a poem is not a bed

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A poem cannot be a bed.

No matter what you’ve read,

A poem cannot be a bed.

A bed can you keep you warm on a cold morning, pushing back the start of the day.

Can a poem do that?  Keep away the chill, keep you from rising,

From the mornings bustling and the days hustling?

That’s beyond its scope, wouldn’t you say?

A bed has sheets and blankets, soft and cozy to cover you.

Can a poem do that?  Wrap you in its words, like bedclothes,

From your toes all the way up to your nose?

That’s not something words can do.

A bed can keep you safe from nightmares, cover your head.

Can a poem do that?  Act like a shield and keep your ghosts at bay,

See you through the night until the sun rises and you’re ready to play?

With a poem for armor, you’d surely be dead.

A poem cannot be a bed.

No matter what you’ve read,

A poem cannot be a bed.

A bed will be there for you, tired or not, day or night.

Can a poem do that?  Give you the space to just be,

Accepting you for who you are, not caring what you or others see?

Words on a page, they can’t do that…  Right?

……

Loved this post from Rara and thought I’d have a go at it too. Not sure I did it well at all but at least I’m trying to write more consistently and that’s nothing to scoff at these days.

_____________

Prompt: What can’t a poem be? List ten different things a poem cannot be. Then write a poem that attempts to be at least one or more of those things.

From: Eat A Persimmon by Carla Sofia Ferreira

on being five

My dear Littler Prince,

How is it possible that you are already five?  It doesn’t seem like that could be.  How has it been five years already?

It’s funny, though, at the same time I also want to ask, how has it only been five years?  The way you keep up with your older brother, not just in games but in the way you talk and interact with everyone in your life, it seems like you are so much older sometimes.  How has it only been five years?  How are you doing all the things you are doing?

I can still picture you as a newborn, your hair red and wild, and that look that said, “Get ready world, I’m coming for you.”  The world wasn’t ready for you then and it still isn’t.  Your energy and your passion and your determination and your curiosity are going to take you far.  That’s indisputable.

It leads to clashes now and then, of course, when your strong will runs into your older brothers strong will, or mine, or the Queens.  That’s okay.  When that happens, we aren’t trying to keep you from following your passions, we’re just trying to manage the day or keep you safe, or other boring but essential adulating things.  And, the good news is that as you continue to grow and learn the clashes will get fewer and father between.

So, another year gone?  It wasn’t filled with as many big adventures as our years usually are.  Soon, we may start embarking on those again, but for now we contented ourselves with smaller adventures closer to home.  You took the training wheels off your bike this year.  You took an interest in words this year, asking how to spell things, creating words of your own, really playing with language.  You sat at your older brother’s elbow for most of his schooling too.  (That’s all the curiosity mentioned above coming in.)  There were hikes and local, but new to us, camping trips.  There were water balloon fights in the summer.  There were puddle stomping sessions.  There were Lego building marathons.  There was so much squeezed in that one year that it wouldn’t be possible to capture it all here.  I hope you’ve got some good memories that you’ll hang onto for years and years. 

I know I do. 

And, I know I’m curious what the year ahead has in store for you.  It’s going to be another busy one.  Every day an adventure in its own right.

And, no, the world still won’t be ready for you, but that’s okay.  You’re going to shape it how it needs to be anyway.

Can’t wait.

Love you.

Love,

Daddy/Matticus/The Jester

the ranger

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She’d passed the old-timer on her way down river to check on a report of people swimming by the bridge.  He had somehow made it to a large boulder in the middle of the river and was casting lines towards the far bank.  Just from the split second she could see him, she saw his casts were smooth with practiced ease.  Then the sun glinted off the river spray, her eyes darted away and back to the road, which required attention at all times (because of rock falls and wildlife and tourists), and he was gone from view. 

“How in the world did he get out there?”

She made a mental note to check on him on her way back up. The report of people swimming in the more dangerous waters downstream took precedent.  Luckily, whoever it was had been smart enough to get out of the water and move on before she got there, for their sake and her own.  There were no cars matching the descriptions parked nearby and nobody in the water.  She tried her radio to call in an all-clear back to the station but received only static. 

The canyon walls played havoc with radio signals.  There were dead zones all up and down the river, and sometimes spots that worked one day wouldn’t the next.  Jumping back into her truck, she turned it around and headed back towards camp.  She’d make the report in person when she got there. 

