Thanks

Friends,

After much thought I’ve decided to suspend this blog. I will leave what is here for the rest of the year so you might read the poetry I’ve posted as an archive.

I have spent some time on my book, and so Air Swimmer will be published by FutureCycle Press on or before February 2012. I’m also working on my mystery, and need to give it more time than I have in the past.

I’m beginning a book of Haibun poetry, and having great fun writing this new form, so as you can see, I’m busy.

I hope you are writing if that is your passion, and that you will join me on Facebook where I will be sending out messages as I seek to move forward as a writer.

Thank you for joining me here for this grand experiment, and I hope you will stay in touch.

Your Friend

Robert W. Kimsey

I'm Back!

The picture for this month is me at the Gannett Poplar. How cool is that? It’s an old growth tree not far from where I live in North Georgia. The bark is full of moss from hundreds of years of watching people go up the trail. Just standing near it is special and magical. I know there are bigger trees in the U.S. but this was a great moment in a hike a friend and I did not very long ago.

So much has happened since we talked last. Once again I am saddened that we cannot communicate on a real time basis because of some people who would take advantage of my being away. It’s hard thinking about security when all I wanted to do when I started this blog was to share with you. But those in the know tell us to not communicate in real time if we are away from home.

My friend Marty’s mother passed last month. I drove over to Little Rock to attend the service for her. The place was packed. She was a weaver, and her and her husband Perk were bird watchers all their lives, and for many years banded hummingbirds at their home in Arkansas. She was a woman who encouraged her children and others to dream dreams and to be who they wanted to be. I will miss her smile, but I know one thing, there are a lot of people who are better because of her.

Two things have happened with my writing. I joined a poetry critique group here in North Georgia. I like my group in Blue Ridge, but I needed a group who concentrated on poetry alone, and where I didn’t have to be the leader. It’s a good group, and they keep me on my toes.

The other thing I did was to accept an invitation to attend the quarterly meeting of the Georgia Poetry Society. I traveled to a college south of here, and it was a very good meeting. I was able to read, and was welcomed. I was impressed with the speakers, and they revealed this year’s anthology, “The Reach of Song.” A beautiful book. It is a collection where the poems are judged, and the works are a joy to read. I liked what I saw at the meeting, and am considering joining. The trouble is that the meetings are held throughout the state, and the travel time is a problem from up here in the mountains.

I have been writing. Just sent a dozen or so poems to the lady who edits for me. If you don’t have a person who will read your work, and who will edit for you and will be honest about it, then you need to look around. You will be a much better writer if you have a person like that. Critique groups help me a lot, but having a person who is not a writer and has fresh eyes has really helped me through the years.

I’m also working on my audio book, and hope to have it done by the time I attend the Kentucky Poetry Society meeting this year.

I did want to say something here about my cousin Clay. He has been sick for a month or so now, and will be entering treatment soon. He and I have spent some special times in high mountain steams together, and I believe we will again.

So, since I wrote this a few weeks ago I have been working on the book, and have decided to call it “Air Swimmer.” Well, that’s my first thought. I’ve also decided that I might submit it to a contest first. I really like the poems in it, and I think I have grown since my last book. They are different, but I’m getting less afraid of what I write, and am stepping out with some new things from old notes I’ve had for years. So, I’ll put one of the poems here, and see what you think.
Here’s the first draft of the title poem.

Air Swimmer

I see a far off day
When I will lift myself
Up on tip-toes
Push back and down
With my hands
And fly

Just as easy as that the air
Will hold me aloft
In a room a little bigger than this
I will fly

By myself at first
Because I wouldn’t want
Disbelievers to break the magic
Of the moment or dirty the
Pure joy I feel

When I finally get the courage
to go out, the children will say
Why can this old man swim in the air
Call like a Red Tailed hawk
And we can’t?

When I see them gathered far below
I will come down, collect them around
me and whisper the truth of it

Tell them not to be afraid


Robert W. Kimsey 2010

Thoughts From the Middle of a Stream

When I was an artist I learned quickly what more experienced artists had learned early in their careers.

If you’re away from your art for a week or so you realize that the edge has gone. The lines no longer echo the confidence they did before. Even if others don’t see it, you do. If you stay away for much longer it becomes harder to find the path back, and after a year, well, chances are you won’t go back at all. The duties of life fill the void you’ve opened, and all you’re left with is the craving for something lost.

I’ve seen writers take that same road to oblivion. Always hoping to get back, but just never finding the time.

I’ve seen it happen in the writers group. A person will visit, full of enthusiasm, and when they read the group is in admiration of the story line, or the powerful words coming out of the poems. Three or so months later they may have added a few lines, or fallen into what Natalie Goldberg calls “Monkey Mind,” and are reshaping the idea until it is watered down and dying. A month later they may have nothing to share, and then they are gone.

