 There were one, two, three,
four, five ... no, six, seven, eight ... wait, nine, ten, eleven ducklings swimming in the small pond alongside the path in the woods. And the mother and male duck, too, with his irridescent head and white collared neck. Mallards. They swam to the left, as a group. Then to the right, scattered and apart. Over, under, and around fallen tree trunks, branches, and the ragged shoreline. Together and apart, left to right. Right to left. Together and apart. We whispered and wondered at the beauty of it all. At the blue sky reflected in the still, dark water. At how fuzzy and small the ducklings were. At their doting mother, clucking and guiding them. Here, then there. At the close proximity of the vernal pond to the path and the people and dogs that so often pass by. It wasn't until later, early evening that we dared even speak of it. Attrition. Not all, or even most, of the ducklings will survive. Odds are, no more than two or three will shed the fuzz, grow feathers, and learn to fly. Not with all the snakes, raccoons, and foxy predators lurking about. Eager, yet reluctant, we returned to the pond the next day, knowing we'd once again do the count, hoping for high numbers. But there were none. Not just ducklings, but the male and female, too. Gone. Were they resting, we wondered? Hoped. Camouflaged in plain sight among the mottled leaves and fallen branches? We looked for ripples in the water and movement in the leaves, but found none. So we imagined the brood huddled close to one another in the nest, resting, as they will for hours each day, under a protective wing. And we thought of the fledglings. The one, two, or three who will beat the odds. The ones who one day will take flight.
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 The low, long rumble tells us
it's a freight train lumbering down the tracks through the woods at the end of the road. The short, light whizzing informs us it's the passenger rail. But it's the stand-still box cars with their graffiti-littered panels painted in neon colors; flashy art; and stylized, hard-to-read words, that scream for attention. Parked for hours, and sometimes days, on the side-by-side rails, passing trains wail at their stationary presence. With two short blasts and a long urgent bawl they give warning to people and animals alike ... Wa. Wa. Waaaa!!! Coming through.  With
little wind to sway it, the rain falls in near perfect vertical formation into rippling puddles and gushing gutters. It's a good day for an umbrella. And for the daffodils and forsythia, too, that shout ... Yellow! Yellow! As we pass by on this otherwise gray day.  With their
belted parkas, buffalo plaids, fleece collars, and quilted hoodies fashion-forward pound puppies, pugs, terriers, hounds, and retrievers prance and strut the sidewalk like it's Fashion Week. As they brace against winter's cold in their canine couture, they set tongues, and tails, to wagging. ----------------- While winter is suppose to be cold, this winter has been unusually cold. Below average temperatures, with windchill temperatures dipping into the single digits. It's no wonder we're seeing more dogs wearing jackets. No doubt the jackets helps keep the dogs warm , but something tells me the fashion is more for the person at the other end of the lease.  the overnight storm fills the sky with snow and and blankets the ground in white, lighting the night like a full moon lantern When I woke during the night, the room was filled with soft light and the windows had a glow about them. I knew it wasn't the moon, it was obscured by cloud cover. It was snow in the air, on the trees, and the ground illuminating the landscape.
When something catches your attention, use it as a prompt, a way to capture the moment ... with a photograph, a drawing, or in this case, collage+poetry. It's a short poem and a simple collage. Simplicity can sometimes break the barrier to creativity and give you a place to begin. Start small, and see what happens.  He gathers his boots, buckets,
and creepers. Grabs his pack basket, traps, hand auger, and sled, and stops on the way for bait. He warms himself drilling through the ice, inches thick, until he breaks through to the water below. He baits the hook, drops the line through the hole, sets the flag, and depending on the lake or pond he's on, begins to imagine. The bass, trout, salmon, pickerel, or perch swimming under the surface. But it's a waiting game, where patience braces against anticipation, and the cold. When a flag is tripped, he wonders, is it a wind flag, stolen bait, or is there a fish on the line? Hand over hand he hauls the line feeling for the resistance that will tell him, fish on. And so begins a real fish tale.  With all the flowers gone dormant, bare trees, and muted colors, you might think there's not much to see. In this winter landscape.  But look! There's color and texture ... and love etched in unexpected places.  The secret of course is to watch for it. To train your eyes to see the color and shapes and signs of the beauty that surrounds us ... no matter the season.   The plow RUMBLES down the road, and like the returning tiDE on a flat sand beach, pushes wAVes of snow to the side of the road, sPiLLiNg and rolling it into driveways and waLKways, SiGnaLLinG the tiMe is riGht for BuiLDing cAstles and maKing new fRienDs It's not always easy to find the motivation to bundle up and go outside on cold, snowy days, but when the storm passes and the sun comes out, a snow-covered landscape is a wonderland. There's a hush and fresh feeling in the air. And if the snow is good for snowballs, it's good for making snow people. Oceana above was one in a series of snofolk I made for winter greetings. She, like all the others, lasted a few good days before her seashell nose and muscle-shell necklace started to drop. She was quickly and gracefully dismantled. Whether it's snowing or the sun is shining where you live, I hope you'll find your way outdoors today. Despite the snowfall, winter has yet to arrive, but with visions of spring atop my desk, here's a close-up peek at another floral collage in the works the upcoming journal, A Garden of Good Things.   Tree House The trees, like stick figures, stand bare against the sky. Stripped of their leaves, they reveal what's been hidden ... Squirrel nests in the crook of the highest branches Some, like efficiency apartments, are small and compact Others, like penthouse apartments, sprawl a massive weave of twigs and leaves When a light breeze blows, I imagine the sway of the tree lulling the squirrels in sweet slumber But when the gale winds blow, I wonder ... are they tossed about like a ship at sea, pitching to the left, then right, clawing at the soft moss that lines their padded drey? Or are they cocooned, curled tight against the wind with a tickling tail teasing a twitching nose?   Stories Worth Sharing: On The Cat Walk On The Cat Walk