As a Ranger, the safety of the visitors to her park was a huge priority.  It wasn’t her first priority as most guests seemed to assume, but it was a big part for sure.  Jumping into the river to save people getting swept through rapids wasn’t actually something she was tasked with.  She would be just as likely to get as injured or worse as the people she was trying to save, but she had some rope and a long pole (which was handy for all sorts of things around the park actually) and she’d do her best if called upon. 

So far, in her nearly ten summers of working the park, she’d never been called upon.  She was thankful for that.  The odds of her being able to save someone who legitimately needed saving were slim to none.  The water was too fast and too cold.  The rocks too slick and too unstable.

The old-timer hadn’t moved very far from where she’d seen him earlier and she pulled her truck into a pullout just beyond and walked back along the road to where he was fishing.  It wasn’t often she saw people of his age out on the river.  When she did, she didn’t often have to worry about them because they usually knew what they were doing.  Still, it didn’t hurt to be friendly and make sure.  Besides, they usually had good stories.  Old-timers almost always did.

She had to yell to be heard over the roaring water, “Catch anything?”

He either hadn’t heard or was ignoring her in the hope that she would go away.  Here she hesitated.  If she scrambled down the bank to river level and he wanted to be ignored she’d be bothering him and wasting her time.  Looking up river, she watched the water tumble and roll.  It growled as it crashed into rocks and screamed as it was sent skyward in beautiful arcs of spray.  The beauty was the problem.  How could something be so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time?

She hadn’t come up with an answer to that in her going on ten years.  She might need at least another ten to figure it out.

Turning back to the fisher, she called again, “Catch anything?”

His head moved just enough for him to glimpse her in his periphery and then shifted back to focusing on the tiny pool he was fishing.  She understood that it was his way of acknowledging her.  She carefully picked her way down to the water and, finding a likely enough rock, she sat and waited for him to finish.  Her guess from her half glimpse before had been correct.  He knew how to fish these waters and if it had been a little later in the day, closer to sunset, she likely would have seen him catch a trout.  As it was though, it was too early in the day for the fish to rise.  She knew he knew that just as surely as she knew he wouldn’t have been safe fishing in the semi-darkness later.  

He cast a few more times, hitting his spots each time, and then reeled in and carefully, slowly, made his way across the rocks back to the bank where she sat.  Each step seemed to take an eternity to her and she busied herself by seeming to be interested in something upstream.  She watched him all the way, though, tensed, ready to spring forward and lend a hand should he wobble too much.  He made it okay, though, and she stood to greet him.

Before she could speak, he was already talking, a broad smile on his face, and not waiting for her to answer any of his questions, which weren’t really questions at all.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?  Haven’t caught anything yet, not yet, but the day is still a bit young, right?  Seems a likely enough spot, though, maybe I’ll try my luck again here in a bit before the light gives out.  Certainly don’t want to be trapped down here in the dark.  But, while the light is still good, you just stop to chat or did you want to see my permit?  Lifetime fisherman, here, though it has been a few years, I’ll admit, since I’ve had the joy of fishing this here river.  Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

With that he turned away from her to gaze up stream as she had been doing moments before.  He seemed so content that she regretted interrupting his time on the river.  “It truly is a beautiful day.  I won’t keep you long just saw you down here by yourself and wanted to check on you.”

“Smart.  Very smart of you,” he replied, a chuckle in his voice.  “I’m not as young as I used to be.  Still, I thought I had at least one more trip in me and here I am, proving it true.”

He didn’t turn to look at her as he answered, his gaze stayed on the canyon walls, the towering pines and the river, the river, the river.

“Glad to hear it.  Have a fun and safe rest of your visit.” 

She turned, her eyes picking the route she would take back up to the road.

“Still, would do me good to rest.  There’s plenty of day left and my legs wouldn’t mind a break for a few minutes.  If you’d stick around, you could maybe help me back to my feet if I sit too long and my legs decide they don’t want to work anymore.”

With that he moved, slowly still, to the rock she’d been sitting and took it for his own.  She found one nearby and waited for him to get settled before asking, “So, you’re having a nice trip?  From the way you talk and the way you fish, I’m pretty sure this isn’t your first time here?”

He laughed.  Then he sighed, glanced at her briefly, and returned his gaze to the roaring waters.  Even then he didn’t answer for a long time, he just smiled. 

She nearly gave up on him replying and was getting ready to ask to another question to try and strike up a conversation when he said, “No, this isn’t my first time here.  My family has been fishing this river since the 40’s.  And, yes, I’m having a nice trip.  More than nice.  It’s exactly what I needed.”

