October Already!

What a wonderful last few months I’ve had.

It started with the completion of a bucket list item. I had planned a hike across Big Frog Mountain for some time, and the opportunity came along, and my friend Michael and I set out on what would be a few great days of hiking and an opportunity to camp on the top of the mountain. The weather was great with the only set-back being the dry springs after Double Spring Gap, so we had to carry water for the night and the following day until we made it to the base of the mountain and a good stream where we could filter water. I had one sip of water left when we finally found a clear deep place to stock up. I think the count on bears seen or heard was five. The night we spent on the top was highlighted by the coyotes coming into camp and talking among themselves about this intrusion.



My next adventure was a trip to Charleston South Carolina. I’m not shy about what writers I like, and Pat Conroy is one of them. Linda had seen an article in one of her magazines and had cut out the list of his favorite places, so we made it a point to see some of those. We walked south of Broad, and I took pictures of the houses, then we walked between the houses to see some of the hidden gardens there. I hope to find some poems in my notes and pictures this winter. We found the Blue Bicycle, a book store with a wonderful poetry selection. I could have spent the rest of the day there, but after awhile the looks from my traveling companions told me we had to move on. No, really they were very kind when I wanted to brouse or take pictures. Well, they had to be, because I did sit and watch the ladies run through the Straw Market. ( How can two people shop so much and buy so little?) Chalk that up to another difference between men and women. Oh, and I also visited Ft. Sumter. The ride out and the information was great fun. And if you want some of the best seafood, and a great place to eat it, Hyman's is top notch. One big disappointment. I went there mainly to see a ship just like the one I served on, but it was in dry dock, I didn’t get to see it, but heck what a great excuse to go back. Charleston is now officially one of my favorite places.

Last weekend Linda and I went up to Lake Cumberland and stayed at the lodge for the annual meeting of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. I had not seen some of those folks for a few years, and it was wonderful to see them. The highlight of my times with them are the readings in the evenings when we all sit in a circle and read until someone decides to call it a night and we agree. It is fantastic to see the growth and hear the new poems. Like all such societies KSPS is going through a time of member decline. I suspect it will change, but we as older poets need to get the word out that poetry matters.

Well, that’s just about it for an update. I wanted to get my book finished and my audio book completed before the end of October, but it was a good summer and fall, and I’ve collected some ideas that I think will grow into a poem or two. I hope you have also. The trees have turned here in the mountains, and while I don’t look forward to winter, I do look forward to putting words on paper and seeing what they become.

Guess you can tell it has been a good few months, by the number of "greats" I have used in this writing. Forgive me!

I’ve been working on this poem for some time, and after I left Charleston it came together for me. Maybe it will be longer, or maybe not.

Mermaid

What if there was a day
Long after I had seen you,
and you had come closer
Long after I realized it wasn’t an hallucination

After you had let me touch your hair,
We both realized it wasn’t the siren song, but love
That brought us back to the water’s edge.

Then with the kiss
The knowing that one would need to make the sacrifice
Knowing that the pain of the transformation
Could never be as bad as the separation.

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.

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.

**********

Update

Well, I can once again see that I need to do some catch-up. I always have good intentions with this blog, but it just seems like this time of the year there is so much to get ready for the cold weather, get ready for the holidays, get ready for church activities, and get some writing done, and then getting ready for a nap needs to be put in there someplace.

Anyway, here’s an update. I have finished reading two books over the last few weeks. Dan Brown has done an excellent job on The Lost Symbol. I suspect the tourists will flock to Washington D.C. to see the hidden secrets he has mentioned. Sure did get some insight from him for my own book. All that action in just a few days sure keeps the reader ready to turn the next page. I also finished Patricia Cornwell’s book The Body Farm. I have no idea why I have never read it before, but I can tell you, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

As far as poetry is concerned, I am going through a Ryan Adams book called Infinity Blues. You might know him as a singer/songwriter. Some of the poems are raw, very personal, and beautifully written. I also picked up Poetry of the Golden Generation Volume II. Some wonderful writings from southern poets.