There are others who are on fire at the meeting, and they disappear also, but when you see them in the coffee shop they speak of the book being at the publishers, and it is always a time for celebration. They have been home writing.

I know life gets in the way of writing, but that’s not what I’m talking about. For the last few days I’ve been in the woods cutting down trees and clearing the brush so I can at least see the bears before they arrive on the porch for a picnic. I've also been in the mountains discovering new paths. That’s just the way it is, but the poem, the story, the rhythm of words is always with me, and even when I’m tired they call to me. I hope they call to you also.

We live in a woulda, shoulda, coulda world. I have friends who are fighting to get their first chapbook out at the ages of 70 and 80. Don’t keep your poems and stories a secret. Send something to a friend today, and share your heart with them. I pray you’ll find the time. I have seen only a few of my mother’s poems. I am told as her Alzheimer’s progressed she would read them, then tear them up as he sat and wept. They are lost forever. Don’t let that happen.

PS I apologize for the misspellings in a few of my blogs. That’s what I get for posting them from Starbucks and not doing any editing, or letting the computer do it for me. I’ll try and do better. That’s why I have a college professor friend who edits my poems before I submit them. Nobody ever claimed this Kentucky boy was a good spuller!

PSS I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that tomorrow is my anniversary. My wife and I have been friends since we were 7 years old. I have always loved her, and she continues to love me even though I can be a real turd sometimes. She is my conscience, and if I haven’t done any writing for awhile, she steers me back, or reminds me of who I wanted to be when I grew up.


White Passion, Black Joy


I remember a green Volkswagen
white passion steaming windows
on a dark October night.

Your angora sweater
turning my uniform into
a horse hair rug.

After all these years
I see your Father’s face,
smile fading in the light.

Black joy on
a cold October
night.


It Must Be Hard

It must be hard to give me the love I demand.
That yearning to catch up for an empty past.

You must be exhausted fighting off demons I resurrect,
and holding my hand to calm the winds of panic.

I hope my love is enough to give you strength.
It’s all I have.

Robert W. Kimsey

Quiet Time

Last week I hiked Cloudland in NW Georgia.

I have never been there before, and it was a beautiful day for a long walk.

My friend Mike and I arrived around ten in the morning, and decided to see the waterfalls first thing. Hiking into the canyon was a new experience, and hiking out showed my heart was ok. Poor Mike. He is so used to going a little faster, and I’m just easing along, looking at wildflowers, trying to spot birds and eating blueberries.

My dreams take shape when I’m walking with a pack on my back. I tell myself stories and compose poems. I look up at God’s glory and praise him for what he has done for me. Don’t be alarmed, it’s ok, all of us old guys talk to ourselves.

I look at some of the people I know and I am sorry for them. They are never alone. Are never able to slow down, think about what has been and what will be. Even when I worked in the city as the world closed in on me I’d walk the length of the main street and back, gathering my thoughts and flaking off the stress. Are people afraid of being alone?

Friends from the city are amazed that we moved to a cabin on a dirt road, and spend great amounts of time doing what we love. Alone.

If you write I hope you give yourself the time to dream dreams and make up stories. Sometimes the process of writing, editing and submitting is overwhelming, and we have to make ourselves sit still and remember what it was like when it all started and we listened to the stories at they formed in us, and how exciting that was.

I hope one of the blessings you receive this week is some quiet time.

What He Wants

Sometimes he just wants to live long enough to fulfill promises made,
and to hear, “I forgive you,” for falling short.

Sometimes he just wants his body and mind to hold out as long as the journey takes.

Sometimes he just wants to hang prayer flags from the trees,
believing his God hears and sees all.

Sometimes he just wants to stand again and feel the same swelling in his heart

that was there when he first saw the great mountains.

Sometimes he believes a thousand years has passed,
and this is just a dream.

Robert W. Kimsey

Days With Family

My family, from the north, visited last week. It was a wonderful week, and the little girls enjoyed our outings to the river where they collected rocks. Well, at least one did, the other little girl just liked her feet in the cool water.

The time was good for me because I was able to get all the baby kisses I needed, and I was also able to spend some time with my son. He is a chef in the city, has a pretty hectic life, and wanted to slow down and be on some high trails while they were here.

One of the days we were able to get out we packed a day pack and headed for Springer Mountain. My son wants to hike some on the Appalachian Trail, and I thought it would be a good place where he could get a taste of what it would be like. What better place to start than a climb to the plaque at the southern terminus of the 2167 mile trail. It was a good hike, making me wish I was in better shape, but I didn’t die, and that’s a good thing. It was a gorgeous day, and I could see the beautiful North Georgia Mountains curving toward the horizon.

We wanted to test out some meals, so we went to the Springer Shelter and set up our stoves for lunch, and then it was back down the rocky path to the car and home.

