A Writers Wish

WRITERS WISH

Here again I sit

My knee and “boil” having a fit

But overall a peace

Has decided to exist at least.

 

Wouldn’t want you to not clap your hands

Stomp your feet

Rejoice in the day

And be relieved.

 

Around and around

Health peace abound

Will you join with me

Open your voice and be.

 

Back to basics with pen

Let you know my wish

Will remain gently open

As the door to mind goes swish.

©jwitkowskijne212013

SPRINKLED WITH BOOKS

 

Before my oldest child was born, my book club hosted a baby shower for me that I’ll never forget.

Each member gave me a copy of her favorite children’s book. The collection became my son’s first library.

I was touched by the stories each person told as I unwrapped the books, and my friends shared why each gift was a favorite.

The collection remains on our shelves today, even though my son is graduating middle school.

Once in a while, when he’s searching for something to read, he’ll see “Guess How Much I Love You” by Sam McBratney, “Thump, Thump, Rat-a-Tat-Tat” by Gene Kaer, “Good-night Gorilla” by Peggy Rathmann or “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?” by Bill Martin Jr.

“I remember that board book,” he’ll say, selecting one off the shelf.

To this day, reading “Love You Forever” by Robert N. Munsch still makes me cry.

I feel a wave of gratefulness when I see my son spontaneously reading Marianna Mayer’s “Pegasus” or A.A. Milne’s “When We Were Very Young.” I credit his love of reading to my book club. Their kindness gave him a great head start.

But the book club didn’t just shower me with gifts for my son. They also copied their favorite poems about motherhood and compiled them elegantly inside two pieces of lavender tulle tied with a grape satin ribbon.

The collection includes “My Mother” by Jane Taylor, “Lines and Squares” and “Halfway Down” by A.A. Milne, “The Reading Mother” by Strickland Gillilan, “The Children’s Hour” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Misnomer” by Eve Merriam and “The Swing” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I like to read their favorite poems on Mother’s Day as my son and his younger brother prepare me breakfast in bed. The gift and their friendship truly is a treasure. And so are my sons.

-- cawk

SMALL PRINT

During baseball season, I get a lot of reading done.

While my sons practice their batting and fielding, I walk a couple of loops through the park and then settle in the car or on a bench, depending on the weather, with a good book to read.

Unlike at home, I feel no guilt turning the pages instead of folding laundry. No telephone rings or computer dings interrupt me in the middle of chapters. The coaches keep my children occupied, and my favorite authors keep me engrossed.

Yesterday, I grabbed a paperback book of short stories by Stephen Crane on my way out the door. When we arrived at the park, one of my sons headed toward the baseball diamond while his older brother remained in the back seat. He had about a half hour to wait until his practice started.

He mumbled something about not having anything to do because he left his electronics at home.

“Well, I brought my book,” I boasted with a bit of an attitude.

But when I turned the front cover and opened the book, I couldn’t read the pages. The words were all blurry.

“I can’t see!” I said with alarm. “The print is too small! I can’t see.”

“Mom, you have on your glasses,” my son said.

“I know. Can you believe that? I can’t see, even with my glasses on,” I was so disturbed.

“No, Mom. You have on your sunglasses,” he said.

And so I did. Gracefully, I switched them with my reading glasses and the words on the page came into focus.

The first time I read “The Blue Hotel” by Stephen Crane was in high school in the 1980s. I think the book I read had the same cover as the volume I was trying to read at the park. I checked the front pages and found the copyright date of 1970. The words had to be 8 point type. They were so small!

“If I had my electronic reader with me, you could download the book and make the type any size you want,” my son said.

What a blessing that would be not to have to squint and maneuver the page at certain angles to read the words.

“I’d like to try that,” I said.

 

Let's hope the change is as easy as switching glasses.

--cawk

 

POCKET POEMS

 

Tomorrow’s holiday is not on the calendar, but it’s an occasion everyone can celebrate.

April 18 is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

People are encouraged to carry poems in their pocket to share with friends and family throughout the day.

I read about the event at www.poets.org, a website sponsored by the Academy of American Poets.

This will be my first year participating.

