The Milk-Soft Call

Usually, when I'm engaged in conversation ... or just sitting quietly with my own thoughts ... the words come together, clickety-clack ... well, usually with these pauses which have been a lifelong presence in my speech pattern ... but, otherwise, with virtually no effort at all.


But there are times that it takes some searching.


Like the time that I became acutely aware of a dove's call. Oh, I had heard doves many times before, had savored the softness of their calls. 


But this time, for some reason ... or perhaps no reason at all ... I wanted to find the words to describe what it was really like.

I remember searching ... for the precise words ... the ones which would help me to preserve that particular moment ... words which would help me to "say the unsayable" ... about that distinct sound floating to my ears ... carrying a certain air of mystery about it.


It's so unlike other bird calls, so soothing, so ... well, so milk-soft.


That's it! I decided that's the term I've been looking for, and I walked on into the woods, hoping I would remember to try putting it in a poem someday.


The result:



THE MILK-SOFT CALL

I pause where
tall swaying trees
verge the meadow,
billowing their
thick green
clouds of leaves,
for a stirring
liquid breeze
has carried to me
the milk-soft call
of a dove,
and I am seized
for that moment
in an amber block
of tranquility.
© 1997
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: tranquility

It's Only Darkness

Sometimes I think it's best just to let the poem speak for itself. This is one of those times ... although I'm tempted to say something about so-called Daylight Saving Time ...

I always have a comment or two ... mainly to myself ... as I make the rounds ... twice a year ... setting the clocks back ... or forward ... and back ... then forward ... no, back ...

My usual thought is ... why do we have to fiddle with the clocks? 

Why can't we just adjust our work schedules ... a work schedule for the summer months ... another for the rest of the year?

I usually end up commenting ... to myself ... that so-called Daylight Saving Time is all just a ruse to provide farmers with more time to play golf in the afternoons.

Don't get me wrong ... I'm all for saving energy ... especially when it's costing us all an arm and a leg ... like it is these days ... 

But I'm not going there today ... because ... well, actually, the poem isn't about Daylight Saving Time ...

The poem:

IT'S ONLY DARKNESS

There's such an absence
of light this morning,
it's like scaling a wall
of darkness as I rise
slowly on familiar stairs.

My feet seek supporting
places, my hand searches
for a railing I know
is there, but still hiding
from my straining eyes.

I’m a child again, bad dreams
still haunting me while my
sleep-numbed brain struggles
to convince me there’s nothing
to fear: It’s only darkness.

My hand reaches for a hand
no longer there and I pause,
listening, waiting, almost
expecting a touch, a word
to guide me in my climb.

© 2003

(originally published in ICON)

Today's word: darkness

Hot Pursuit

OK, so I couldn't stand the suspense. 

I wanted to take a picture of my funny hat. I didn't want a straight-on shot, but a profile, which would really show off the hat, since it was the primary subject. 

So I set the timer, put the camera on a shelf, posed and waited ... and waited ... and waited. 

I was so sure the camera had snapped the picture without my hearing anything, so I stole a look -- at just the wrong moment! 

The result: a blurred photo of myself with two noses. Serves me right. 

Bottom line: I hate to throw anything away, so I kept the photo, eventually put it together with this little poem which seems the perfect match for it:

HOT PURSUIT

I go tramping
the echoing stairs
of this old house,
pursuing things
forgotten here,
remembered there,
getting exercise
enough for two.

© 1996

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: tramping

Fickle Petunias

(I know, these definitely aren't petunias ... but that's another story ... so let's just consider them stunt doubles ... and I hope you won't mind)


There's something about walking ... that steady rhythm ... the relative quiet ... the way thoughts float in and out ... nothing in particular ... just random thoughts ...

One of my favorite walking routes ... even in dry years ... is blessed with flowers.

It's obvious that the owners ... give a lot of thought to the flowers' gift of color ... that they tend them carefully ... and they enjoy sharing the beauty of flowers with others.

This poem is an outgrowth of some of those flowers.

Actually, I only became casually aware of this particular clump of blossoms ... my thoughts were wandering ... and then it seemed that the blossoms were actually nodding at me ... as if in greeting.