Every father dreams dreams of what his children will be when they grow up. I don’t remember what mine were. I guess I just prayed I wouldn’t screw up my part of the story. As I watched my Son ahead of me on the trail, I realized that he was much more than I prayed for. He is a good man, a wonderful father, provider and a faithful Christian. He has written a much better story than I could have written for him. The way it should be.

Tributary

I skim the stone bowl,
Scoop the dregs away.
Watch the spring clear itself.
Remembering a time when
I could drink freely
Taste the coolness after the climb.

I watch the downhill seep
Knowing that days from now
It will join with darker waters
Down there in the world.

And so will I.

Robert W. Kimsey

It's Been a Long Month

Maybe I’m different from most bloggers, but when I started this adventure into the electronic world I was hoping for a large community to care about what I wrote and the poems I shared. I know that is true about most of you who come and sit on the porch with me, you do care, and I thank you for being my friends and readers.
It is a real shame that one of the things that has grown out of this type of sharing is that we must always be thinking about security, as we write. That’s just the way of the world I’m afraid.

For example, I can’t share with you in “real time” the events of the day. I couldn’t tell you that I am in the hospital only that I was. I couldn’t tell you that I was in Pennsylvania only that I was. If we are responsible to our families and friends we must always be reporters of what was.

Betty C. Stamper 1927-2010

My Mother passed away a week or so ago. She had been fighting Alzheimer’s and diabetes for seven years, and finally she couldn’t hold on any longer. I didn’t get to see her much, and when I went there last year and she didn’t know me I had gone through a period of mourning at that time. The creative parts of me are from her. She was a very accomplished artist, working mainly in oil. Her paintings of flowers were a major part of the service last week. Her landscapes were beautiful and full of light. In later years she had a stroke, and holding a brush was harder for her than holding a pencil, so she switched to colored pencil, and drew some remarkable portraits. She was always encouraging and proud when we talked about my time in art school and my membership in the Cincinnati Art Club.

My Mother was also a very good poet and writer, and I hope to share some of her poems with you in the future. She had lived in a number of other countries, and told colorful stories about her times there. She is survived by 3 brothers and a sister, and the other day in a local restaurant the brothers started telling stories, about the 37 flood, swimming the river in happier times, and what a tom boy my Mother was, and I knew that she was there sharing in the laughter.
I loved her, and will miss her.

Heaven’s Door

I wonder how long it is
before the dead forget
what they have left.

Cut off from us,
can they look through the keyhole,
a limited view down the corridor
they just walked that last time?

And do they crowd around,
some pushing and shoving for a look back
that’s always the same?
Dark hall, doors on each side,
the single bulb that guided them here,

while others that remember
the stories of elders
the dreams of parents,
writings in holy books
turn around,

and see their families
waving from the top of the hill.

Robert W. Kimsey

City Thoughts

I drove out of the mountains on Monday for a few days back in the city. While I was having my shoulder problems the wife made the trip and was able to do some business and get baby kisses, and I was jealous, so I decided I needed to head out for a few days.

Each time I get close on these trips I break out in a cold sweat as the traffic closes in, and the noise level increases. When I worked in the heart of the city it wasn’t that bad, and I liked the excitement of it all, but I guess I have been in the mountains to long.

So, on the agenda for today is to see some co-workers, spend some time at the book store, and of course have my chi at the Starbucks where I spent many a morning working on poems.

Have a wonderful day. Here’s a poem, and maybe it will get you to thinking about what it would be like to drive through your old neighborhood.

Arbor Day Trees

I ride through the old neighborhood
seeing the Arbor Day trees.
All mature, like the children
who carried them home
wrapped in newspaper, like a trophy
dug their beds with small hands
watered them that first time.

Both had bright futures ahead.

I see the sickness in some branches,
others only a stump, cut down before full grown.
Some dead inside, still trying to reach the sun,
while some thrive in the city on little soil
and stretch across the concrete canyon,
over parked cars, touching,
like the forgotten children, holding hands
listening for echoing voices in the wind
playing Hide and Seek on quiet summer nights.

Ollie Ollie in come free.

Robert W. Kimsey 2009

Waiting and Praying

If you know what the picture to the right is, then you probably have done some caving, or you know a family member who worked in the mines.

In the old days this type of carbide lamp was used on a hat. Water was put in the top portion, and carbide was held in another part of the lamp. The water dripping caused a chemical reaction, a gas was formed, and a striker ignited it for light.

I saw my lamp in the wood shop yesterday, and then thought of the miners dead and trapped in West Virginia. I know that you will join me in prayers for them and their families. As of today they have checked one safe place without finding the remaining miners, and are drilling another shaft to insert a camera.

My heart goes out to the families, and my prayers are for their comfort and that more lives will be saved.