To prepare, I’ve been searching for a poem that makes me happy. But as I’m looking at tomorrow’s schedule, I’ve decided that I also want to find poems that will make other people happy.

I’ll need a children’s poem about music for my son’s band carpool; an inspirational poem for my Faithbook scrapbook club; maybe a poem about butterflies for my sister, baseball for my sons and cooking for my friend. I’ll put a poem or two in the mail today for my mom and dad to receive. I also can send poetry by email to a few close friends.

What I like about this holiday is that poetry is easy to find, and it’s free. I can share my own original poems or choose verses written by someone else.

The biggest obstacle tomorrow will not be the search for poems. It will be finding an outfit with big enough pockets. I may have to fudge a little and celebrate "Poem in Your Pocketbook" instead.

-- cawk

POETRY SEARCH

My son in middle school spends a lot of time searching for Major League Baseball information on the internet. But recently I found him searching for poetry.

He was looking for a poem by Maya Angelou to recite in literature class for extra credit. I was thrilled.

“Maya Angelou read a poem at President Bill Clinton’s inauguration. Are you going to read that one?” I asked.

He settled on “The Lesson,” a much shorter poem which points out that as we live and endure hardships, we are also dying. But because life is so sweet, we want to stay alive and continue living. At least, that was our lesson from reading the poem.

“How did it go?” I asked him the next day.

“They thought it was depressing,” he said of his classmates.

“Well, what did the other kids read – the inaugural poem ‘On the Pulse of Morning’?” I asked.

“No.”

“’Still I Rise’?” I guessed.

“I don’t remember,” he answered.

It turns out that only a handful of kids in his class recited poems.

I couldn’t believe it! All they had to do was Google Maya Angelou, print out one of her poems and read it aloud to add points to their grades.

My surprise turned to hope when my son said, “Mom, listen to this. I’m going to rap her poem, ‘Phenomenal Woman.’”

My son started reciting the brag poem like it was a rap song. He was smiling and having fun. I wondered what Maya Angelou would think.

By the end of the night, he had re-written some of the lines in her poem and titled his new version, “Phenomenal Man.”

“I want to rap this for the class tomorrow,” he said.

Poetry is a challenge to write and must be difficult to teach. I applaud my son’s instructors for exposing their students to Maya Angelou’s words and presenting them in a form that speaks to teen-agers. Young people need more exposure to poetry.

Stopping to look at the words of a poet can reveal many principles in life just like viewing the veins of a leaf under a microscope. Poems teach and entertain. They make readers think and see the world from different points of view. They can be serious, romantic, humorous and dark. They can be as short as tweets or written in more complicated patterns.

Many students see reading poetry as a struggle. After nursery rhymes, they barely glance at poetry until they are deciphering Shakespearean sonnets or Homer’s “Odyssey,” which can seem like an odyssey in itself.

Another obstacle is the idea that poetry is “for girls.” When my son was in second grade, he wanted to attend Poetry Night at his school. Before agreeing to take him, I hesitated, worrying that only girls would show up with their parents. To my delight, the poetry that night was recited by the principal, a police officer, the mayor, other dignitaries and teachers. All were male, and my son was not the only little boy in the audience.

Last week, hundreds of boys and girls were gathered with their parents, coaches and friends in the outfield at our local park for Little League Opening Day ceremonies. For the first time, someone read a poem at the event, which kicks off spring baseball and softball.

I expected to hear the classic “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer. But the poem was called “Just a Little Boy,” written by Chaplain Bob Fox. The words were a gentle reminder that the fine young athletes committed to playing ball are kids, something easy to forget in the throes of competition.

I was struck by what a firm and strong message such a “light” piece of poetry could provide. I wonder how it sounds in rap.

-- cawk

“DREAMT” AND OTHER WORD ODDITIES IN ENGLISH

There are two words in the English language that have all five vowels in order: "ABSTEMIOUS” and "FACETIOUS.”

“DREAMT” is the only English word that ends in the letters "MT".

There are only four words in the English language which end in "dous": TREMENDOUS,  HORRENDOUS, STUPENDOUS, and HAZARDOUS.

