Chosen Words

5:27:34 AM EDT

                                                      

 

There's something about the rhythm of walking ... especially alone, nobody to talk to ... which can set a phrase to coursing repeatedly through your brain. Perhaps it's something you recall from a conversation, or it may simply pop out of the blue.

The more you think about it, the more entrenched it becomes. Then you start hoping it will stay in place until you get back home, or find a curbside bench where you can sit, then commit that persistent phrase to paper.

Sometimes it's a series of phrases, thoughts that are beginning to shape themselves into a poem.

It was at this point in one of my walks, when I found myself in mid-street ... but let's let the poem tell the story. "The Lost Line" was originally published in ByLine.

 

The Lost Line

Walking, engrossed

in the troubling

task of untangling

a difficult line,

I looked up

at mid-street

into the whites

of the eyes of a car.

 

The startled driver

swerved and went on,

as did I, trembling

at the thought

of being cut down,

end-stopped,

in such a way.

 

I left the line

lying there where

I had dropped it,

a broken lanyard,

the possibility

of starting

something big

scared out of it.

 

I doubt that I

can ever reclaim it,

poor frayed thing,

abandoned, lost,

turned to a frazzle

by tires that sing

without ceasing

on Wayne Avenue.

© 1996

 

***

Today's word: lanyard

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7:45:44 AM EDT

 

Today's poem likely began life somewhat larger than the version I'm sharing with you today.

That's not unusual. When a poem ... or what may become a poem ... begins to present itself to me, I often just let the words just go trickling across the page. Sometimes that works. Sometimes not.

In between that kind of beginning, and publication, there is a lot of revision. That usually means tightening. Fewer words. More left to the imagination of the reader.

Does this one work? Well, the editor thought it did ... but I tend to think the reader has the final say on that.

If you've ever watched the sunshine come crawling (swarming?) through a window, the poem may work for you as it did for me. If not, well, ... it may still be food for thought: 

INTERLUDE

See how the sun

comes crawling

through the window,

like hungry bees

on a single sprig

of goldenrod.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

 

***

Today's word: crawling

I'm glad you stopped by, Helen ... and enjoyed the interlude. Hope you had a good session of swimming exercises, too ...  

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7:08:34 AM EDT

 

I was out for my daily walk when I saw those geese rising ... stood watching them ... don't remember if I sat at the next bus stop to put my reactions on paper, or waited till I got home ... but I had a poem in the making, right there on that street.

The poem:

 

HEADING SOUTH

Just beyond the trees

giving up their gaudy

leaves of autumn, five geese

rise slowly, dark against

a mottled sky, heading

generally southward,

seeking those highways

that the wild geese take,

while I stand rooted

where chance has put me.

 

I shall think of them,

wishing vaguely that I had

their gift of flight

as I ride out the storms

of winter, waiting to hear

their honking again,

telling me the season

is breaking, melting into

spring, skein of renewal

linking those who can fly,

those who can only wish.

© 1997

(originally published in Capper's)

 

                               ***

Today's word: renewal

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for stopping by again ... and leaving a comment. I had much the same experience of hearing/seeing the geese when I was a youngster ... witnessing their "bringing spring" when they flew north ... and giving us fair warning that winter was coming, when they headed the other way. Oh, and in my excitement at finding your comment, I hadn't even noticed the spelling of geese. Best wishes.

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7:45:03 AM EDT

 

I know ... I know ... it's too early for snow ... far too early, but this horrible July heat has caused me to think ... at least fleetingly ... about snow.

That, in turn, led me to thoughts of a good deed by my next-door neighbor ... and thus the poem.

My reaction, at the time the described even occurred, went from puzzlement ... to surprise ... to that pleasant feeling you get when somebody does a good turn for you ... and doesn't want, in fact, would refuse, anything in return.

The poem tells that story.

Oh, I suppose my neighbor was grateful for the small favors we did him and his family when they had a house fire shortly after moving in. But he didn't owe us anything for our help, either.

That's what neighbors do for each other.

He was grateful then ... and I was certainly grateful for all that shoveling he was doing for me. I had been waiting out the storm, dreading the task that confronted me.

