The Ashes Are Still Hot

(Today's photo was taken aboard a bus. Where we were, or where we were headed, I don't recall ... but I liked the sky, was glad I captured it ... and never let it go)

Today's poem brings a renewal of a frightening childhood memory.

I couldn't have been very old when this incident occurred, but the memory of it is still vivid. 

The fire seemed to spring up suddenly along the railroad, the flames were threatening our house ... we had no running water, no telephone ... no fire department, as a matter of fact.

We stood and watched in horror. Then, suddenly, the fire seemed to veer away. It was over. We had survived.

The poem:

THE ASHES ARE STILL HOT

When a white-hot summer sun
hangs high in a cloudless sky,
when it must be thought
there can be no more burning

in this poor punished land,
there comes the crackling,
leaping, lurching dance
of the very flames of hell,

consuming sere weak willows
along the thirsting creek,
leaping to fence-line elms,
sending their leaves towering

like swarms of angry hornets,
smoke and fire entwining
in an eerie, deadly spiral
from which rain the hot seeds

of more on our shingled house.
We stand there in the garden,
my grandmother praying, and I,
a child of only four, crying.

Wind, born of the fire itself,
where there has been no wind
for long, dry, dragging days,
snatches up the pitching flames,

takes them away from the house.
My grandmother sees a miracle,
but to me it’s a nightmare, for,
see, the ashes are still hot.

 © 1997

(originally published in Block's Magazine)

Today's word: towering

Antidote

I don't know how many nights I had tossed and turned. Let's just say there were a lot of them.

So many times, during those restless nights, I would think of something that seemed to be the start of a poem, perhaps ... or a bit of fiction ... something I might do something with, if only I could remember it the next morning.

I never could. The next morning? Gone ... the slate wiped clean ... not a trace of that "great idea" which had nagged me so much the night before.

Aha! The solution? That's explained in the poem.

But it didn't solve the problem I expected it to ... far from it.

You'll have to read on to discover what problem was solved:

ANTIDOTE

All those nights
of tossing, turning,
I lay awake wishing
I had pad and pencil
to preserve thoughts
dancing fleetingly
across the ballroom
of my frazzled mind.
When finally one night
I remembered to place
these vital tools
within arm's length,
I went smugly to bed.
And slept like a log.

© 1997

(originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal)

Today's word: fleetingly

An Iowa Night

Time flies.

It seems such a short time ago that I was there in Iowa, participating in that study ... but it was actually many years ago ...

We had come from all parts of the country that summer, people from various professions, gathering at the University of Iowa for an intensive study of biography.

I was one of the participants in that National Endowment for the Humanities seminar. I had looked forward to it as a means of escaping, if only briefly, a work situation with constantly demanding deadlines.

What could be better than to get far, far away from that, to focus on something entirely different?

Deadlines? Oh, we had those in the seminar ... every day. We had a mountain of reading material to cover, to digest, to discuss. It was definitely not playtime.

But it was valuable ... when I returned to work, and all these years later. It helped to steer me in the direction of more writing and, eventually, into what I'm still doing today, exploring the avenues of poetry and a bit of art.

Today's poem recalls one particular evening when we were invited out to the rural home of our seminar moderator.

I recall our standing on the porch ... but let's let the poem tell it:

AN IOWA NIGHT

Day's work done, we
gathered on a farm porch,
watching the lush, dark
corn trembling toward us
as rain slid
through the dusk.

No towering buildings
muffled the crumpling
thunder, no traffic
softened the sound
of plump drops spattering
thirsting shingles.

It was the velvet edge
of an Iowa night.

I have bridged back
to it many times, seeking
those faces, wondering
what happened next,
what the others became,
where they are now.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review; also included in my first collection of poems, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press in 2003)

Today's word: wondering

My Sunday Stroll

Veteran visitors to "Chosen Words" ... those with long memories, at least ... may recall having seen today's poem before.

When it was first posted here, I began with and apology: Sorry I'm late.

And I continued:

It's sometimes hard to tell, precisely, when or how "late" begins.

I think maybe it began Sunday afternoon ... and, mind you, I'm not placing any blame ... oh, no ... I'm just trying to set, in my own mind, when the wheels of progress started slipping. In my case, that may have been years ago ... but that's another story ...

Phyllis and I had planned to arrive early Sunday afternoon in the vicinity of the Dayton Metro Library, where we were going to see a short film, "Miami Valley's Favorite Poems," which features local residents reading and discussing their favorite poems.

Then ... oh, then ... we were going to listen to others reading and sharing ... in person. What an afternoon it promised to be!

We did, in fact, arrive early ... but not early enough. We headed to our favorite parking area, only to find the last ... the very last ... parking place being claimed.

No problem ... we assumed that this meant a large crowd for the poetry program ... and that's always good news. Besides, we knew of other parking spots in the neighborhood.

We simply wheeled out of there and drove on ... and on ... and on.

Four blocks later, we found a spot.

As we walked toward the library, it became increasingly clear that the crowd had not gathered for the poetry program, but for a ball game ... at a magnificent stadium ... which has inadequate parking ... but that's another story, too.

We didn't mind the stroll ... we like walking ... but it did remind me of one of my poems (somewhere below).