She smiled in response, even though he wasn’t looking at her.  The stories would come now.  They always did.  The moments on the river he remembered best.  The times with his family.  The times by himself.  The beauty of it all.  The river.  The river.  The river.

She’d loved it for nearly ten summers now and she was sure she’d love it for at least ten more.

the old man

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Thinking back, years since his last trip, it was the river that he had loved the most.  He’d told people at various times that it was the smell on the way in or the tall trees or the way the canyon captured the light in the mornings and evenings or watching his kids eyes go wide with wonder the first time they saw the campground or the lazy afternoons reading a book in a hammock or the way the stars winked and whispered through the long nights.  And, while those were things he loved, it was the river that he had loved most of all.  It was the river that made all the stress and headaches of their yearly camping trips worthwhile.

It came crashing down the canyon, ice cold, ferocious and wild.  There were misty waterfalls and hidden fishing holes.  There were wide open stretches for swimming and dangerous rapids.  There were countless memories tucked away along the stretches he knew best, and even more memories held dear from the stories handed down from his elders.  The river.  The river.  The river.

Now he was the elder and he missed it.  He missed it something fierce and his mind was made up to go.

The packing list came together quickly enough.  It took a couple extra trips into the attic to find all his gear.  It was tiring work getting some of the heavier stuff safely down the ladder.  But, worth it as he checked things off and moved closer to going.  Food was bought.  The car was packed.  It all happened slower than it would have in his youth but time was funny and it seemed fast to him.  His days weren’t as full as they used to be.  Wife passed on.  Kids moved out with families of their own.  His days could stretch to unseemly lengths and often did.  So, he did not mind the time it took to get ready.  He didn’t really notice it at all.

His mind was buzzing with the prospect of adventure.  His hands shook with excitement.  Well, they shook most of the time anyway but now they shook more.  Some of the times he had to stop weren’t to rest so much as they were to force himself to calm down.  He was going.  He was going to see the river, to walk its banks, to hear its roar. 

The drive went smoothly.  He had to make an extra stop on the way in.  One more in and out of the car than he used to.  Old age had done a number on his bladder.  But, other than that, he stopped for lunch in the same place the family had always eaten before, surprised to find how little the restaurant had changed over the years.  The little train that went in circles in the rafters was still there chugging along.  The menu seemed the same too.  The food didn’t taste the same but that was true of most things, wasn’t it?  It’s rare for food to taste the same from year to year.  It was good enough, though, and didn’t really matter.  The food wasn’t the reason for the trip.  Then he’d made the unscheduled stop.  Then he’d stopped to fill up the tank before the final climb into the mountains.  It was all so familiar.  He was happy about that.

Then the smell had hit him as he wound his way up the mountain.  That smell.  It was no wonder he’d often told people he loved that smell.  It meant he was nearly there.  He wasn’t just on his way.  He was on the doorstep.

Then the trees changed as he rose from the valley floor.  They grew greener and taller and thicker and then he was among the giants.  They truly were giants, some of the largest trees in the world.  The road carved through the forest as it went up and up and up.  It was no wonder he’d often said he loved the trees.  They were so unlike anything he had in his day to day.  He’d never lived near a forest like this.  It was special, enchanting.  The sun filtering through the pine needles held a certain magic he could not define.

Then the road crested and slipped down into the canyon that held his beloved river.  For a moment he had a glimpse of the sheer magnitude and magnificence of it all.  The steep canyon walls.  The cascading waterfalls.  The untamed wild where the only blemish was the narrow road that took him down to his hearts home.  His hands had started shaking again and he’d used a pull out to rest for a minute.  It wouldn’t do at all to lose control on this road.  It was too narrow.  The canyon too steep.  The river at the bottom too fierce.  That particular ending to his story wasn’t one he was interested in at all.

Then he was driving again and his hands fell into the familiar rhythm of turns, like they’d done this drive a thousand times before.  Maybe they hadn’t done it that many times.  But they’d done it enough to know it.  To really know it.  He easily handled the sharp turns.  He quickly and confidently fell back into the pattern of smoothing out the corners.  The worst of them, the nearly 180 degree left hand hairpin that had often made his tires sing when he was younger, came and went.  And then he was to the sharp right hand turn, where the mountain seemed to lean into the road and he had always wondered how the larger vehicles had managed to get by it without crashing. 

