Reading STATION ELEVEN

 

Hammock sways 

on a gentle breeze

between sycamore

and maple,

the book open 

and steadied

on my stomach.

Ant weaves 

through leg hair

tickling me while

a squirrel chirps 

not ten feet away

in the branches 

above my body.

Mind wavers

between worlds

where pestilence

resets time, or not,

and I am one with 

what was and is

and is to come.

***

What is Left Behind

I think it is safe to say at this point that writing poems has become a habit if not a hobby of mine these past several years.  It’s likely no coincidence it began during my time serving as a medical officer in the Army with a deployment to Iraq.  It provided a kind of consolation in moments of near total isolation and high stress, necessity being the mother of invention.

But then I can jump back even further to my freshman year of high school in English class.  We had a poetry book project due that was supposed to entail finding images from magazines or other collage materials to illustrate 10 poems that we were to write and bind them together.  Trying to come up with 10 poems ex nihilo was proving to be too difficult after writing maybe 2.  That’s when my mind reversed the process by first finding and combining compelling images and then writing poems about what I felt the images were conveying to me.  This was the key to unlocking that particular project.  

Fast forward 30 years and this kind of reverse engineering has been a major driver in many of the things I’ve written whether poems or short stories or creative non-fiction/fiction hybrid pieces.  The image is the starting point and my mind draws a story or poem from it.  This has been my go-to writing prompt on many occasions.  That’s not to say I don’t write things first sometimes and then find images for it, but the process can be bi-directional.

So for those of you trying to find a good stress reliever or a way to better understand yourself and the world around you I highly recommend this type of writing prompt.  It will surprise you what your mind will find in images and how they can draw out some innate wisdom.

And here is an example of the process from yesterday.  I took this photo which I did not find particularly compelling but then I started to think about what it might be saying and out came a kind of morbid poem that is not very good, but it made me laugh to see “teen” and “keen” juxtaposed and I love the alliteration of “waking world of sleeping souls.”  

When I lie down 

for my last nap

and fail to awaken

what will be 

left of me in this 

waking world

of sleeping souls?  

A vintage metal sign

*DRINK Coca-Cola*

purchased at a

Flea Market 

when I was 

a teen keen 

to collect stuff.

A prayer shrine

made from

scrap wood and

leftover paints

during the isolation 

of a pandemic

hung on our fence.

But now they 

keep each other

company, hanging

on my garage wall

where they’ll likely 

remain until my 

efforts end.

***

The Cubicle

 

I saw her in her cubicle in an adjacent building on a Friday and then out in the main hospital on a Monday.  They are connected by a hallway, an elevator, and then another hallway that passes by my office.  An image came to my mind unbidden: She is in a four-sided cubicle with high white walls that reach nearly to the paneled ceiling.

She works dutifully until the proper time arrives and a white door-sized panel slides upwards releasing her to enter the maze of the hospital.  She interacts with other employees and each time her job is done correctly another sliding door, smaller than the first, opens nearby to reveal a tasty snack.  This motivates her to continue.

And in this metaphor I see my own wanderings in the hospital up and down stairs, zigzagging through hallways, and in and out of rooms in what amounts to a fabulous gerbil city that confines me throughout the workday in its squared tunnels.  I smile and say “Hi” a lot because happy gerbils are productive gerbils (and vice versa).

***

The Pencil Nub

 

It’s only a pencil nub I found in my daughter’s art supplies, but it is significant.  It is part of our shared experience as we sit together on a Sunday morning conceptualizing her Mother’s Day project and talk about things both serious and silly, though mostly silly.

She has a smile that could power a town; a dimple so deep I could fall into it.  I am painfully aware these times are limited.  She is on the cusp of leaving her childhood behind and even now anticipates the day she will be a mother in what she says and does.

She laughs at the pencil nub as I act out writing tiny script on an impossibly small piece of paper.  She tells me she and a friend at school were continuously breaking off the lead, sharpening and re-sharpening, until they created this comical writing utensil.

I feel she is sharpening and re-sharpening me as a human being; watching me shrink day by day even as she grows.  I furiously write to better understand myself, the world around me, and to leave a legacy of sorts to my children and my children’s children.

***