The Blue Ridge Poets and Writers had a reading a few weeks ago in a local church. We were given supper, and then we had an hour to read. The room was filled with over 90 people, but the first timers were able to read with confidence, and I was very proud of the group. The feedback has been good, and before we left I think most of the readers gave the poems away to people who asked for a copy.

So, a few weeks ago after all the rain we had here in the North Georgia, and you might have seen this on the weather channel, or read about it, a stone the size of a bus came off the mountain and brought trees and other debris with it, blocking the road a little west of the 1996 Olympic kayak and canoe site. Well, that’s not far from my home, and when I want to go “to town” that’s the way I go to Chattanooga Tennessee for a day of shopping. We are told that it will be closed for at least two months, so there goes any Christmas shopping we had planed to do there. Well, I mapped out another route over the mountains, and that was no good, so I got out the computer and put in all the stores I wanted to visit, and headed south toward Atlanta, but hoping I could do everything before getting that far away. It was a great day, and the wife and I found everything, and finally rested in a bookstore before heading home that afternoon. This will be important to know later.

On a personal note, a week or so ago I was sitting with some men I meet with regularly, and they started to harass me about how sad and morbid my poems are. I informed them that talk like that really bums me out, and I would try to do better. So, on my trip to the “big city” I looked for inspiration, and I think I found it. Here is a draft of my new poem. Would you call it a prose poem, or just prose, or something you’d rather not say? You be the judge. Have a wonderful day, keep smiling, and have fun.

Rant

So, I’m in a book store fifty-eight miles from the house, and I’m at a table close to the magazines reading a poetry magazine because I’m really tired of buying it and then seeing a half a dozen poems and the rest advertisements, and commentaries and interviews by somebody who has no idea how to ask a question without adding words they just discovered from their thesaurus, and someday I just know one of these poets will ask them, are you just stupid or something, and what kind of silly darn question is that anyway?
So, I’m about ready to put it back on the shelf and out of the stacks comes this beautiful woman in blue jeans and a blue pull over shirt. She walks around my table and stands at my elbow looking at bride magazines, and you know how they put the good magazines under that middle shelf, and that’s another pet peeve of mine, but anyway she bends over to see them, and everything separates, and I’m looking at this triangle with straps going in three directions, and it’s red with white stripes, or white with red stripes, and it’s really close to my face, and honest, all I can think about is, that just doesn’t go with that blouse.

Veterans' Day Thoughts

Well, there I am in 1967. The third bunk up. I didn’t need much in those days, just three meals a day and a place to put a picture of my love.

I’ll write more this week, and I want to tell you about the reading we had last week, but today I want to say a few words about Veterans’ Day.

As I look back over the history of my family I see the names of men who have served this country proudly. All of us knew the truth of the statement, “Freedom is not free.”

It was easy to pack my bags, so very long ago, and exciting to put on the uniform, but I didn’t know the anguish of the loved ones who waited, until I was a parent and my son was the warrior.

My prayers are for all parents of those in the military, and my heart is breaking for those who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

And to those men who taught me how to be a man, by word and deed, I just want to say that I am proud of you. I love you very much, and thank you for your service to this country.

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.

Writing Lists

In Ray Bradbury’s book Zen in the Art of Writing he makes this statement.
“But along through those years I began to make lists of titles, to put down long lines of nouns. These lists were the provocations, finally, that caused my better stuff to surface.”

I make lists. Lists of words I hear or read, words I hear spoken in the mountains, first lines of songs and poems, and names of towns I travel through. It’s just a natural thing with me. Over the years I’ve made lists for camping trips, bird lists, flower lists and lists of books I’ve read. Filled notebooks with ideas and prompts for writing. The words obsessive, compulsive come to mind, but lists have kept me going as a writer, and have pulled me from times when I thought I couldn’t put another word on paper.

The reason I mention this subject is to introduce the poem I’m going to share and read for you today. It started from a list of scientific terms and branched out from there. What do magnets do? Why do we use mathematics and what is theory? Are any of these metaphors for relationships? How far can one person be from another? All questions that produced a list that walked me into the poem. The last two italic words can be changed to mother/daughter, brother/brother, or may speak of a religious relationship. All would fit, and can make the poem universal.