The words 'KAYAK’, 'LEVEL’, and 'RACECAR,’  are the same whether they are read left to right or right to left (palindromes).

"LOLLIPOP” is the longest word typed with your right hand.

No word in the English language rhymes with MONTH, ORANGE, PURPLE, or SILVER.

“STEWARDESSES” is the longest word typed with only the left hand.

TYPEWRITER is the longest word that can be made using the letters only on one row of the keyboard.

Compiled by John Witkowsky. Edited and rearranged by A Muhammad Ma`ruf.

BOOK TOSS

One of my chores today was to scan our family’s shelves for books that can be discarded or donated to the local elementary schools for their libraries and classrooms.

The best time to do this is while my two sons are at school because they want to keep all of their books – read and unread.

I sympathize. I have stacks of hardbacks that I have enjoyed as an adult and want to keep and paperbacks that I want to read and haven’t had time.

Weeding through my sons’ books is much easier than weeding through mine. At least, that’s what I thought.

Scanning the goofy titles and covers of books that have never been opened and most likely never will at our house, I tossed them easily into the give-away pile.

Others were classics. Should I pass Hugh Lofting’s “Dr. Dolittle” on to someone else? What about L. Frank Baum’s “The Wizard of Oz”? The kids were lukewarm on those stories, and we can easily check them out at the library. They went into the donation pile.

The books I struggled with were children’s books that my sons have definitely outgrown such as Dr. Seuss’ “The Cat in the Hat” rhymes, Gertrude Chandler Warner’s collection of “The Boxcar Children,” and Jonathan London’s adventures of “Froggy.” They were favorites at our house, read over and over. What about series of books including “The Hatchet” by Gary Paulsen, “Captain Underpants” by Dav Pilkey and “The Magic School Bus” by Joanna Cole? Although they were once favorites, the kids haven’t read them in years.

I opened a Ready Freddy book by Abby Klein, and on the inside cover my oldest son had printed as a kindergartener, “I see a red cat,” a reminder of the days when he was learning to read and write. I saved that book.

The final category included books that my sons have no attachment to now that they are older, but the stories bring back memories for me.

One such book is “Airline Pilots” by O.B. Gregory. I read that book to my oldest son every night for months at bedtime before he could read. Each evening I hoped he would choose another story. But his little fingers continued to reach for that hardcover book about aviation. I had the book memorized we read it so often. He is long finished with the book and would probably say “toss,” but my memories kept it in the “keep” pile.

I saved way more books than I decided to give away. Still, I put a stack of about 30 books to donate on the dining room table.

When the kids got home from school, they were curious.

“What’s this?” my oldest asked.

“Books to donate to the schools,” I answered.

A little later I passed the table again. The pile had dwindled down to three lone books. The rest had been put back on our home shelves.

-- cawk

CURSIVE WRITING

My son received mail from his grandmother the other day. She writes in cursive.

I can remember a time when I would have to sit down next to him on the sofa and read such a letter to him as he looked over my shoulder and asked, “What’s that word?”

But thanks to the local schools, my son can read cursive writing.

Other kids may not be so lucky.

What I’m reading online – which is not in cursive – is that many schools in 44 states across the nation have stopped teaching this “archaic” and “unnecessary” form of writing.

Apparently, it’s up to the local school districts to decide in New Jersey whether cursive writing is taught. Thankfully, my son’s school district sees its advantages.

I agree that learning to type in today’s world of technology is a mandatory skill that each student should learn. And it’s a skill that requires the use of both hands, not just two thumbs.

But cursive writing is important, too.

It’s a sign of maturity to be able to read and write in cursive.

When I was growing up, I wanted a library card.

“That’s a big responsibility,” my mother said.

“When can I get one?” I asked.

“When you can write your name in cursive,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

As kids, we were judged on our penmanship. Handwriting was an indicator of who we were as individuals – neat or sloppy. And we could identify each other by our handwriting. We knew who wrote with tiny letters and who wrote big. We all wanted a name that would take our pencils in loops beneath the faint lines of our notebook paper.

We admired the way the best writers in our class made the graceful curves of their capital letters. We worked hard to perfect our own writing. On our report cards, penmanship was listed as a primary subject along with language arts, math and science.

