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 an 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

Let Them Try

Another poem about writing, the concentration it demands ... and the distractions which intrude, especially if the writing is being done in an attic room -- er, studio -- and the squirrels are playing games overhead.

Before we had our maple trimmed, our roof seemed to be a favorite gathering spot for those rascals.

It sounded like they were having squirrel conventions up there, or the Squirrel Olympics, maybe even doing some line dancing, although I couldn't hear the music, just those little feet, back and forth, back and forth ... back and forth ...

Oh, there were moments of quiet ... I suppose while they were choosing up sides again ... plotting their next moves. During these suspenseful moments I could get a few words written. Then the commotion resumed.

As I recall, my first draft, instead of talking about "teeny-tiny feet," said something about "obnoxious little feet," but I mellowed a bit after that.

In the quiet that followed the trimming of those overhanging limbs, I guess mellowing was to be expected.

Oh, and I purposely kept the lines short ... in order to underscore the tension of writing under such pressure.

The poem:

LET THEM TRY

Squirrels go
trickling across
my green roof
while I write,
trying to break
my concentration.

Hah! Let them
try. I am so
focused not even
booming thunder
could faze me;
certainly not
this constant
pitter-patter,
pitter-patter,
pitter-patter,
pit of their
teeny-tiny feet.

© 2001

(originally published in St. Anthony Messenger)

Today's word: pitter-patter

Hard Times

Not all of my poems are about sunsets, the beauty of cobblestone clouds, the wafting scent of roses. Life has a gritty side, too, and some of my poems reflect that.

This encounter came a long time ago at a bus stop, a favorite trolling spot for panhandlers. 


There was a time when I would almost automatically hand over a bit of change. I could remember tough times, too.


But I had grown tired of being hit up day after day. My initial response was not very charitable, I know, but I relented. I imagine there's a lesson in there someplace, perhaps having something to do with the poor sparrows of this world.


The poem appeared in Pebble Lake Review's Fall/Winter issue of 2005, and now is part of a manuscript (Strawberry Wine) in search of a publisher.

And here it is:

HARD TIMES

Suddenly he's in my face,
dirty, wind-blown, muttering, 

Spare a quarter? Refusing to let
his question assault me,

I turn away. Then back. My own
No, can you? comes spilling out

like a shot, freezing us there
in the snow-blasted morning

until finally his uncertain
chuckle descends into breath-

stealing, chest-stabbing coughs
and I fish deep in the warmth

of a pocket for a quarter,
hand it over, stand watching

as he moves away, this poor,
tattered sparrow with his crumb.
© 2006

Today's word: tattered

The Embrace of Sound

(One of my photographs, symbolizing nothing in particular - "mere interlude")

Another bit of ancient history.

The scene: Phyllis was called out of town because of an illness in her family. I was alone in "Brimm Manor" ... totally in charge, preparing the meals, doing the dishes ... all alone.

This may help in understanding the origin of the poem ... what started the wheels to turning, to bring the poem into being ... but really isn't essential to the poem itself. 

I'm speaking in a general way about the absence of familiar sounds, and what effect that absence can have on the individual.

The poem is also witness to the fact that poetry needn't always be a light, "happy song" rendition. Poetry can, and does, roam the range of human emotions.

I like the way this one came together, the way the silence symbolizes the loneliness which is at the core of it.

But I also like the happy ending, or at least the prospect of a happy ending in "embrace of our voices" ... and that last line: "preparation for a next great leap."

The poem:

THE EMBRACE OF SOUND

I endure the silence, knowing
it will end with a teakettle's
shrilling, the dog's ticking
toward water waiting to be lapped,
the phone's late-night ringing,
embrace of our voices, for this
is mere interlude, this intaking
of breath, this hunkering down,
preparation for a next great leap.

 

© 2001

 

(originally published in Potpourri)

Today's word: ticking

Departure

Today's poem is not literally true. If it were, it would be about the heat of summer ... like Southern Illinois was when I left home to go into military service.

I've looked back many times on that departure.

I had won a scholarship to study at a Big Ten university. Trouble was, it didn't include bus fare ... and I didn't have any way to get there.

Oh, I had been assured, in a form letter, that there would be part-time employment opportunities ... when I got to campus ... but I never got there ... not to that particular campus, at least.

Instead, I let the scholarship go to someone else ... and entered the only door open to me at the time ... military service.

It was certainly a turning point in my life, a new beginning. It was the biggest move I'd made in my young life. There were to be others. Many others. But none quite as wrenching as this decision ... which had been forced on me.

What I've tried to capture in this metaphor for growing up ... for that entry into what passes for independence ... is the feeling of loneliness that creeps in, the sudden sensation of isolation, the cold, of looking back, being torn between what was ... what is going to be.

The poem:

DEPARTURE

I looked back once,
seeing lights
grown small now,
and dim, silently
giving up their warmth
to the bare-limbed trees.

I kept walking

through the weeping snow,

my collar upturned

against any call

that might somehow

overtake me.

© 1995

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

Today's word: loneliness

Conversations

Today's poem is about those spring-time "conversations" which seem to go on so furiously around ponds. Frogs! There seem to be hundreds ... maybe thousands ... of them, all adding their voices to the din.

I remember them well from the place where I grew up ... they seemed to be in especially good voice at night ... somehow conveying a certain kind of "all's well" to the listener.

But, feeling my way back through the fog of memory, I don't think I heard them last year. Maybe I just wasn't in the right place at the right time.

Could it be that I haven't been listening? Or that I've simply ... well, forgotten?

Meanwhile, today's poem:

CONVERSATIONS

How vexing to hear
the voices of those
I could not see
abruptly going silent,
like the gabble of pupils
halting in the presence
of a new teacher.

Then, after I'd passed,
renewed murmur of gossip
growing rumor-upon-rumor,
going mouth-to-ear, flying
too swiftly to follow,
too dense to filter
into any semblance
of real meaning.

If I dared step too near,
I heard sounds like stones
plopping into water,
new silence ascending,
a sense of being watched
by large, careful eyes
judging me from the depths
of a green-coated pond.

© 1997

(originally published in M.O.O.N. Magazine)

Today's word: gabble

Already Pocketed

"Writer's block"? I'm not sure it exists.

Oh, there are times when the ideas flow with the slowness of cold molasses ... there are times when the well seems to have gone completely dry ... but usually not for long.

I always carry a scrap of paper and a pen or pencil, just in case.

Then there are times when the thoughts come gushing forth ... and I wish I had my handy-dandy pocket recorder with me, so I could capture them in the midst of the heavy traffic that I'm trying to pick my way through.

Thoughts ... writing-related ideas ... are, indeed, fleeting ... and the intervals between them can seem to be endless ... but "writer's block"?

I don't really think there is such a thing ... and I hope I'm right.

I hope I can keep riding down this seemingly never-ending trail ... writing and sharing ... until ... well, until the very end.

And now, today's poem:

ALREADY POCKETED

Sometimes,
when I search
the rock pile
of my mind
for new ideas
to grind
and polish,
my hand goes
to a pocket
where one lies
already shaped
and shined,
just waiting
for a setting
worthy of it.

 © 2000

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: pocketed