If you’re a writer, keep lists. They will help when you need inspiration.
Have a wonderful day.

Point of Return

There is a point on the face of the earth
where a person can’t get farther away
without being closer.

Out there, seas and mountains of our
own creation are positioned between
loved ones, and when each moves,
the magnets of indifference
push the other away.

It’s all science, formula,
quotient, similar poles,
until love refuses twisted logic
and in forgiveness
whispers

Father,

and whispers,

Son.

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.

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

Bug In The Car

Let’s talk about getting started. It’s never been much of a problem with me over the years. The ideas come from friends, family circumstances, pictures like the one of my Mother and I on the right, and many other places. I’m not telling you anything new here, in fact we have discussed this before. However, reading other writer’s poems is by far my best way of getting started. W. S. Merwin just knocks me out with his amazing, insightful poetry, and here’s a secret. I love women poets.

My collection of books has a majority of women poets, and there is one outstanding reason for that. They are so honest in their writing. They aren’t afraid to put words on paper, and to shed all outward shells, and dig down deep into the true meaning of what they feel.

Sharon Olds, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and others. If you can read those poets and not have images floating around you, well, do something else because this writing life just isn’t your “thing.” And there are many others. I found a wonderful book at a sale called The Oxford Book Of Australian Women’s Verse, edited by Susan Lever. What wonderful poetry! I love to read poetry from different cultures because they bring images to me that I may have never discovered about my own culture.

So, you’ve read, and nothing is happening, and you’re on a trip or just going to work, and there it is, a poem floating around your car like a bug that’s flown in the window. I used to grab a pad of paper from my bag and try to stay on the road while I jotted down crucial words and lines. It’s just like an older version of texting while driving. DON’T DO IT! Now I pull over and jot it down, or better yet I have a small recorder I keep in my bag for just those times. Yes, when stopped at a light people look at you funny, but you can just mouth the words, “I’m a writer,” and they will shake their head and look the other way. Don’t let those bugs of verse get away. You’ll never have them again, and worse yet, they might just fly out and into another poet’s window.

Here’s a new poem. It appeared on a long drive, but I’ve revised it, and read it to my critique group, and now I’ll share it with you. I’m sorry to return to this theme, but I think this is the last poem on the subject. Well, you know how that is.

Funeral Clothes

After 6 hundred and 33 miles, and 2 years
a night time phone call put me on the road.
Her husband’s voice, strained, saying,
your mother has had an attack
and maybe you haven’t heard,
her mind is leaving a little each day.
You might want to come.

So in the growing light of a new day
I packed a duffel, and on the hanging bar
carefully chosen, I hung funeral clothes,
and hummed to myself
as I merged with others headed north.

Two days of mountain roads and city traffic
long minutes before knocking on the door,
then there she was, small, in a printed gown
plastic band still around her black and blue arm,
a little girl’s smile and a hesitant caress.

Hurry she said, settling on the couch
legs pulled under a tattered afghan,
then whispered, see, there’s Roy.
Black and white cowboys on the screen.
A young man she once knew as Leonard.

A moment alone,
and the question burning on my tongue.
Mother, do you know who I am?
And the answer,
I love it when he sings with Dale,
don’t you?

In the growing light of a new day, I stood in the hall
decided not to wake her
afraid of being a stranger in her room.
So I dressed in funeral clothes, and hummed to myself
until I merged with the others, headed south.

© Robert W. Kimsey 2009

Family Thoughts

Hi,

I’m glad you could stop by today. I haven’t been on the porch for a while. Seems like the days just go by, and then I get to missing you, and think about what we might talk about when you arrive. Today with the wind in the trees, and the end of the storm that came across Big Frog Mountain last night, I have been thinking about family, and wishing they were here.

I am so lucky to have some special people that have loved me for a long time. I’ll always be the kid to my uncles. They have always protected me, and given me wisdom. Each one has a special gift, and I learned so much as a kid and a young adult. Some are gone now, but they continue to whisper to me with poems. Today I miss them more than usual. I want to share a poem with you about one of those special people. He was a troubled man, yet a genius with building and inventing, when the demons were away.