You may have read this poem before, but I think it is appropriate for today and this time.

Hard Lessons

Daddy said the first day on the job you learn the rules.

If your lunch bucket gets left topside you’re out of luck
unless the next team brings it down, and if the roof starts
to fall, YOU RUN. You run like Billy-be-damned for daylight.
You don’t stop for nothin.

You run like the devil hisself is breathing that cold, damp,
black air down your neck. You run for the shaft
or the outside as fast as you can.

If you ain’t used up all your luck and you make it to daylight
then you can turn around and look who’s behind you, then
you wait for the count and see who’s not.

That day the bell-rock almost got Daddy, blowed his hat off,
he come home after the siren, stood in the door of our house
on the Big Sandy, white eyes staring from his black face.

Then he come over to me and slapped me hard.
I could see the tears makin creeks on his cheeks,
and he pointed his finger at me and whispered,
”Dammit Boy, you ain’t never goin in a mine.”

Robert W. Kimsey

Whew! I'm Back.

I feel like the keys are falling off!

Most of you that tag along on Face book know what kind of month I’ve had. Just when I thought it was getting better Ol’ Man Winter stuck out his foot and tripped me good. I was coming down a set of concrete steps in town, hit a patch of ice and went airborne.

I hit square on the edge of the top step, in a line across my shoulder blades. After I recovered my breath and a trip to the ER, I was told I had damaged the muscles and bruised the bone in my left shoulder. I have slept the last few weeks sitting up, when I could sleep, took some pretty heavy meds, and prayed not to cough or sneeze.

I’m much better now, and have been working on some poems and my mystery. Had to get off the meds before I could write anything that anybody could understand. Don’t know why anybody would want to live life in a haze if they didn’t have to.

Anyway, I am looking at the blog, and trying to figure out how I can make it better. Maybe it needs to be more about living here with writing thrown in, but who cares really? I don’t know, we all change, and maybe there is a life and changes for this sort of outlet. I don’t know, but we’ll see how it works out together.

I’ll be updating my side bars soon, and adding some shortcuts to some friends and writers.
I'll also have a new poem for you soon.

Glad you stayed around. Thank You.

Thursday in the Mountains

Ok, no more whining. Considering what the people on the east coast are going through, the little snow I have received this year is nothing. Hope you all stay warm and safe until this is all over. I have been cleaning my office for the last few days while I get over some kind of crud in my chest. Guess it is going around here because everyone I see has had it. Spring and some warm weather should fix that.

Valentine’s day is upon us again, and I think I warned you guys last year at this time, so let this be a word to the wise. GET TO THE CARD SHOP!

Great Backyard Bird Count is this weekend, so hope to get out and do some counting. The Dark Eyed Juncos and Purple Finches are in great abundance just now, and the loons are back on the lake, so maybe we’ll see something special over the few days of the count.

I’m working on the blog today. Need to add some friends to the side bar, and update with some new looks over the next week.

I’ve been reading some of my old poetry magazines before donating them to the group, and am looking at some of my older poems in the hopes that I can finish them to my satisfaction this year.

I’m rethinking it all, and would love to have some of your things, and if you have a book out, I’d be thrilled to include an excerpt and where people can buy it. Just send what you want considered to me at robtkzga at bellsouth dot net.

So not much discussion on writing today, but I do have a poem to share. During a writing group exercise we were given the word Chocolate, so here is what I came up with. Have a wonderful weekend.

Robert

Chocolate

The child still remembers

The first taste

After cheese and peanut butter

From the government,

And garden fare.

Mama’s wash money

For an extravagance.

Snowed In

Last Friday we headed out 60 for the town of Dahlonega Georgia. That’s where the eastern gold rush took place, and is a delightful tourist town in the mountains. A great place to walk through the shops, get lunch, and when friends come to visit, to take them to the Gold Museum.
On the way I wanted to see where the Benton Mackaye trail crosses the road, and I wanted to visit Woody Gap where my son and I would get on the Appalachian Trail for our hike to Springer Mountain.
So we’re in this little deli on the square across from the museum eating some delicious chicken noodle soup, and the sky started to get very dark. Then on the way to the car it started to rain, and by the time we get to our shortcut home, it was sleet on the windshield. When we crossed Bushy Head Gap and dropped into Cashes Valley there was an inch of snow on the ground, and for the next 4 hours it piled 5 inches on us. So we were snowed in for the next few days. I really did come south to get away from that, but moved to the Blue Ridge, so no use to whine about it.
We spent the weekend quilting (not me) and writing. Of course the dog loved it. She got pure joy trying to find a tennis ball under the white stuff.
There were also sinister forces in the cabin with us. One of the days I was writing, transferring my notes from yellow pad to computer, all kinds of error messages started appearing, and weird things jumped about on the screen. I freaked! Quickly I backed up all my data. So a few days later I made it in to town, and visited the computer wizard. Shortly he called and told me my computer had the "click of death." YIKES! I kind of felt like I had it also after hearing his diagnosis.
Well, Linda and I headed to the computer store 80 miles away after stopping at the Ellijay Starbucks, and I am trying to get my writing programs loaded on a new laptop. I had the old laptop for 7 years, and it was a good and faithful friend…sniff. But it’s my tool, just like a horse to a cowboy I guess, so had to do the deed and find the cash. Good news is that I had backed up all of my poems and stories, so let that be a warning to you.
The poem I’m going to share with you today is one I worked on for two years, and finally a chemistry professor named Sam gave me the one word I couldn’t find for myself. That’s why I love to share with others. It makes me a better poet.
See you soon.