There was a whisper of a chance anyone she asked was missing the gray cat her neighbor, two houses down, found on the stoop last night I wasn't missing a cat and no one had mentioned it here, five blocks from where it was found Not until two days later when we heard the children, like mewling kittens, searching for the cat They were walking and knocking, house to house, door to door with their mother repeating their plea again and again we lost our cat, have you seen a cat? a gray cat? we lost our cat, have you seen a cat? a gray cat? When they came to the door and once again said we lost our cat, have you seen a cat? a gray cat? I said I hadn't seen a cat, a gray cat ... but five blocks away someone said they found a cat, a gray cat The news, like catnip infused them with them giddy anticipation, leaving them unable to focus So we walked together to the house five blocks away where the cat was found on the stoop of the house on the corner Like a merry band in a parade, the cat walk took us one block up, three down, and one over And there she was, the cat, the gray cat just one block from home, behind a floor-to-ceiling glass door, in the house on the corner where she was found The cat preened and paced at the rush of children on the other side of the glass, and on our walk home we purred over the success of their clawing persistence in finding their cat the gray cat  When the sap is running There's a house on the corner where they tap the maple trees Three trees, one bucket for each There's another house where they used to tap the trees, but don't anymore I wish they did That was the house where they put out the metal buckets The house that still taps the trees uses plastic buckets, sky blue If the light is right, you can see the sap level through the plastic and watch it rise, surge even, from one day to the next It's fascinating really, to see how much sap is released from the tree With the metal buckets, you can't see the sap level, but I prefer them anyway Camouflaged against the bark of the tree and the still-bare landscape, they cast a knowing silhouette ... A reminder that, although it's hard to see, change is upon us Cool nights will give way to warmer days, the sap will flow, and the flowers will, once again blossom Makes me wish I had a maple tree -------- Branching out ... The maple sugaring poem is a modified version of a piece I wrote a while ago. It came to mind when I was thinking of making a pop-up book and needed something to pop. It's the next step in my book-making journey.  Studying how to create a structure ... one that will open and close properly has me snipping, folding, and gluing long past my bedtime.
This is a prototype. Rough, inefficient, and utterly captivating. I'll keep you posted on how it's going.  The title of this story might also be "Don't try to do it all in one project." After finishing my Solitaire book, I wanted to try another using a poem I'd written about cooking with a friend. The collage of the Jiffy box was created when I wrote the poem, so I figured I was halfway there. Not quite. Like the first book, there were unexpected hurdles and so many decisions to make.  Though I do a lot of handmade collage work, most of my design work has been computer generated. As a graphic designer I've created posters, magazines ... and books ... on the computer. Books that are printed and bound in a print shop. Not by me, not by hand. Building a handmade book is new to me and it's been challenging.  Another problem was making the project more complicated than it needed to be ... like trying to hand letter the text or create pen and ink drawings to illustrate the book. It was all too overwhelming. My lettering wasn't good enough (in my eye) and the illustrations looked, well, too primitive. Collage is where I'm comfortable, so for now and for this book, I decided to stick with what I know. One learning curve at a time. The next problem was thinking it all had to be perfect. I ripped out, tore apart, and recreated many, many pages to get things "just right." Well, it's impossible, especially when so much is so new. Now that the book is done, I know the cover material is too thin. It's warping. The endpapers on the inside of the front and back covers don't line up exactly as they should. And the stitching that holds the book together is not quite right. It should extend further up and further down along the spine.  Some problems I recognized before the book was complete, but there had been so many delays and changes, I just had to let some be, and push forward. In the end, it's not perfect, but I'm pleased with the book, and here's why: When I decided to make the book, I hadn't read the story in a while. What a treat it's been to be taken back to that day in the kitchen. April is National Poetry Month. Both stories in my books came from short poems. Narrative poems. No rhyming, no formal structure. Are you interested in writing your stories? Try a narrative poem. Use a story you started in a letter, expand on a story you wrote in a journal, or one you mentioned in a diary. Explore a story that stays with you. It can be as short or long as it needs to be. Whether its making books by hand or writing stories, the most important thing is to start ... and keep stirring.  Dinner may be late tonight We'll blame it on the clock ... on daylight saving time and the bewilderment it creates in the long shadows of the afternoon sun in the decorative patterns that inch across the wall and lull us into thinking it's earlier than it is when the clocks spring forward More doodling ...  This is a drawing I created ... and the inspiration for the 3-D wire replica above. It's all a bit wonky, but it cast the right light and gave me the idea for today's poem.