Granted, times have changed. But the value of cursive writing remains.

Signatures are written in cursive. The U.S. Constitution was written in cursive. Thank-you notes should be written in cursive.

Cursive has its advantages.

Practicing letters over and over helps students develop their motor skills and teaches them the importance of accuracy, patience and concentration.

Cursive writing is more formal and exudes a message of importance.

It’s faster than printing when taking notes in class or business meetings.

As a society, do we want a president who cannot read a post card from his grandmother because it is written in cursive writing? Do we want engineers, doctors, lawyers and scientists who can only print their knowledge?

If some schools teach the curriculum and others do not, cursive writing is going to separate the educated and the uneducated.

I asked my son, a fifth grader, if he thought cursive writing is important. He often has to print his spelling words and then write them in cursive. He got 5 points off recently because of a faulty letter.

“Yes, it’s important,” he said defiantly. “Do you think I can get a job if I don’t know how to read and write in cursive?”

I’m thankful my son can put this basic skill on his resume. Many kids in 44 states cannot. My son has an awesome signature, too -- and a library card.

-- cawk

BABY MISTAKES

One thing I like about writing is my ability to erase words that don’t fit.

I can type, “Lucy detected a faint smell when she entered the room.”

If a rotten potato is in the kitchen, I can erase the word “smell” and type, “Lucy detected a faint odor when she entered the room.”

Or if roses are on the counter, I can erase the word “odor” and type, “Lucy detected a faint fragrance when she entered the room.”

Eventually, I find the right word without having to correct myself in public.

If that were only possible in daily conversations!

This week, I sat in the middle school guidance counselor’s office with my son to register him for high school. When the counselor joined us, she didn’t recognize me.

“We have met before,” I told her during the introduction. “Our babies played baseball on the same team last year.”

As soon as the word “babies” flew out of my mouth, I wanted to backspace and change the noun to “children,” “boys,” “sons” – any term but “babies.”

The word does not come close to describing the young men we watched defend bases and score runs on the baseball diamond last spring.

But the conversation couldn’t be rewritten.

The word hung in the air like an unpleasant scent as my “baby” signed up for classes in economics, physics, literature and foreign language.

When we left the guidance office, my son said, “Babies? Really, Mom?”

As I watched him head down the school hallway back to class, the word choice still stung.

My son’s voice has changed. He’s taller than me. He wears a size 13 shoe. He’s “a teen,” “a young man,” “a strong athlete.”

All this is true. But he’s still my baby.

-- cawk

WRITING SEASONS

I’ve noticed that my writing habits change with the seasons.

During the winter, my subjects are close by. Because of the frigid temperatures and inclement weather, I don’t venture out much, so I write about what I experience at home; what I see from my window; or what I consider to be mundane, like washing dishes or watering indoor plants. I spend a lot of time reading about writing and listening to stories about authors and poets on the radio.

As the days start to grow longer and my daffodils begin to push up, my writing also springs forward. I choose brighter subjects and write more in color than in black-and-white. My themes generate more hope; my characters act more silly than staunch; and my settings venture beyond the most familiar.

During the summer, I relax as I write. I take my time with few deadlines. I sit outside by the beach or in my backyard or at the park. I’m comfortable in the sunshine. I sip on lemonade or enjoy a water ice. I walk and think. I play tennis and think. I ride my bicycle and think. Writing seems easy and fun. I get lots of ideas.

But as autumn approaches, I’m ready to fall into a routine once again. I want to connect my scraps of writing into something more solid. I want to improve my skills with workshops and classes. I once again vow to dedicate more time to my craft.

My habits may shift with the seasons, but my desire to write continues its cycle.

-- cawk

CHAPTER CHALLENGE

My son’s elementary school has begun a new program called the 100 Chapter Challenge.

Each student is encouraged to read 100 chapters of fiction or nonfiction between now and May 24. I figure that is about a chapter a day, with lots of cushion.

My son should have no problem meeting the goal. He takes a book to read almost everywhere he goes.

He reads in the car. He reads waiting for the school bus. He reads on vacation. I pry books from his hands because he falls asleep reading in bed.