Lies

Lies flow through a family like mercury
poured out in droplets, each converging
into the other, a creeping, rolling capsule.

They pour into the soul of a child,
there to condense on the tongue.
Then the man sees the eyes of the child
flashing mercury pools,
and recognizes himself.

Update to Start the Year

Don’t pay the ransom, I’ve escaped!
Yes, it has been a long time since I’ve been here. Well, I have checked if you’ve left any comments, but time seemed to get away from me, and now it has been over a month.

Had a wonderful time holding babies and being with family during Christmas. Had a good trip back, and then the cold weather came and stayed with us for an eternity. Then it snowed, and I really don’t mean to whine, because others also got dumped on by the white stuff, but it’s my blog, and I can bellyache if I want to.

I was snowed in for three days, and finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, so one Sunday when they closed church, I called the Starbucks 30 miles away and asked if they were open, put the jeep in 4-wheel drive and headed to town.

Another project we had in January was the Christmas Bird Count. It’s great fun, but on the day we had it the temperature started at 10 and went to 27. No rain or snow though, and we had over 20 people counting in the circle. The final tally was 72 species and 3172 birds. Didn’t think it was a bad day until I read the report from my friend in Louisiana. It’s all about citizen science, and if you want to learn more, just visit the Audubon site. Next bird count is the Great Backyard Bird Count in February. Maybe we won’t freeze our behinds on that one.

Well, you can see that I didn’t mention any writing in that time period. I thought about that a lot, and that was ok, but I needed something to get me back to it, so last week I headed up to the John C. Campbell Folk School. The school is located in North Carolina, and I’ve been there three or four times now. The leader of the class was a poet from PA. His name is Gene Hirsch, and he is a wonderful person and writes some beautiful poetry. The class was small, with Gene, Sam, Rob, Sandy, Linda and myself. Most of them had been writing for years, so the discussions were concentrated on the role of form, title, and such. By the end of each day I was exhausted and totally happy. I asked for help with a number of poems I had been working on for a few years. I was happy with the comments, and after all, suggestions are just that, so you toss them over and see what the changes will do to your poem, use some, and get rid of the rest.

It was advanced week at the school, so the eating times were full of discussion about the classes. The blacksmiths were there, the potters, painters, bakers, jewelry makers and others. The class I spent time walking through was the book binding class. The instructor had some examples of books with wooden covers, and the students were building their own. They were just fantastic, ancient looking and I could just see them containing a poem or photos.

So friends, I’m back, looking at what I’ve written and what I want to share. I’ll be back in a few days with some notes from the school, and maybe something to share. My writer’s group is this week so I need to work on my talk for them and find something to read. I’ll be busy for a few days.

BTW, I’ve been thinking about doing some backpacking this year. My son wants me to do some of the AT, Appalachian Trail with him, and I want to do the 300 miles of the BMT, Benton Mackaye Trail. I have done some of the AT, but I was younger and prettier then haha. If I can get my old self out of a chair, maybe I can work both dreams out. I’ll keep you informed.

See you soon.

Robert

Happy Holidays!

I'm writing from the coffee shop this morning. The train is warming up across the street, and after the huge rains we've had over the last few days it is turning into a cloudy and hazy day here in the mountains.

The tourists are gathering in the coffee shop, waiting for friends and having their coffee before boarding the train, or heading up to the shops, to find that last minute Christmas gift.

So here we are, heading toward the huge holiday and the end of the year. Did all your wishes come true through the year? I hope so. I hope you were able to experience your heart's desire, that you were loved, and that you loved in return.

I pray that if you were not able to start that poem or novel you have been dreaming about for so long, that you will be able to make the time to do it next year. Remember, it you don't tell the stories they will fade away and be lost.

My wish for you is that you will be blest during this holiday season, and that you will be a blessing to someone. That you will smile, and that you will share a smile with someone. My greatest gift his season is to be surrounded by friends and loved ones. I’m going to put down my pen, and go and hold babies, and take a moment to thank God for what he has done for me.