One final drop and he was level with the river.  It rolled and splashed to his left.  It was beautiful.  It was everything he’d remembered.  He lowered his window so he could hear it and the sound filled his car.  A high water year, the rapids were raging, the water swift, the sound deafening.  He’d known it would be, of course.  When he’d made up his mind to come, he had looked to see what the snowpack had been like over winter.

He had considered stopping as he crossed over the familiar bridge, one in a dozen landmarks he’d pass with a widening smile, but he continued on.  The campground was only twenty minutes ahead and his old bladder was telling him to make haste.  He listened to it as he’d learned to over the years.  He left the window down and enjoyed the feel of the air as he wound the final few miles to his camp. 

Today he would set up for the week.  He’d pitch his tent, gather wood, string up a hammock, set up the kitchen, and acclimate as best he could.  Tomorrow he’d put his old fishing pole together and find a likely enough spot to toss a line and be on the river.  He didn’t care if he caught anything.  Being on the river had never been about catching things.  Fishing was just an excuse to be on it.  He couldn’t wait. 

He smiled and nodded.

Tomorrow.  The river.  The river.  The river.

The Writer

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The snow had started sometime in the night, soft and light at first, barely sticking.  It let the wind dance and swirl it around.  That kind of magical storm where it looks like the flakes are rising more than falling.  Then, before dawn, the snow grew heavier, the ice crystals jagged and gripping as it began to pile together.  The world was soon blanketed in white folds that despite the sharpness of the ice was soft.  It seemed to glow.  The world seemed to sigh with contentment.

…..

The writer who called himself Trent, sat back in his chair, stretching away from the keyboard to gaze out his office window.  The snow had covered the bottom quarter or so, partially blocking the view of his yard.  The flakes were still falling but not as hard or full as they had before dawn.  In the distance he could hear his children playing.  It sounded like they were getting ready to disturb the peace of the morning.  He wondered briefly if the snow was thick enough and wet enough to build a snowman and actually rose from his chair to get a better view outside.

Trent could feel the cold leaching through the double panes but it did not bother him.  His hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee and he sipped almost lovingly at it.  His eyes still studied his yard.  If he watched long enough he would see his kids.  If he got back to work, he could wrap things up and go join them.  A smile touched his lips and he stayed where he was, knowing on this stormy morning things would slow down and stand still for a change.

The first of his children danced by his window.  Literally, she jumped and spun and tip-toed through the snow, a ballerina in boots and a parka.  Trent’s smile broadened.  The work called to him but he took another sip of coffee and stayed where he was.  The second child raced after the first, laughing and trying to catch her.  The rest came in a jumble, all intent upon reaching the dancer to, perhaps, tackle her into the snow?  Trent didn’t know and their games had taken them beyond his angle of the yard anyway.

Returning to his desk, he quickly read through the world he had begun to craft that morning.  Another sip of coffee, and then he placed his hands on the keyboard and let his mind and fingers get back to building.  A dancer, previously unimagined, entered his story to impart a bit of whimsy.  A storm became a pivotal moment, a reckoning, for the main characters.  It wasn’t a bad one, a tempest, but it forced them to huddle together and take time to think through who they were and what they needed.

Trent leaned back in his chair again and wrapped his hands once more around the coffee mug while his eyes darted here and there in his amassed words.  Did they make sense?  Did they convey the message he wanted?  Would they make the world a better place?  He hoped so.  He wished he could will it to be so.

Laughter from outside reached his ears and Trent glanced to the window.  His children were building a snowman and they were doing it right outside his office window.  It was a sad, misshapen thing.  The body spheres were barely sticking together.  One of the children had found some sticks that made it seem like the snowman was saluting the window.  And, his children had taken one of Trent’s favorite scarves for their project as well. They obviously thought it was the height of comedy because they could barely contain their laughter as they set about their task. 

Their mirth contagious, Trent allowed himself only a moment more to ponder the dancer in his story before he saved his work, and went to join them.   The dancer wasn’t just bit a whimsy after all.  She was the reason, the point, the everything of the story.

…..

As the day wore on the snow began to melt.  Slowly at first it grew thinner and then great chunks of it would collapse upon itself.  The river beneath funneled to the gutters and drain spouts.  The sun would shine before the day was out, making a brief but brilliant appearance before slipping beyond the western horizon.  And the world would sigh, once again, with contentment.  It had been another magical day, as they all were in the end.

….

This story was written for Trent Lewin (https://trentlewin.com/) who you really should be following and reading if you aren’t already. He is a fantastic writer and human. He called me out for my lack of writing… And maybe that’s just what I needed.