I’m constantly reminding him that we don’t read books at the dinner table. We don’t read books during his brother’s band concerts. We don’t read books at someone else’s house when we are invited to a party.

I can’t leave the house without my keys and purse; he can’t leave without his book and baseball cap.

He is an avid reader, constantly discovering truths about his surroundings and the world through the words on a page.

As I looked at the empty grid his teacher sent home to tally chapters during this event, I realized how little I read literature anymore.

I used to be more like my son. I got ready for school with a blow dryer in one hand and a paperback in the other. I could spend a whole afternoon sitting outside sipping on lemonade and reading fiction. Each night, I faithfully read a chapter or more before turning off my bedroom lights.

I miss the solid feeling of holding a book, the joy of reading a surprise ending and the pleasure of getting to know characters in classical works. I want to travel through the pages of a novel. I want to cry, laugh and take risks just by turning a page. I want to satisfy my curiosity and judge people’s actions without shame.

As an adult, I’ve become a snippet reader – clicking on pieces of news on the internet and flipping through simple magazines. Surrounded by responsibilities, I feel guilty if I sit down for a moment during the daytime hours, and even guiltier if I sit down to read a best-selling novel.

But reading is as essential to my quality of life as vitamins and exercise. Taking in a good book relaxes me, entertains me, educates me, and stretches my mind and creativity. Indulging in a well-written story is so much better than watchingTV.

So I’m turning off the evening sitcoms, printing out an extra grid and joining the 100 Chapter Challenge with my son. I can’t wait to see how our story ends.

-- cawk

 

Possessions-with short glossary

Possessions

If one writes poems today
Heedless of how the wind blew
Come tomorrow     What may
So  Who? You or me? Will pay.

To live or exist without possessions

Could be compared to freedom
As in nothing else to lose
Do you'all wish to be them.

Whacky though this may seem, or is that seam

When you are fourteen stories high
Would you choose to step off the beam?
Or simply grab what good can buy.

Often then the best went askew

Before anyone thought it through
Has the indictment been proven?
We all weren't groovin' .

Notwithstanding,   you may sing and dance

If its past, then went the chance
Drummend out by its own beat
Now that's quite a feat.

In all this parlance, as expressed herein

Not a play on words today
Have we been reminded
We are proven simply human.

Choices we have to make

To not allow the good to be the enemy of the best
To live within the rules and not jest
Recognize my Higher Power and not bake.

Since I live not as an island nor glum

My time on earth not a pun
As I live and pray under the sun
Exchange words, work, aide, smiles with aplomb.
© John Witkowski 1/1/13

 Page 1 of 2

Page 2 of 2

Aplomb- poise  balance

Seam- where edges come together- where two are joined and become one; a joint- a play on              words   what would a seem seam be? a fake. a fantasy. not be realy real!
Heedless- careless attention; reckless lack of attention; not paying attention
Them- the possessions / or the possessors? the haves as vs the have nots. or more more.
Beam- as of a skelton of a building; a girder a steel beam of a building during construction
Wisdom- ability to discern differences
Bake- as in an oven;; or hell
Glum-sullen; gloomy
Pun- humorous; as in a joke; or funny use of a word
Parlance- talking back and forth; words; language, communication

HOMEWORK

I’m being homeschooled by my fifth grader.

He doesn’t realize he’s my teacher. But each morning I check his homework, and he gives me a lesson on the basics of grammar and writing.

Most of the worksheets I check are review for me. This quarter, they were lessons on subjects and predicates, proper nouns, subject and verb agreement, verbs with direct objects and using correct verb tenses. These are principles I use each day in my writing but haven’t thought about in years.

I look forward to spending this time together. We discuss why his answers are right or wrong. He explains each lesson, and I give him feedback on the papers he writes. Sometimes I try the writing assignment myself while he is at school and ask him for a critique when he gets home.

His passion for the subject of English is not as strong as mine. But he likes being the teacher, and I like getting an education.

--cawk

WHISPERING WISPS

Quiet the din in my mind
Come softly into my soul
Lift my heart Lord and bind
Sustenance here from a silo.
 
This simple request
As part of Your behest
Too fast too much  too slow
As we wait here below.
 