I know there must be a friend or relative who has made a difference in your life, and who you wish would be here on the porch sharing stories with us for just a few minutes. Maybe it’s time you wrote those feelings down. Here’s my poem. Eastern State is a hospital in Kentucky.


Eastern State

We’d drive down to Eastern State
and he’d come into the lobby,
wearing his own clothes,
ready to go home.
The demons left behind in rubber sheets,
cold water, driven away by electricity.

On the way it’s coffee and pie,
How’s Homer and Russ?
Damn Mama stop messin with my hair.
And silence.

Each time I’d watch him being reborn.
The wonder of wide-open fields,
showing in his eyes and
his hand rubbing the car seat.
Lazarus resurrected.

It was as if we pressed the button
on a stop watch, counting down,
time diminishing with each mile
from the hospital.

Time growing short
before the first drink
of this reincarnation.

At home Mama would insist on pictures
and he’d stand, hands in his pockets,
enduring, embarrassed.

An urgency would build in him.
A child sick of the ordinary,
picking at the old wound
as the time ticked away.

When he went out headed to town,
Mama would sit at the window
knowing he could only stay home for awhile,
praying it would be longer this time.

Longer before the call from the jail.
Longer before the burning of clothing,
the curses and the threats—
before the straight jackets,
apologies and tears.

He built the bomb of ruin slowly.
Ingredients of hops, yeast, distilled corn,
copper tubing, and a fuse of pills
was all he needed.

When the stopwatch hit zero
it all exploded around us,
and the litter of hurt feelings,
charred lives and sobs of pain followed him
on the long ride back in the ambulance.

We’d drive down to Eastern State,
and he’d come into the lobby,
and Mama would hold him
while he wept in her arms,
and begged to come home.

Robert W. Kimsey

Remembering Naomi

On my recent trip to the city I was thinking about the people I had known when I lived there, and one of the special ones was my Mother-in-law, Naomi. She was a person that loved parties, loved stories, and was a very good artist. Naomi lived with us for awhile, and as she progressed into that dark place called Alzheimer’s she went inside herself, and in the end just wanted to leave here.

I loved her, and miss her.

Along the way I wrote a number of poems about her, and want to share them with you. If you are in this situation, my heart and prayers go out for you.

Alzheimer’s
I’m afraid to stop for gas
on the way home.
If I got out of the car
it would explode out of me.
That scream I’ve held since
I walked into your room.
That log of a lump in my throat
tearing at my heart.
It grows when you beg to come home.
It mutates when you cry
and promise to try harder
to remember.
It curls like a lizard around my faith
causing me to doubt my love,
commitment,
promises.
If you could just hear
my whisper.
good bye

Dark Star

So frail, in and out of the present.
At least your window sees the trees,
not the parking lot.
I remember time past at the Playboy Club.
Drinking gin fizzes, laughing at your antics.
Black skirt, white blouse, shaking it,
steady on the dance floor.
Alzheimer’s came between trips to
the beauty parlor and summer walks.
Sucked the air out of your life,
made it the size of a small room.
Time imploding, shrinking in on itself.
A dark star in the end, no light escaping.
Others left to tell the stories.
Others left to remember.

First published in The Scioto Voice

Friends,

It’s been a week since I was here. I’ve been traveling part of that time.

I went back to the city to see my new grand baby. What a joy it was to hold her, and watch her sleep. Her name is Grace, and her sister Chloe is still amazed at who this new person is.

I had some time before I came back, and decided to drive down some of the streets that I walked when I was a kid. There are so many poems there. I see the trees planted by us kids when we were in the first years of school, now tall and hanging over the street, and all those houses that once held my friends, now owned by other families with young children. The toys on the sidewalks, just upgrades of the ones we left there.

Isn’t life wonderful? I was looking through some poems to share with you, and thought I’d share my autobiographical poem with you. The whole story, up until I came to the mountains, is there. It might act as a prompt for you.

Not much more to share with you today. I’ll be back in full measure in a few days. Right now I need to walk in mountain air, be thankful for it all, and listen for a poem.

