poem is yet another one about writing ... at least writing was what I had in mind when this poem came together.
It was written by a young whippersnapper, contemplating the approach of his seventieth birthday.

Since then he has matured a bit. He's a little more sedate, a little more laid-back, and certainly not the ruler of any tree, although he has received a bit of recognition for his poetry.

He has a first collection of poetry ... Chance of Rain ... on a few book store shelves, and even in some homes ... a second collection ...Hollyhocks ... and a third ... Wood Smoke ...  issued by Finishing Line Press. (Stay tuned; I'm always working on another one)

His song is a little more subdued than it was when today's poem was first written. But if you listen closely you might hear it, not so much a rasping, buzzing sound now ... something more like a soft humming, as though to oneself, or to those nearby.

And I thank you for stopping by for today's poem, originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal:

SEVENTY-YEAR LOCUST
I have lain dormant,
quietly mutating
into my present form,
and now I am
ready to cast off
that ancient husk
of my past,
emerge to my own song,
rasping, buzzing,
insinuating myself
into your consciousness.

I give you fair warning:
I am no June bug
on a string.
I am the real thing,
a rip-snorter
on the wing,
ruler of my tree.

Listen to me.
You can't help
but hear my song.
© 1996 
Today's word: sedate

Reaching Out

I'm not sure where or when this poem actually began. 

Poems sometimes have a way of hanging around ... lurking ... waiting for the right moment ... and then presenting themselves to me.

I think this one had its roots in the time and place where I grew up. We lived on a small piece of land just outside a small farming community, so it was not truly a lonely existence, in the sense of being a stranger among strangers.

We knew everybody ... and I presume everybody knew us. We were among friends.

Still, there were times of loneliness, times when there were no playmates, times when there was nobody to talk to, except my grandparents ... and they were sometimes occupied with their own concerns.

So I think this poem may have been speaking to that time and place, particularly with its reference to the hills ... "my voice flying" ... "someone hearing, answering" ... but I really think it speaks of a hopeful outcome.

We could all use a bit of that.

And now the poem:

REACHING OUT 

Let me stand
in the clear blue
of morning,
sun rising, warming
the waiting hills,
and my voice flying
through the silence,
someone hearing,
answering, more
than an echo,
a kindred spirit.© 1998
(originally published in The Christian Science Monitor)
Today's word: kindred

Paths That Crossed

After I retired from my "regular" job, I began looking for something else to do, something structured, something which would take me outside these walls on a regular basis, something to ease this void in which I found myself.

I found all of that in becoming a "temp," a temporary worker who had a variety of assignments, doing inventory, sorting, filing, things I could do without stress or strain.

Then I found myself assigned to a project which was expected to last a couple of years, maybe more. What a great assignment that was, working with people of a wide range of ages, from a variety of backgrounds, all of us learning the routines, growing, settling in, enjoying this adventure.

Then another door opened, an offer of "early retirement," which I took. But I didn't just walk away. You don't do that with a family of friends. I maintained contact (and it wasn't just for the monthly carry-ins for sharing tons of cake in celebration of birthdays), watched the others continuing their growth, celebrated their successes, shared in their setbacks.

After our latest gathering once again for lunch  I was reminded of the poem I had written ... a rather long time ago, now.

It's an effort to capture some of those feelings,  to preserve some of it for myself, perhaps some for them, too.

PATHS THAT CROSSED

First the warehouse site,
then Newmark and Woodman.
How the paths of lives
came crisscrossing there
with the burgeoning work!

My own path veered away
at the end of '90, but
came back several times
as ever-widening circles
tested the boundaries
of my untethered life.

Now the grass reclaims
my old path, footprints
erased, nothing to mark
my having ever been there.

But I possess evidence.

The landscape of my mind
is alive with these paths,
tracks of those crossing
the path of my own life,
seemingly without design
or plan, yet unerringly.

These stored memories
endure on a gentle slope
teeming with paths strong
where crossings link them,
and likely to cross again.© 1995
Today's word: paths

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