Would we persist
If the effort provides bliss
Working playing existing
Not looking but finding a new twist.
 
Calmer now tis true
The sadness cleansed with a brew
Tea that is today
Accepting at work and play.
 
Acceptance being key
Briefs to a spot
A place where we be
No more living  up a tree.
 
At peace today with my lot
Can exist … live throughout the plot
No more visions seems
Again excepting my being.
 
The actors act
Directors direct
Players play
We win when we pray.
 
Recognizing the Supreme
Cleansed therefore clean
Laughing   living   giving
Smiles for all believing.
 
You ask how to do this
All the above are guides
For us actors to be players and twist
Ourselves to act around and provides.
 
This is to say
Allow this trust
As we pray
Keep it simple, this is a must.

Are you wrung out now

We reap what we sow
Plowing under each breath
Which would reap a lift from beneath.
 
Out from under the pile
Keep us show us forwith
Deeds which freed
As He provides , the feast.

Wheh! What a ride

It has lost pride
Taking today as tis is
Be at peace indeed bliss.
©JohnWitkowski120912

Has the writer found something or experienced something profound?

Is he at peace with his surroundings?
What are the last three stanza s really about?
Are we players or spectators or have we totally been away from living.

Books on Shelves

About once a week, I volunteer at my son’s school library, so I get to see what the elementary crowd is reading.

The popular non-fiction books center around jokes, dogs and how to draw cartoon characters. The popular fiction authors include Rick Riordan, Dan Gutman, J.K. Rowling and Roald Dahl.

Part of my job is to shelve books. I have a huge appreciation for the Dewey Decimal System. But the easiest books to shelve are the ones that are part of a series. I don’t have to read tiny numbers and letters on the book spines to find each of their spots. Some of the series take up a whole row in the stacks so they are easy to find.

I used to shelve a lot of Mary Pope Osborne’s Tree House books, Gertrude Chandler Warner’s Boxcar Children stories and Cam Jansen mysteries.

Now my son is older. He and his friends read a lot of books about Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events, Erin Hunter’s Warrior Cats and Trenton Lee Stewart’s Mysterious Benedict Society.

I’m in awe of these authors, coming up with well-written stories that become classics and children’s favorites. The authors not only write one success, they write many.

Ever since I opened my first Nancy Drew detective book, I’ve wanted to write a series of novels that people would enjoy and that library volunteers and staff all over the world would have to shelve according to the Dewey Decimal System.

 But I’ve found that reading the books with my son is much easier than writing them. Writing is hard work.

--cawk

POETIC RESULTS

 

The family room was a mess on inauguration day.

 My two boys, still in their pajamas, were sprawled out half-watching the ceremonies on the TV. They were off from school, not because of the events in Washington, DC, but in observance of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. My oldest was on the couch designing a project for school on his computer. My youngest was on the carpet floor trying to turn a block of wood into a winning race car for next week’s Cub Scout Pinewood Derby.

The room was scattered with unfolded laundry, abandoned sports equipment, unread newspapers and stacks of video games.

“How can y’all think in this chaos?” I asked, stepping over shoes on my way to the kitchen. “Shouldn’t y’all volunteer and straighten up the room?”

“We don’t have time,” my youngest son answered.

I began to wash dishes in the next room, but I could hear the commentators and speeches well enough to rinse my soapy hands and dry them quickly if something interested me. I could move closer to the television in a flash. Dirty breakfast plates and juice glasses could wait.

I wanted to see President Barrack Obama take the oath of office on two Bibles – one that belonged to King and another that belonged to President Abraham Lincoln. I wanted to see what the First Lady Michelle Obama and her children were wearing. I wanted to see the gleam of flags and military uniforms and the sea of people on the National Mall as Kelly Clarkson, James Taylor and Beyonce provided patriotic background music. I wanted to be inspired.

I only allowed myself a few glimpses of the festivities. The rest of the time, my soapy hands did their monotonous work. I admired the blue skies over the backyards of the neighborhood outside my window. A pet dog escaped through its doggie door to bask in the sunshine. Steam flowed from someone’s vent as she did laundry. A plane rumbled overhead. I heard a car start. Perhaps another mom was running to the grocery store.