We often think that writing memoir or our stories requires big events or a lifetime of adventure. That's a lot of pressure. Why not start with small moments that make you pause? Every year daylight saving time messes with my timing. For a week or so, it's either later or earlier than I think. It's easy to imagine we are ruled by the clock and the ping of our phones, but on occasions like this, it's nice to know nature's light still rules the day. Go ahead, write about something small, you've got time.  A do-si-do and nowhere to go We came face to face in a standstill at the end of the aisle across from where the whipped cream in a can sits on the top shelf of the refrigerated section against the wall he shifted to his left I shifted to my right and we were back where we started head to head cart to cart A do-si-do with nowhere to go So he called it ... with a nod of the head he dipped to his right and I did too pushing forward we passed one another shoulder to shoulder a side-stepping sashay that ended with a two-step twist when he said ... thanks for the dance.  I was restless and it was late ... far too late to be making noise, so my options were limited when I grabbed the deck of cards that sits on the bookshelf for someday or sometime it was a surprising move because really, they don't get much use, but I thought ... Solitaire, I'll play, Solitaire the cards, still like new, were stiff and slippery, hard to shuffle, and I couldn't remember all the rules so I faked it and won and thought, that was easy too easy so I searched for instructions and found it wasn't so easy after all game after game I lost until I was no longer restless, but tired, and went to bed and played again the next day, and the next and lost again and again and again until yesterday after days and weeks of following the rules ... I aced it on a quiet evening with a full house ----------- While I didn't have a lot to say about playing Solitaire, I wanted to write a short piece about how calming it was to shuffle the cards and how sticking with it (finally) gave me the reward of winning. Solitaire is a good game when you're not sure what to do. Playing with playing cards vs. online adds a physical dimension and allows for less screen time. Here's how to play.  The CRoW in tHe SNow sEEmed to let iT aLL GO. It froliCKed and fLUTTered and fANNed hIGH and LOw. PreeNing oR pLAYing, I'm sURe I dON't KNow. BUt let Me jUSt say ... Ohhhh, whAt a ShOw. Oftentimes, there are events you want to capture, but as a stand-alone story, there's just not enough material to write more than a few sentences.
When that happens, try a narrative poem. It's a storytelling form of poetry you can use as a tool to share snippets of your life. Moments in time that bring joy, clarity, or greater understanding. I've never seen a playful crow ... they keep their distance, often conjure (undeserved) negative vibes, and perch and fly with purpose. Off-guard displays of preening and play are not common ... at least not in my experience. I wanted to remember the crow and how such a seemingly upright, formidable bird let it all go. It's a reminder to seek, observe, and remain open to discovery, surprise, and wonder. And when there's not much to say, but saying it is important, write a poem.  We stopped to chAT with the lady in the hAT. She wAS, like us, dressed foR the weaTHer ... wHEther shE liked iT or nOT. The weaTHer thAt is. WinTER weaTHer. WhETHer it'S brISK and brIght or gray like tOdAY, we bUTTON and bOOT it. Then we snAP, zIP, and tUCK it, tOO. bUT we'D qUIVER and shiVer if thAT was aLL thAT. So wE pAUSe and we pONDer for thAT which iS thAT ... WhERe's my hAT? This poem came together over the course of a few days with the help of a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary.
Both are helpful in similar and different ways. The rhyming dictionary does just what it sounds like, finds words that rhyme with one another ... in this case I was looking for words that rhyme with hat. Quiver and shiver came to me without the dictionary ... but maybe they were inspired by it? The thesaurus is, I think, a sometimes overlooked tool for writing. Word choice makes a difference.  It's easy to forget how
much the light changes, how brisk the air becomes how summer greens and wax beans get squashed in the mashing of buttercup, butternut ... and blue hubbard, too how apples and pumpkins now vie for the pie and a warm bowl of soup makes me slurp, sip, and sigh ------------------------ If you're struggling to write, try a short narrative poem like the one above. Short lines with lots of detail can help you put your thoughts into words. Focus on word choice, and for fun, throw in some rhymes. If you're stuck, grab a thesaurus or a rhyming dictionary and see what comes up.  Yesterday we stopped to
chat with Mac Daddy -- a man of few words who walks with his dog, Mac. We call him Mac Daddy because we don't really know him—or his name, but were once introduced to the dog, Mac. We crossed paths on the trail in the woods out by the railroad tracks. We said—isn't it a beautiful day. He said—yes it is. We said it was good to be out in the woods on such a nice day. He said he's been walking out in the woods on the trail for years. Said his wife grew up in the neighborhood. Said they courted out there -- all "kissie face and huggy bear." We parted with lingering laughs and silly smiles, giddy with conversation about what people you hardly know will tell you. |
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