Paths

Corky was the bare foot runner, dust devil catcher,
Red Ryder black bird killer.
Drinking water from the Shawnee well.
Listened to Mama read poems from the Times.

Robert haunted city schools, talked
“black tar, far tar, car tar.”
Fists stopped the teasing. Camel smoking
scribbler of poetry in the night.

Boot camp, bell bottomed wanderer,
Africa, Asia, Kilimanjaro.
Swimmer of Persian seas, walker of desert rims.
All whispered remember, remember in the night.

Bob, Bob -- Mister Bob.
Blue collar fades to white, run the show,
pay the price, watch your step, kiss the kids and
read, read them poetry in the night.

Life swings on a gold watch chain,
time hides the path.
Corky whispers stories over Starbucks Chai,
Bob decides it’s hard to live here,
leaves his notes on the desk.

Robert — writes poetry in the night,
wondering, wondering if it’s too late.

Robert W. Kimsey

Music and Poetry

After reading other poets, songs and music are a great inspiration for me. I love to listen to movie soundtracks while I write. I can’t go wrong with the music from Lonesome Dove, or A River Runs Through It.

The other day I was listening to satellite radio, and Harry Chapin was singing “Taxi.” Remember that one? Well, maybe you’re not as old as I am. The story of the song is that this taxi driver picks up a woman, and before long he realizes that she’s his old girlfriend, and they spend some time talking until he gets her home. He remembers that when they were going together they both had big dreams. He wanted to fly, and she wanted to be and actress. It all turned out very differently. I went to utube, and listened to it one more time. Then I looked through my poems for what I had written, after a meeting with someone from my past.

I avoid school reunions. I went to two, but I might not go to very many more. I came to the conclusion that those people who cared about me, and we had things in common, were the ones that didn’t need a reunion to see me, because we still corresponded and saw each other when we could. There is a sadness to those get-togethers. The posers still pose, and the popular kids still point at the not so popular and whisper, even after all those years. I do admit, it isn’t always that way. Small schools seem to be different. The school I attended in Kentucky has an all school reunion each year, and it’s fun to see my father talking to school mates while I do the same across the room. I always leave with a smile and am thankful for such wonderful friends.

Anyway, I’ll share a poem with you about an unexpected meeting of two people, like in Harry’s song.


Bill Collector

It’s not a first-rate job.
Not one you go home and brag about.
You make up rules,
over a hundred dollars and off it goes.
Under thirty, no way.
But sometimes the boss gets wise,
demands you take a hard line.

The arrogant ones are easy.
They curse and insist you
leave the lights on, while they finger
a wad of money and glare at you.
Of course you disconnect the electric,
tell yourself they deserve it.

After thirty years I remember the day
I walked up to that rusted out trailer.
How the half naked kids clung to
the woman’s legs, while I told her
why I was there.
Then I really looked at her, recognized
the girl most likely,
student council president.
I prayed she wouldn’t recognize
the class clown,
the kid she wouldn’t be caught dead with.

Call the office or I’ll be back, I said.
Down the road I stopped in a quiet spot,
wrote on the order in triplicate
Bad dog unable to disconnect
No customer contact,
then hid in the back of the van
until the tears stopped.

Robert W. Kimsey

Family History Poems

So, it’s raining again. The fog is hanging low in the valleys, and the streams are full. No fly fishing this week for sure. I’m going through pictures that I can put on the blog, and am looking at some lecture notes I’ve had in a pile on the desk, waiting for changes.

I use the questions that are asked at sessions, to generate ideas for the next talk. When I speak to poets about where to find ideas, I do have some favorite things to do that might help. One of those things is to look at family history. Not just your own, but other families that you might know or have been told about. Volumes of books have been written about the history of a particular family. Those types of ideas can feed a collection of poetry also. Remember that the person that’s speaking becomes so very important, and that person isn’t always the poet.

A woman who has done a beautiful book of poetry is Diane Gilliam Fisher. Her book Kittle Bottom takes us back to the time of the West Virginia mine wars of 1920-1921. It is a wonderful book that is written in the voices of the people who lived during that time. Diane researched the book of some years. Every moment in her book is a moment that changes the people involved, and I remember thinking back through my family history to find just such a moment. By the way, a kittle bottom is a flat-bottomed rock that hangs in the roof of a coal mine, and can fall at any time. In my part of Kentucky I always heard it called a bell rock.