I thought about that ... thought about it some more ... and when I got back home, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote this little whimsical piece:

FICKLE PETUNIAS

I have a nodding
acquaintance
with some petunias
who bob excitedly
when I walk by,
but then they
do the same when
a stranger passes.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: excitedly

Cool Hat

I know, I should throw it away ... at the very least, not wear it in public.

But I can't bear to give it up. It's my hat. We've been together so long, through so many things. It's like a part of me. And there it sits, "like a cabbage leaf on my head."

The poem began, as many poems do, while I was out walking, this time with Phyllis.

Actually, we encountered two young girls, strolling in the opposite direction. Strangers, but I probably smiled and spoke to them.

One of them smiled and said something in reply, but I didn't catch what it was.

After we had walked far enough that I thought we were out of earshot of the two, I asked Phyllis: "What did she say?"

"Cool hat," she replied.

"Cool hat?"

"That's right. Cool hat," she assured me.

That's when I had the impulse to toss my hat in the air and do a few dance steps right there. Who says I'm not in touch with the younger generation?

Today's poem, part of a manuscript in search of a publisher:

COOL HAT

It has been
wind-stripped,
limb-grabbed,
lost and found,
rumpled, crumpled,
laundered until
it cries for mercy,
and it sits like
a cabbage leaf
on my head.

But then she,
a young girl about
half my height,
flashes a smile,
says, "Cool hat!"
and for a moment,
just a heartbeat,
a quickened stride,
I feel like
tossing my hat
in the air
and dancing.

 © 1999

(orignally published in Capper's)

Today's word: heartbeat

Beyond the Words

Regular visitors to "Chosen Words" know that I often discuss ... in far too much detail, I'm afraid ... a particular poem's origins ... what it was that prompted me to write a particular piece in a particular way.

That can be interesting sometimes ... and even helpful to the reader.

But I frequently overdo it. I hope to avoid that today by simply presenting the poem. 

Oh, if it happens to resonate in a certain way with you ... if it takes on a special meaning as you read it ... I'd certainly be glad to hear about that.

It's sometimes helpful to know what the readers feel I've said, rather than ... or in addition to ... what I think I've said.

Meanwhile:

BEYOND THE WORDS

I was born hungry for words
that tempted me like popcorn
on a string, rested lightly,
melted sweetly on my tongue.

I grubbed them out, devoured
them, savored their aftertaste,
grew in vision as their images
nourished and sustained me.

Now, lulled by the puffed up,
empty words I'm fed each day,
I sleep fitfully, wake up starved,
not for words, but for meaning.

© 2005

(published in the November, 2005, issue of Poem)

Today's word: hungry

Air Like Fog

I'll always remember those bluffs, those canyons they embraced, the cool air on the trails, the kind of quiet that is only found in the woods.

Giant City State Park, located in the hills of Southern Illinois, seemed an almost magical place to go when I was a child. 

Alas, I understand that time has taken its toll on the bluffs, and the trails simply are no more. 

But what a treat it was then to trudge those trails, imagining all the others who had walked there before, when it was all wilderness.

As a child I relished family outings there, especially those which extended into the evening, when we'd sit around, watching the crackling flames dancing in a fireplace in one of the shelters, listening to the adults trading stories, hoping to catch some of the night sounds of the woods, too.

Later, I took my own young family there to camp, to go tramping down the same trails I had explored, to let them feast on the same sights and sounds I had enjoyed.

In more recent years, when there were just the two of us on trips back to the place where I grew up, we always managed at least a drive through the park. 

Those drives rekindled so many memories ... so many ...

This poem, which embodies some of those memories, is part of my first collection, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press:

AIR LIKE FOG

Morning air clings to me like fog
as I enter the deep, cool canyons
that thread the water-rounded bluffs,

where I pause for a moment to look
about, to drink an ancient silence
that flows and deepens while lichens

struggle up the pocked, towering walls,
up, up toward a swallow's nest, high
where clinging ferns await the random

blessings of summer shade and transient
yellow light; then I notice soft-edged
flecks of light dancing on the trail

where others must have stood watching,
where they may have heard, as I do now,
a crow, distant, calling them by name.

© 2005

Today's word: crackling