Then, suddenly, there he was, the good neighbor.

If I were to go ahead with this, I'd probably become preachy ... so, I'll just say that this one was originally published in The Christian Science Monitor:

 

THE GOOD DEED

All day the snow

has come sifting down,

obscuring objects

in our shaken globe,

and I'm standing

staring out the window

when I see the shape

of a person who's

obviously been driven

wild by the storm,

who pauses and turns

into someone I know

... my neighbor,

shoveling my walk.

© 2003

***

Today's word: shoveling

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7:25:18 AM EDT

 

Memories! Where would we be without them?

Oh, how they help us to keep our bearings ... pointing out where we've been ... and sometimes helping us to remain pointed in the direction we should go.

They don't have to be of the greatest moments of our lives. They may even be of moments that could have been easily forgotten.

What, after all, is memorable about folding the laundry? Something obviously was ... and still is ... for me.

I still remember how the sun played across the items hanging from that sagging line ... how the movements of those items reminded me of dancing ... line dancing, I suppose ... long before I knew what line dancing was.

And now, before I wander off in some other direction, the poem:

 

FOLDING THE LAUNDRY

Still warm as though

just sloughed off

the bodies of wearers,

it yields softly

to my hands tonight,

recalling those times

Grandma and I pulled

sweet-smelling armloads

of hand-washed laundry

from a sagging line

in the back yard.

 

I feel the fatigue

again, bare feet

picking their way

among the honeybees,

finding little comfort

as she directed me

to look up, see

the clouds, which,

she insisted,

were somebody else's

laundry left out,

still flapping,

and now, an easing

of my tired back

as that memory

gently enfolds me.

© 1998

(originally published in Riverrun)

***

Today's word: flapping

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7:17:42 AM EDT

         

 

Today's poem was written at a time when I was thinking about my writing ... how I might improve it ... what subject to tackle next ... how to tweak some of the tons of things I've written ... and about how ... someday ... for me ... all this will come to a halt ... 

That can be a gloomy thought, I know ... but I prefer to look at the bright side of the coin, even while knowing, all along, that the coin has another, darker side, too.

Today's poem deals with that other side, but in a way, I hope, that simply looks at reality ... with a dash of hope for the reader ... the knowledge that things will go on, as always.

This morning, though, the poem came to mind as I thought about another bit of silence ... my neglecting to keep up my portion of the conversation with readers ... namely, in "Afterthoughts," where I respond to readers' comments.

I feel it's important to acknowledge these thoughtful entries which readers make ... they've found time in their busy days, after all, to pay me a visit, to read what I've written ... to contribute a statement which often throws new light on what I've said ... which adds to the understanding of what I was trying to say.

I've been neglectful ... other things have intruded ... like my "excused absence" earlier this week ... the rapidly approaching publication date for Wood Smoke, my third collection of poems ... yard chores ... errands ... hunting for things I've lost ... oh, the list goes on an on.

But it always comes back to one thing ... to me ... to the fact that I've neglected to keep up my end of the conversation here.

I am sorry ... really sorry ... about that ... and I'll try to do better.

And I'm starting to work on Monday's installment of "Squiggles and Giggles" ... I really am ... I promise.

Meanwhile, I have been blessed to be able to write, and to be permitted toshare what I havewritten.

As much as the writing itself ... which sometimes comes in pauses and starts, and sometimes with difficulty, but always brings a certain satisfaction when it's finished, awaiting a polishing or two ... I have enjoyed the reactions of readers.

To say that I have basked in their comments is a vast understatement.

Still, I know it will all end someday. It must. It will.

This poem is about that. I think it pretty well tells its own story ... and I don't think it's a sad story, really, just an acknowledgment of the inevitable ... but also a celebration of the present. Thank you for being a part of that celebration.

(Oh, and a new installment of "Squiggles & Giggles" has been posted)

The poem:

 

ENJOY THAT SILENCE

When all the leafy

branches have closed

 

behind me and my

footsteps have drifted

 

into nothing, I hope

there will be no

 

searching parties sent

to seek new meaning

 

in what I was trying

to say. I had no hidden

 

agenda, no secrets

in my surface-dwelling

 

statements. So when

the silence descends,

 

as it surely must, please

accept it. And enjoy.

