Small Stone for 30 June, 2022

One of the things that always fascinates me is process. How did that little gem of a poem get from its inception, the spark that caught the poet’s attention, that made her stop, bend down, scrabble through the debris of her thoughts, pick up that hunk of crystal and take it to the lapidary workshop of her mind, to study it, find the cleavage planes, fracture off what wasn’t needed, laboriously grind away at it to fix the facets, and polish them until they caught the light just right. That’s one of the things that frustrates me about poets. Like a calculus exam. It’s not enough to come up with the right answer. I want to see their work. The editing, the crossings out, the winnowing and rewording. And then I want to hear them read it aloud, to breathe their own breath into the words and make them live.

Small Stone for 11 May, 2022

Chuck
(?-05/11/2022)
In Memoriam. 

On a 4/4 beat of feet, the furry folk arrive, 
Leaving paw prints all across our days, 
Strewing naps across our sunshine places. 
As faithful as a shadow, 
These offspring of Chaos and Delight, 
Weave themselves into the warp and weft of every day, 
Born knowing when to lead, 
When to follow, 
And when to walk beside. 
Oh, how they grace us with their presence! 
As agile as a smile, as lithe as laughter, 
They pitter-pat along the pathways of our hearts, 
And what a wounded emptiness they leave behind 
When it is time for them to go. 
But...
Sure as spring comes after winter, 
When at last it comes our time to go, 
We will find them waiting for us 
Just inside the Gate, 
Whole ardent for the next adventure, 
For it would not be Heaven otherwise. 

Small Stone for 16 June, 2021

I found this little shard of song, while wandering the shores of the Dreaming Sea.

It lay tangled in a wrack of questions, abandoned by the lisping waves among the pebbles.One day I might take it up, make polite inquiries, and see if it will answer. In the meantime, let it sit here on this metaphorical window sill to catch the light and glitter enigmatically, humming quietly to itself.

“The morning is dawning.

It’s cold but it’s fair.

There’s the scent of the heather

Adrift on the air.

There’s the softest of breezes

Blowing out of the west.

There’s the valley below

Where I stand on the crest.

T’is the last day my footsteps

Will grace this good earth,

The last day I’ll spend

In the land of my birth.

My heart should be heavy

To leave home and kin,

But my spirit, it soars

Like a lark on the wind.”

Small Stone for 18 January, 2019

The winter sky is azure glazed,
A bowl wiped clean of cloud smudge by the wind.
It would ping like porcelain.

See the wild geese fly.
They pass in straggling flotillas,
Outward bound to far away and someplace else.
Sleek, like white-hulled racing shells they glide,
Long prows black and needle thin,
Wings like oar blades
Sculling through the liquid air.
Hear them cry the stroke.

One day,
I will not stay behind and watch them
Sail away without me,
Off across the watercolor wash of winter sky
Bound for far away and someplace else.
One day, I will follow after.
But not yet.
Not yet.

Small Stone for 13 December, 2016

A spontaneous manifestation of iambic pentameter from out of the ether.  An orphan verse, alas,  still looking for the rest of the poem.  I’ll be interested to see what it finds. . .

“There is a bridge to the Land of Sighs
That is not for the faint of heart.
The road is long, the route unmarked
And the map is full of lies.”

Small Stone for June 16, 2011

The poem Flying at Night by Ted Kooser.
WOW!  As I read, the imagery of it blossomed in my head, lighting up the darkness of my mind’s sky like a brilliant white starburst firework.  POW!