I don't know about the ball game, but the poetry program was great. I enjoyed all of the readings in the movie, but I was particularly moved by the reading given to Paul Laurence Dunbar's poem, "We Wear the Mask."

Oh, and I enjoyed the readings afterward, too ... particularly one which was done from memory (I always admire and envy people who can do that). There were some who told us they were reading before an audience for the first time ... but they seemed to have the butterflies under control ... and their readings were great, just great.

Naturally, I jumped at the chance to share a couple of my poems ... I do that whenever I see a light in a window, or a door slightly ajar. I barge right in ... but, never fear, I usually knock ... softly ... before barging in.

I shared a new one, "My Sister, Tonto," and a couple of oldies, "Hollyhocks," and "Chance of Rain" ... that last, careful readers will note, is the title poem (my lucky poem, I call it) of my first collection (Finishing Line Press, 2003).

On the way back to the car, while I was thinking about the music of all that poetry we had heard ... I couldn't help thinking about that baseball crowd, too ... and what they had missed ... really, really missed.

And now, that poem about another stroll:

MY SUNDAY STROLL

How brave the dogs
crashing into the fence,
bark-bark-barking
at me on the other side.

Are they afraid I'll jump
the barrier (at my age)
and attack them?
Does the fence make them

brave, as brave as I am?
Only inches from
flashing, pointed teeth,
agitated, syncopated paws,

those raging eyes, rising
hackles, I stroll serenely
past as superior as a cat,
knowing that the fence

will corner abruptly and they
must stop, game over,
while I, clearly the winner,
hear only the cheering
crowd as I quit the field.

© 1998

(originally published in Moose Bound Press)

Today's word: serenely

Accepting Change

I don't know where I'd be, if I hadn't accepted change ... a lot of change ... make that changes ... along the way.

I can remember when television was just an idea ... something far, far down the road. 

Likewise the idea of sitting at a keyboard (I'd done that, thank you very much) ... but with the typed words appearing on a screen, much like a TV screen, in front of the writer.

Yeah, sure. I could accept the concept, but had serious doubts about ever witnessing such a thing in my lifetime.

And here I am, sitting at a keyboard, watching as the letters turn into words and the cursor keeps crawling across the screen.

Oh, and the idea of someone ... a human being ... actually ever setting foot on the moon. 

I came to accept that as reality, too.

I've even learned to accept some of the fashions I've seen over the years ... not for me, though ... but for others. 

But I think it's the smaller things ... smaller,  personal things ... and I won't go into detail here ... except to say that they involve habits, like hanging onto old magazines long after I've finished reading them ... or picking up a pencil or a crayon someone has lost near a school ... things like that ... habits that I simply find hard to give up.

Oh, and yes, the other day, as I finally discarded a watercolor brush which had worn out eons ago, it occurred to me that perhaps I should get some sworn statements from witnesses. 

How else was I to convince Phyllis that I had thrown something ... anything ... away?

And I guess we might as well include my inclination to say I won't go into detail ... and then unleash an avalanche of detail. I find it hard to break that habit, too.

I guess you get the idea. I find it hard to accept change ... in certain areas.

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

Always a Dad

Marie (not her real name) was telling some of her co-workers about her recent visit of a few days with her father.

Her account was interrupted, though, as she recalled one particular detail of that first evening back home ... in Detroit, I believe it was ... and burst out laughing.

This poem, written well after the fact, tells the story, I think:

ALWAYS A DAD

Marie, a young exec,
on the first evening
of a few days' visit
with her father,

dined out with a trio
of school-day friends.
Opening the door softly
well after midnight,

she found her father
dozing in his chair,
yesterday's newspaper
asleep on his lap,

just like the old days
of curfew and concern.
She gently scolded him
for waiting up for her.

Saying he really hadn't,
he struggled to his feet
and silently received
an understanding hug.
© 1996
(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)
Today's word: dozing

My Three Loves

I think a love poem might be in order today ... this one  mainly about my eighth-grade teacher, who stirred an abiding interest in reading in me.

But it's also about the librarian I met at another time, in another town, as a result of my interest in reading.

That librarian and I are still sharing a mutual interest in reading, and she is the one who listens patiently to the things I've written.

But, getting back to the main thread of the poem: I was so glad when I was able to visit my former teacher, Miss Pearl, a few years ago, to thank her for imparting her love for reading ... and to introduce her to that librarian, my wife, Phyllis.

The poem:

MY THREE LOVES

Could Miss Pearl have known

that her own love of reading

would so transform the life

of a hungering eighth grader

whom her gentle, healing voice

touched with daily readings?

Fragile fingers softly turning

the pages of her beloved books,

she made visions of mere words,

openings to worlds where people

could dream, hope, and achieve.

These, she told us, were worlds

where we, too, might go, in fact,

belonged. Did she know, or did she

merely dream the teacher's dream

that the tiny seeds might endure,

take root, flower? Did she know

that her devoted love of reading

would become my own, eventually

leading me to that certain library

where I would find you? How else

could she have sustained herself

through those despairing years?

Questions still seek answers,

but of this I'm sure: Her gift,

so freely given, became more dear

than I, or even she, ever dreamed.

© 2001

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: sustained