Have a wonderful holiday season dear friends, and I’ll see you back on the porch in a few weeks.
My poem for today is from the same assignment I gave out last month. Use a line from a song or poem for a prompt. No reading this time because I’m updating from the coffee shop. Louise Gluck used this first line in one of her poems.

Remember the Days
Acknowledgements to Louise Gluck

Remember the days of our first happiness
when I sailed home,
hitchhiked over Hawks Nest
sea bag full of gifts from far places?

No clothes but those soiled by African soil.

All of our furniture hand-me-downs.
A Christmas tree we had to cut in half to make it fit.

How you worried that I would be disappointed
by your baby bump after being gone for so long,
and all I wanted to do was to hold you both.

Remember how quickly the years passed
and we had more than we needed
our kids had kids, and everything changed.

And now when the silence overtakes me
the one truth that I still know for sure
is that if I were coming from far places,
I'd come home to you,
in these the days of our happiness.

**********

Time Off

Wow! I can see it has been a few weeks since I’ve been here, and I didn’t mean it to be that long, but as you can see from the pictures I’ve had visitors.

Ladybug and her sister Scooter came to visit, and my house hasn’t been the same since. It has been a year since Ladybug has been here, and she has really grown, and was comfortable to move right in. Soon after the car was unloaded she had an army of dolls and a library of books scattered around like a minefield in the living room. My writing partner Oreo decided that under the table was the best place to be, and was confused the whole week about which stuffed animals belonged to which one of these creatures. That’s how confused she was. To her credit no stuffed animals were destroyed during the visit. And another thing, I never realized there were so many different princess dolls, and of course they all have names and do special things.

Scooter has never visited, but was a good baby all the time. I named her scooter because when she is awake she wants to go someplace, anyplace, but hasn’t figured out just how to do it so far.

After the tears and the last waves goodbye I went to bed with a cold, and relaxed for a few days with some old movies and Dan Brown’s new book.

By the way I didn’t write anything at all during the week, but those kisses and hugs sure gave me ideas and a lot of good memories. I went on a hayride, and we hid behind some giant pumpkins, and fed the donkeys, and walked up the dirt road, and collected rocks. All those good things we forget to do when we are older.

So, I’ll get back to it, but for today I’ll share a poem for all my girls.

Note to Our Girls

There will come a time when the
memory of us will hang like leaf fire
smoke on the crisp fall air.

Swirling around you our touch and kisses will again
brush your cheeks, whispers of love will again
make you smile as you did when we held you
close to our beating hearts.

It is our promise to you, and if on that day you evoke us
with our names you will hear our laughter high up
as we float on loves soft breeze.

On the Hill

I was looking through some pictures the other day. I’m trying to determine the ones I want to use in my next chapbook. In the process I found some pictures that I have always called On The Hill pictures.

That’s one of them on the right of this entry. They are all taken in Kellen Hollow, and on the only spot with a good background, the hill just above the road, and near the rabbit hutches. The hillside has changed over the years. There was a garden there, an apple tree, and the chicken house stood just out of sight on the right. The building on the left is the garage with Granddad’s workshop.

The house was a brick building originally built for use as a store with living on the second story. It is where I sat on the steps and learned the stories of my family and friends. Where I became a writer and artist.

Whenever the family came for holidays or weekends, and if somebody had a camera, a picture was taken on the hill, more times than not.

The people in this picture are my Father and his brothers. I don’t know who that is peeking around the corner. I’ve written poems about all of them. Two of them are gone. I think this picture was taken just before I was born. If I could, I’d love to step into this picture and tell them all just how much they have meant to me over the years, and hold them in my arms one more time. Each one taught me something that made me who I am.

I’m sharing this prose poem with you today about what I imagine happened with my Uncle Ray (second from the right) when he saw my Aunt again after many years. She was special, and so was he. I miss them very much. As time goes on I’ll share more about these brothers with you.

Whispers To Marge

When tomorrow never comes, I think I will know you when we meet again. I’ll walk up to you on some crowded street, maybe an outside market that we were so fond of visiting. We’ll not speak for a few moments. I’ll tip my hat because men will once again wear fedoras, and you’ll see me as a younger man, dressed in a white suit like in a Humphrey Bogart movie. You’ll still be as beautiful as you were when I saw you that last time in the hospital. For a moment you’ll not recognize me, because I’ll be dressed unlike I was in that other place, but finally you’ll smile, reach for my hand, and we’ll walk around the corner, to the house we always dreamed would be ours.

Looking at My Notes

Hi Friends.

Well, the notes and words I wrote in the mountains have given me some good ideas for poems. I also have spent some time over the last week transcribing the ideas I recorded while I was driving. So, now that I have all of this information I guess I need to get down to some heavy writing.