Then Richard Blanco began to recite his inaugural poem.

“Whoever is closest to the TV clicker, turn up the volume,” I shouted to my sons in the adjacent room.

Weeks earlier, while I was also washing dishes, I had listened to a story broadcast on the radio about the inaugural poet. As I wiped spoons and soup bowls clean, I had thought about what an honor it would be to read a poem at such an occasion.

As a society, we listen to sermons, speeches, songs and advertisements. But after moving past childhood nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss, people rarely hear poetry read aloud.

The void does us a disservice.

Not all poetry is difficult to understand, as many of us believe after studying abstract or classical poems in middle school.

Billy Collins makes me laugh out loud when he reads “The Lanyard,” a humorous poem he wrote about a young boy who is making a gift for his mother at camp. And I can hear the music of a girl playing her flute by the North Carolina marsh when I read Peter Makuck’s “Fog Lifter.” King’s famous “I Have A Dream” speech also is poetic.

Words are extraordinary. Expressing oneself through poetry is a gift. Poets can lead men and women to action.

While Blanco started to recite “One Today,” all fell quiet. My oldest son quit pecking on his keyboard. My younger son stopped filing his block of wood. I, too, stepped away from my sink. We were “one” with millions of other people worldwide listening to a poet who wrote down his thoughts and presented his ideas quietly and eloquently, not with shouts or shock value. He didn’t make noise. He didn’t use crude language. He didn’t scold or blame.

He spoke poetically.

My worries about the messy house disappeared. My son’s school project deadline didn’t loom. My other son’s desire to win a race went idle.

For a moment, we paused and listened.

Halfway through the poem, my sons went back to their projects. But I listened until the last word was said, “together.”

My inspiration had come – not in the abbreviated form of a tweet, not in gossipy gloating or a snarky remark on Facebook, not in a pundit’s “got to fill every silence with something” chatter – but in the form of a poem.

Starting in the family room, I picked up a pair of shoes and took them to the closet. I put the unread newspapers in the magazine basket. I folded some of the laundry.

I asked my youngest son to put away the sports equipment and my oldest son to put away the video games.

Working together, we started to make the room look better.

“I thank you for your help today; the room’s now clean, let’s keep it that way,” I said and laughed at my rhyme.

“You’re very poetic,” my youngest son answered.

 --cawk

WINDOWS TO WRITE

On the way home from my son’s violin lesson each week, I have to make a left turn onto a road busy with evening rush hour traffic.

My son and I talk as I look for a safe opportunity to pull out. Sometimes I get distracted by our conversation, and I wait for a slow poke car when I could have gone easily on my way.

 “I missed my widow,” I’ll say disappointed. And we wait some more.

Yesterday, as I began to think about my New Year’s resolution in terms of writing goals, I realized my whole day is one big jumble of traffic.

My two main rush hours are in the morning, getting the kids off to school, and in the afternoon when they return. The rest of the day is unpredictable.

My usual route includes housework, errands, paperwork, cooking and laundry.

What if in the New Year I resolve to take a detour and occasionally meander down the writing path?

Obstacles exist. I can’t write when my sons practice their trumpets or need help with their homework. The dishes have to be washed, and dinner has to be made. I have to balance my checkbook and brush my teeth.

But within my daily routine, small windows occur in traffic when I can safely pull out and sit down to write.

I’ve made good use of some of these unobvious opportunities. I’ve written Haiku during my son’s music lessons or sitting in waiting rooms to see a doctor. I’ve pecked out blog pieces on my laptop while the clothes washer finishes its final cycle. I’ve written notes on napkins and menus after ordering meals or take-out in restaurants.

If I can map out plans to go to breakfast with my friends, play a game of tennis, attend a writer’s group meeting or finish a book I’m reading, why can’t I also make time to write between my rush hours a part of my itinerary?

Bumps in the road will occur if someone gets sick, I run out of milk, a library book gets lost or a tire goes flat.

But for 2013, I plan to carry a pen and notebook with me at all times, even in the house. Who knows what I characters I can create while waiting for my spaghetti to boil?

--cawk