Words I'm writing: A Haiku

Spring garden lizards

Each with a full, tapered tail

Our cat died last fall

Words I'm Writing: Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning
Toaster-oven
Beeps thrice quick
My toast done

The microwave beeps once, at intervals, separated,
No hurry, reminding, faithfully, that...
Coffee milk
Is warm

Coffee maker beeps, beeps, beeps--
Beeps five times in all
At a measured pace
Morning coffee brewed 

Breakfast
Announced
Electronically
Sunday
Morning

Words I'm Writing: An Autumn Haiku

I meant to post this here back in October when I wrote it. Here belatedly is an autumn haiku.

Sun-warmed paper bag

Damp after first autumn rain

But my sleeping cat snores 

Words I'm Writing: A Poem (April 1, 2014)

I generally don't like reading poetry. Too often it's cryptic. Too often it's self-indulgent--little more than an author's in-joke--deliberately obfuscatory, or simply obscure, but that doesn't keep me from once in a while perpetrating the same.

Pearl

A pearl

Is what an oyster conjures—

A sheath of smooth, bright nacre

Over sand that wounds

But what oyster

On what wave-lashed rock

Is ever asked to form a pearl

Not over jagged sand

But to fend against

What is keenly longed for—not once in a lifetime but twice—

To shut away the selfsame haunting grain? 

I began this more than five years ago. I came across it today by chance and changed a few words that finally made it seem finished. Virtually no one will understand it, but I imagine poems are somewhat easier to decipher than visual art, which I fairly regularly create while feeling no need to explain. So, here is a poem: Make of it what you will.

Words I'm Writing: First Lines

From time to time, the beginnings of a book pop into my head. Here's another one.

I ran into Alise's mother in the supermarket. She was cradling a carton of eggs in one hand. She had lifted the lid and was peering inside, checking for broken shells as she walked through the produce section. I had been looking at apples.

I hadn't seen Alise's mother in three decades, but I knew who she was. I could see her daughter in her--the same mass of wavy (now-silver) hair, the same slightly rounded tip to her nose, the same compact yet generously proportioned figure. I walked over to her, almost walking into her. I blurted something. What I think I said was "I hope Alise understands my silence--that my silence is not indifference--that it's because I feel so strongly. It's because...." 

I wanted to say more, but I couldn't.

It was a most natural thing to have said--or so it seemed to me. Still, it was incomplete and therefore vulnerable to misunderstanding yet again; it was one small link in a chain of thoughts that had been running through my head for months, never with any opportunity of expression. I imagine it came as something of a bolt from the blue to Alise's mother. She could not possibly have known who I was or what I was talking about.

I left the store quickly. I was halfway to my car when I realized I had walked out with an apple clenched in one hand. It had a small round sticker on it with the name of the apple variety. The sticker read "Pearl." I got into my car. I set the apple on the passenger seat and drove home. I next remember sitting at the living room table holding the apple again. I had no idea what to do with it. I couldn't take it back to the store. I couldn't throw it away. I wanted desperately to eat it, but I couldn't do that either. It was not mine to eat. I walked out into the garage, apple in hand. After some thought, I finally dropped it quietly into a box of old letters from Alise, hoping it might keep there, dormant, incorruptible.

Words I'm writing: Haiku

Scent of wet asphalt

Brings back Ohio summer heat

Raindrops on the drive

Words I'm writing: Opening Lines

Is it just me? I suppose it is. I occasionally find myself writing books in my head. I never get beyond a few opening lines. Things like this:

Arnold, the neighbors' son, was an odd child. So odd, in fact, that many otherwise rational people occasionally entertained the notion that he might be of another world. In summer, he'd sit on the sidewalk for hours frying ants with a magnifying glass. One by one, they'd crackle faintly and curl up. I can hear you protesting—"I did that as a child!" 

But Arnold was different. Sometimes he would name the dead ants and take them home. He kept their corpses in a box. Sometimes he would pull the legs off one ant and feed its tiny limbs to another. He once showed me an ant carrying a leg, looking--as Arnold, himself, astutely pointed out--like the builder across the street who just then happened to be walking by, carrying a long 2x4 over his shoulder. Sometimes Arnold would eat the fried remains of an ant or two. 

As he got older, Arnold focused hot sunlight more often on things made of paper that burned in an entertaining way (I used to keep a bucket of water on my porch, just in case). As a teenager, Arnold was fond of killing stray cats and talking to the sky. Later in life, Arnold found a way to combine some of these talents: He killed his wife, dismembered her, and burned down his house, having consumed part of his spouse before the fire. The newspaper reports were unsure about his intent. Had he meant to roast her? Thankfully, Arnold had moved away by then.

Where to go from there? Nowhere really.