© 2006

(Published in the Spring 2006 - 40th Anniversary Edition - of ICON)

 

***

Today's word: inevitable

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7:07:20 AM EDT

But isn't that always the way it is when you're in a hurry?

Well, for a few minutes at least, I'm putting hurry aside. I'm sitting calmly at the keyboard, serenely typing a few words which I hope will make their way into "Chosen Words." Not a worry in the world.

Like, yeah, sure.

Meanwhile, the poem:

 

A DAY FOR FLYING

Crisp autumn breeze sliding off

some unseen glacier, sun busy

burnishing the copper leaves,

 

as though trees were incapable

of doing it themselves, and not

a cloud in sight. A day made

 

for flying. Indeed, overhead

dozens of silent chalk marks

of planes drag themselves along,

 

blade marks slowly multiplying

on a blue rink, crisscrossing,

widening, turning into fluffy

 

cotton batting stretched along

the cold, these diaphanous

contrails abandoned in a flight

 

to somewhere, as though planes

of the world were gathering

on this day to make clouds,

 

being impatient for the regular

kind and for the needed rain,

the prodigal, dallying rain.

© 1997

(originally published in Potpourri)

***

Today's word: diaphanous

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7:27:08 AM EDT

 

We never had a "drinking gourd," and I always felt deprived.

Instead, we had a common aluminum dipper (we all drank from the same dipper) beside the water bucket in the kitchen.

Germs aside, it offered a cool, refreshing drink, when the weather was cool, refreshing. During the summer, as I recall, we went directly to the source, the cistern just a few steps from the back porch, to fill the dipper.

The "drinking gourd," on the other hand, resided at a neighbor's house on a nearby hill. Judging from the frequency of our visits, they were probably distant relatives.

They had a well which, I thought, contained the coldest water around. And that gourd, that marvelous old weather-beaten gourd. I just had to have a drink from it, even when I wasn't thirsty. Oh, how I remember sipping slowly, dawdling, while enjoying both the cold water and the great shade of the tree near the well.

The poem:

 

CUP OF MEMORIES

The well water

was never colder

nor more sweet tasting

than when it was sipped

from an ordinary,

but memorably special

gray gourd dipper.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

 

***

Today's word: dawdling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for stopping by to take a sip of the poem ... the photo (a lucky shot, one of my favorites, too; wish I'd had a photo of a drinking gourd, but guess this one will do). I'm glad the combo pleased your palate.  

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7:53:46 AM EDT

 

(If you dropped by "Chosen Words" yesterday and found nobody home, my apologies. As you know, I'm usually here ... at the keyboard ... stringing letters and words together ... sometimes throwing in a picture, too. But yesterday ... well, yesterday ... let's just say ... I had an excused absence.)

And now I'm back:

As is sometimes the case, I was not actually a witness to the crime depicted in this poem, but the information came from a usually reliable source (not, incidentally, Luke the Cat).

I've met both principals in this case. I can believe that one of them was, indeed, engrossed in the newspaper when the action took place. He's been known the work an occasional crossword puzzle. I find it hard, however, to believe that Luke would stoop to such thievery as is detailed here.

Still, it does appear to be one of those crimes of opportunity, and when opportunity knocks ...

Good news, though: I understand that Jerry and Luke, despite this transgression, remained good friends.

Today's poem, originally published in Capper's:

BREAKFAST FOR TWO

An unsuspecting

Jerry buries his

nose in the news,

savoring the paper

while Luke the Cat

pulls a little caper

with a stealthy paw,

takin' the bacon

from Jerry's plate.

© 1998

 

                              ***

Today's word: stealthy

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7:01:08 AM EDT

 

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. What a treat it was 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

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thank you, Helen, for that comment ... for adding to the collection of memories which abound with those who have ever visited Giant City ... but particularly those who were lucky enough to have grown up within striking distance of the park. Just strolling its trails always brought a sense of its place in history to me.  

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