Strawberry Wine

Barely a watercolor sketch ... one of many I've done while on my daily walks, exploring the countryside, avoiding the confines of closed spaces, when weather permits ... but I just thought I'd share it today.

Today's poem is about lunar eclipse. 

I think it's about other things, too: It's a love poem, a poem about the exhilaration, if not intoxication, that comes from quietly, thoughtfully observing nature.

That's what I thought when the poem came to me after watching a lunar eclipse with Phyllis.

 
Those moments on that winter night brought back so many memories for me, principally the red of all those strawberries against all that green of the fields. 

It reminded me of the strawberry wine I once saw as a child. It reminded me of so many things.

I had faith in that little poem. I had faith in it when I presented it at a workshop, where the moderator dismissed it with the comment that "the writer was obviously drunk on words when he wrote this."

I couldn't help thinking that he had given it a rather superficial reading. 

But he was partly right. I was "drunk on words." I still am ... in the sense of enjoying that elation which comes from having listened carefully to the words coming to me, then having written them equally as carefully on the page. 

I maintained my faith in this little poem, and I am so glad I didn't give up on it. 

Now it has been published in the noted literary journal, Plainsongs. It is also the title poem of a 64-poem collection looking for a publisher.

And now, here it is:

Strawberry Wine ...

We stood gazing through the tangle

of dark branches suddenly still,
holding the moon in a vast silence,

watching, as others must have done
eons ago, wondering at this sight,
this transfiguration taking place

as the silvered moon glided slowly
into the shadow of a frozen earth,
going golden, pink, then deepening

red of strawberry wine translucent
in the glass, bearing the aroma
of fields snowed over with blossoms

and redolent of ripeness, that fruit
hiding in the quivering green leaves,
the sun bearing down, and now this,

this sweetness of witnessing a most
ancient of miracles, going to bed
with the distinctive taste of it

on our tongues, the scent of it
lingering on our measured breaths,
sleeping heavily, as though drugged.
© 2005 

(published in the Fall, 2005 issue of Plainsongs; received a special honorable mention in a ByLine contest; now the title poem of a manuscript in search of a publisher)


Today's word: redolent

Shovel? Maybe Later

(One of the many photos I've taken during my walks here and there ... a scene you might see, if you happen along in the right season and look out a door in one of the tunnels at Wright State University) 

Sometimes, it seems, I have this thing about "going against the season."

A couple of times a year it happens ... in summer ... and winter. Spring and fall? Hardly ever.

What do I do? Oh, when we're sizzling in summer temperatures, I like to think about those cool ... er, cold ... days and nights of winter.

And in the winter, of course, when I'm freezing, I keep my mittens on ... and try writing something about summer.

Perhaps I should have my mittens on right now ... though I've found that to be something of a hindrance, when it comes to typing.

Oh, I know, recent conditions haven't really been that bad ... temperature-wise. But it's coming. I know it is. In the past, I would already have given some thought to locating the snow shovel, so when it does happen ... 

But somebody else does the shoveling where we live now, thank goodness.

And our shy little car ... I can tell ... is beginning to think about those icy, slushy, slippery-dippery streets, too ... but it's thankful, too, that it no longer is confronted by that steep driveway ...  

Meanwhile, here's a quick look back:

SHOVEL? MAYBE LATER

From door to street
Isn't all that far,
But with a sleet-
And snow-bound car
Stuck in the drive,
I might just as well
Take another five
And snooze a spell.

© 1995

(originally published in Mature Living)

Today's word: later

My Window

I write a lot about writing. Don't get me wrong ... I'm no expert. 

I am intrigued by the process, the way ideas come creeping up, the shape-shifting of words and phrases, the way poems are born.

I write essentially for myself, expressing my feelings, my thoughts, my dreams, in the hope that I might understand them better.

Still, much of the process remains a mystery to me. I am intrigued, entranced sometimes, by that process.

And I share. What I've written is always shared with Phyllis, who has sat through so many first readings, who has given me so much encouragement, that I shall never be able to repay her.

I share some of what I've written with poetry groups.

I share when I give public readings.

I share by way of this journal. I share when an editor discovers something I've written, likes it, publishes it.

Oh, I share.

And I depend on the listener or reader to share reactions with me. I really do. I value these reactions, because they provide a measure of whether I have truly hit the mark with what I have written.

They tell me much about what I have written, of course, but their reactions also tell me something about the listener or reader ... the poem becomes that window through which we view each other.

Thank you for looking in while I continue looking out.

The poem:

MY WINDOW

The pristine page
is a window
through which
I view the world
with my imperfect
vision, attempting
to make sense
of what I see,
while the world,
at least a small
portion of it,
stares back, trying,
equally, to see
what’s up with me.