I have never written a complete book on one period of time, but it is a marvelous idea. I’ll bet that if you look back over the years, you will also find a moment in time that changed your family forever. Here is a poem that I took from my family, and put myself in the mind of my Grand Father, on just such a day.

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 nothing.

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 making creeks on his cheeks,
and he pointed his finger at me and whispered,
”Dammit Boy, you ain’t never going in a mine.”

Remembering Old Friends

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance for those who have died serving my country. This is a great time to honor our veterans, and to remember those we have known, and have made a difference in our lives.

When I look back, I remember some veterans who did not die in a war, but were forever changed. Here’s a poem about one very special man that I will honor this weekend. Maybe someday this day will be a thing remembered from long ago. I pray so.


Old Soldier

Sitting on the loading dock,
some damn fool would always say
something to get him started.
A word or phrase, a headline or jab
would send him down that road.

It was never those of us
who had been in the service.
When it started we’d look away,
down at our feet,
zone out to another place.

His face would go gray, he’d shake
and look across the years and
even in January the sweat
would drip from his nose
along with the tears.
And he’d tell the story again.

You could almost see him in that foxhole,
back in France, fighting for his breath.
The enemy tank above him,
his guys down the road firing everything
they had at it and him screaming
every time the tank shelled their position.

The dirt in his mouth,
the smell of gunpowder and urine all around.
All day buried until the tank moved off
and his pals came and dug him out.

It always ended the same,
him wiping the tears on his sleeve,
embarrassed, gathering his lunch box,
limping back to the storeroom.

The damn fools who started it all
headed back to work, laughing and giggling.
Those of us who avoided crowds,
always faced the door,
flinched at loud noises,
just sat there
struggling for breath.


©Robert W. Kimsey
Kudzu 2006

Finding Water

I remember when my Grandfather and Uncles decided to dig a well up the hill from ours. We had a wonderful spring that not only gave us clear, clean water, but also supplied a number of other families. Our house was on a road that had been the warrior and hunting path from the Ohio River camps and lead south to the Cherokee Lands. The spring had always been there, and when my family built the house it gave us cool water and gave me my first bath when I was born in the upper bedroom.

On the day they were going to work, the spot was found, and they started to dig. It was hard work, and they struggled, handing out buckets of clay and rock, until the water started to seep in.

Years later I was reading my diary, and started a poem about that day, but mostly about the gift of finding water. I’ve seen men that were able to cut a willow fork, hold it in two hands and walk along until it pointed to the earth. That’s where the water was to be found. I’ve also seen men that were able to take two steel rods and bend them into the shape of an “L.” They held them in their hands and walked, until the rods crossed, and indicated the spot. This was used in place of metal detectors to find iron pipes in the ground.

Anyway, I started a poem about a Water Witch. After 20 stanzas it was so long that I couldn’t take it anymore. I put it away, and decided it was a lost cause. Later, some other poets and I were talking and it was suggested that sometimes a poem chooses the form it should take. I recovered the notes, started cutting the poem, and getting rid of useless words and information. Then, I put the phrases down that really mattered, and decided that it was a Pantoum. I love the way the repeated lines set up their own rhythm. It worked!

You can see the pattern, and the repeated lines in this 12 line Pantoum. Remember, each line in a Pantoum must be able to stand alone, but also must be pertinent to all the other lines. Go ahead, get out one of those poems you are struggling with, and look at it in the light of a different form. See what happens.



Water Witch

A gift passed down by blood.
Hands born to hold a willow fork.
Seeking water hidden under dry sand.
Finding the life giver that cools the soul.

Hands born to hold a willow fork.
Quivering over the earth as he walks.
Finding the life giver that cools the soul.
Giving and giving after he is gone.

Quivering over the earth as he walks.
Seeking water hidden under dry sand.
Giving and giving after he is gone.
A gift passed down by blood.

Robert W. Kimsey