This morning I was playing with some Sedoka I started in the mountains. Remember, the poem with the 5-7-7 5-7-7 syllable count? They are fun to write, and they keep the words at a minimum, and the pictures sharp. It’s a good way to getting back to writing if you’ve been away for awhile.

While doing that I have thought a lot about this blog, and what I might do to change it for the better. If you have any ideas, please let me know. If something’s not working I need to get rid of it. I’ve been thinking about doing an audio file of each poem I have here, and having that available when you visit, so you can hear the poem as you read it. Might work, so I’ll see what I can do.

I’m working on a new book of poems, and since the first book is out of print I’m thinking about doing an audio book with those poems and stories. I’m keeping busy. I hope you are writing also. I’ll see you the next time.

Coyote

Shifty eyed rascal
Looking over your shoulder
Your reputation follows

Keeps getting closer
I hear you crying at night
Lamenting your shameful life

Storm

Aspen leaves turn up
Elk move to sheltered valley
Wind screams through high pine branches

The storm closes in
A wolf pounding at the door
I dream of you beside me

First Day on the Road

A little over a month ago I packed my “stuff” turned on an alarm that didn’t need to be turned on, and at four in the morning I kissed the wife, patted the dog, and headed west. In an hour or so I was through the gorge and headed for the Mississippi River crossing. In the early afternoon I was in the rolling hills of Arkansas, and by the time I decided to stop for the night I had driven 800 miles. The excitement had resurrected the child in me, and I had made notes for poems and stories all day, and my recorder was full of my ramblings.

There had been wonderful moments during the day. The passing scenery, and the thoughts of loved ones and friends, that I wouldn’t see for some time, brought ideas that had been hidden from me. Birds I had hoped to see sat in the fields and trees along the road, and sang at the rest stops. I met an old man sitting outside a camper reading his bible, and we talked about his trip to see his children in the east, and how his wife had passed a while ago, and how much he missed having her on trips like this, and I knew there was a poem there just waiting for me. Those moments were special, and others stick in my mind like the one time during the day that the world slowed down as a car came at me across the road divider, and I looked into the frightened eyes of the other driver as the wire fence caught him and began to shred his vehicle, and the few moments after when I stopped and gave thanks that the fence was there at just the right instant to save me.

That night I spent time in the worst hotel room I have ever been in, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve been to 33 different countries. I didn’t think it was that bad until I rolled over and fell into the hole in the mattress. It was like sleeping on the edge of an abyss all night, but heck, I was on an adventure!

The next morning I headed for the flat lands before turning north toward the high mountains and trout streams. Driving across the plains I watched the fences flash by, and remembered a poem I had written when I first made this trip, and saw the debris hanging on the barbed wire.

I’m happy to be back on the porch with you, and I’ll have more to share later, and a few new poems.


Barbed Wire

There are some days I feel like a fence.
A strand of barbed wire for every year.
Different debris on each level.

The lower strands almost unseen now,
covered over, or rusted away
all memories back into the weeds.

Many are bent against the other
from someone climbing up the years
taking it all, unbearable weight
unable to keep the tension.

Seems like everything that rolls
everything that could happen
hits me square and sticks there.

They’ve not been all bad.
There’s been great moments.
Golden flags in the solar wind.

I guess that’s life.
Catching moments as they roll,
keeping some, letting others go.

Birthday Ramblings

So, it’s my birthday. I’m doing those exciting things that us ancient ones do on that special day of the year. I went to an appointment to get the car lubed and checked out, so the time in the waiting room was pretty special. It was quiet and the others waiting didn’t know it was my birthday until my friends called and sang to me, then it was very funny to the whole dealership.

My wife gave me a card, and as usual it was one that was special and tender. She bought me a new pair of waders for fly fishing a month or so ago. She always knows exactly what I want if I beg long enough.

Looking back over all those years I can only say that these years are all icing on the cake. God has been good to me in all ways. Others had predicted my demise many times, and I agreed with them, but here I am.

I have only been troubled by one birthday. That was the one that I knew I was too old to return to life on the sea as a military man. I had not planned on going back, but it was just the fact that I couldn’t. I was no longer the warrior, and had to move into another phase of life.

I’ve had friends that have stayed in contact all these years, and have made friends that will be special for years to come. I’ve seen wonderful miracles. Seen friends healed and prayers answered. Seen high mountains and flat seas. Loved and been loved.

I’ve been given poems that I am proud of, and have seen people that I have helped go on to be writers and artists.

I have children and grand children, and for my age I am in good health. I have family who care where I am, and what I'm doing.

Soon I will go on my yearly walkabout, because my wife knows that no matter how old I get there is still an adventure to be realized. That is something pretty special.

So today is outstanding for all that and more. Thank you for sharing it with me here in North Georgia, on my porch, on a sunny August day.