© 2000

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)

Today's word: pristine

The Mouse

(Just another of my randomly-shot photos ... I think I was impressed by the play of light against the clouds, the contrast with the landscape below)

What I started out to talk about was today's poem, based, as are most of mine, on the material at hand ... you know, tangible stuff ... things I understand ... at least sorta ...

Now that I think about it, though, it seems that this particular poem kind of tells its own story, so here goes: 

THE MOUSE

I slept serenely one blustery night

while a timorous sweet-toothed mouse

stole into my house, chewed a jagged

hole in the right-hand pocket of my

old blue robe and took a foil-wrapped

chocolate by surprise.

Discovering the theft, I, Superior

Creature I, smiled at such waste

when my poor pocket was open

all the time.

But who has dined on prized chocolate?

And who stands here holding crumpled

foil while a finger waggles foolishly

from a hole?

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: timorous

Glimpse

Just as distance changes the perspective of things in the physical world, so does it change the perspective we have on events of long ago.

It's been a long time since I "lived in the country." By today's standards, it was a rather restricted life. We had no running water, no indoor plumbing, no central heat, no telephone, no car.

Ah, but there are other things I remember about life back then, and I still savor them. Actually, their flavor seems to improve ... like warmed over soup ... each time I bring up those memories.

Perhaps I've overdone it a bit with my talk about "that bit of heaven so far beyond the grasp of cities, and all their suburbs ... " but perhaps not.

The poem:

GLIMPSE

Those who have never been
lulled by a country breeze,
savored the scent of hay
lying in the sun, caught
the sweet, wafting hint
of honeysuckle, who have
never heard the raucous call
of a crow gentled, distanced
by the summer air, well,
they've never glimpsed that
bit of heaven so far beyond
the grasp of cities, and all
their suburbs still to come.

© 2000

(originally published in PKA's Advocate)
Today's word: grasp

Autumn Rain

Thunderstorms were frightening to a youngster growing up in rural Southern Illinois.

They seemed so packed with fury, so unpredictable as they lashed out, leaving so much damage in their wake.

But rain, particularly a gentle rain at night, was a different matter.

I learned to listen to its comforting cadence against the windows or on the roof, to hear the music it contained.

Sometimes it was like a whisper. Sometimes a Saturday night hoedown.

But it was my kind of music. I loved going to sleep to it ... waking up to it ... or just lying there listening to it.

We forget, sometimes, what a gentle, soothing, healing sound rain can make, especially as harsh summer days begin slowly surrendering to the cooler days and cooler nights of autumn.

This poem is about that kind of rain. It was originally published in Capper's, then in my first collection, Chance of Rain, issued by Finishing Line Press, 2003:

AUTUMN RAIN

Struggling awake
to the sound
of trees scratching
at my green roof,
I see their limbs
swaying against
rolling clouds.

Dancing lightning,
slanting drops,
steady drone
of falling water;
trees, docile now,
guiding droplets
to thirsting soil,
I turn my pillow
cool side up,
go drifting off
in this cradling
sea of sound.

 © 2003

Today's word: hoedown

All Those Trees

Memory ... how important it is ... not just so we can find things we seem to have hidden from ourselves only minutes before ... but for preserving events along the way ... to be savored later.

They may not be vitally important ... or important at all, in their own right ... but I'm convinced that they do have a role to play.

I enjoy recalling pleasant events ... or even just enjoyable moments ... especially when all the world seems to be working against me.

I guard against "living in the past," of course ... an impossible task, but also an activity that can have disappointing, if not disastrous, results.

I am pleased, however, when I see someone I haven't seen for a while ... and I remember their name. 

I am doubly pleased when I can remember where I put something. Memory ... memories ... so important to all of us, I think.

Today's poem owes much to the memories associated with a day trip taken with a group of "senior citizens."

Phyllis and I had sort of wandered off from the group ... intentionally, mind you ... I like to do that sometimes ... simply to enjoy a bit of quiet, to stretch my legs, to view the scene from a different angle.

But let's let the poem tell the story:

ALL THOSE TREES

We'd grown tired of winding

along with the other tourists

through the aromatic rows

upon rows of captive plants,

felt our own tendrils tugging

gently toward a nearby hill.

We had paused half-way up

when there was a sudden

flutter of excited footsteps,

the clatter of young laughter,

and we were swiftly engulfed

by a surging flood of children

racing tree-to-tree, so intent

on their game they didn't see

us standing there, recalling

a game we had played so like

theirs, savoring the memories,

and now, loving all those trees.

© 2001

(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)

Today's word: aromatic