I Don’t See

I don’t see as far as I used to.
I remember being able to see past the horizon,
steel ships crossing from one ocean to another,
a young man on the bridge tanned by a southern sun.

Farther still seeing the river of Eden and north to the
great desert, always looking ahead for an adventure.
Seeing dreams coming true.

A wife and children just as I saw them walking out of time,
just as I saw them, and the years passing like a movie
in fast forward up to this day.

Now while I strain to see out past the mountains
it all has become a mystery to me, and I take my glasses,
picking them up with my grandfather’s hands, as the young
man stands in the shadows, and smiles.

Early Morning Thoughts

It’s early in the morning. I couldn’t sleep, but not because I was hungry. These poems need very little explanation. I’m so very fortunate to have shelves of books, a good home, three meals a day, and people who know where I’ll be sleeping tonight. It’s not just the poor that need you today. Somebody you know is lonely, or just needs to hear your voice. Take a minute, and we’ll talk more next time.


Get Up

Get Up
GET...... UP, you’re thinking about the game anyway.
You’re looking sideways at Janet Thompson’s legs
anyway.

Get Up
Walk back the aisle. Don’t think about
the stares, the whispers, or the preacher.
Push open the double doors at the back of the sanctuary,
run down the limestone steps, across the flagstone walk,
past the parking lot full of shiny cars, and up the street.

Run to the corner where the old woman
sits on the grate, wipes the snot from her nose,
cracks the snow from her hair.
Walk up to her and beg her forgiveness,
rip your pocket off, and give her all the
money you have.

Maybe
Maybe
Just maybe then, you’ll really know what
to pray for, and what the truth is.



Hollow People
Cincinnati 1972

The hollow people of the city are kept north of 13th street by police batons and threats, where they wont spoil the store windows and the suits can walk to lunch without seeing reminders of the real world.

Up there above the parkway where the canal used to be they wait for lunch at the Catholic Church and sleep on cots in the mission. Others who know the secret, walk along the Race Street wall and fade from view into the shadows where the transformer vault is hidden beneath the sidewalk.

Under cardboard they are warmed by the green boxes and sleep to the hum of electricity flowing through copper coils. A few blocks away the office workers, cubical sitters, and bank presidents are giving them comfort by just turning on the lights.

Keepsakes

Do you have any keepsakes? You know, a memento, something you hold dear, or something you picked up or was given at a special time. Something you wouldn’t sell or give away, but will pass it along to a special person someday.

Have you ever lost a keepsake? I lost a pocketknife once, and looked for days and then years for it. I whined and cried around so much my wife bought me a new one, but you and I know that just isn’t the same. Then one day I put on a suit I hadn’t worn for years, and there it was. I was like a kid. Just goes to show you how often I wear a suit now that I am out of the corporate world.

Do women have more keepsakes than men? I suspect some do. You wouldn’t think so if you walked into my office. Just inside the door on the left is a shelf full of my treasures. I was a navigator on a ship, and there is a replica sextant there along with my collection of compasses, with one special compass my Uncle gave me when I was a kid.

My Dad’s “spy” camera is there. Never mind that you can’t buy film for it anymore, I cherish it anyway.

Along with the pocket watch my Granddaughter gave me are my shells from the Persian Gulf, and my spear points from Africa, my lighter with the engraving of my ship on it, and a fly I caught a huge bass with many years ago.

Hidden away are my fossil collection and my arrowheads, and in my bedside table is the bible my Great-Grandfather carried with the cigarette papers still marking his place.

Do young people have keepsakes? Maybe it’s something we have to teach them about, like the stories of our past. I hope the poems I write will be a keepsake for my children, and they will want to pass them along.

I guess the reason I got onto this subject is because I talked to my Aunt the other night, and she and her girls are writing a cookbook together. My Aunt is a wonderful cook, and this will be something special. This cookbook will be written from notes on stained paper that have been passed down, and perfected by loving hands. It will be a gift to cherish.

I believe in keepsakes. They are our connection to other times, other places and other people long gone. They help to illustrate the stories that echo over the years and live in our hearts, and are passed from mouth to ear. A keepsake is a poem just waiting to be written.

Where are yours?

The Arrowhead

This shard of pale cream flint
taken from the shallow waters ¾
who dropped this deadly missile,
life or death tool, misplaced or
cast by bow and string
on some far ago day?

Was it stained by blood of beast or man
or forgotten in the frenzy of battle or flight?
Hours of chipping, the craft of a man,
no not savage: a tool maker, a warrior,
holding the pride of his work.

Now he sleeps with other warriors
from this valley, forgotten over the
centuries, but for this moment
he comes near and he and I
together marvel at this perfect gift
he left for me.

Robert W. Kimsey 2005