This is another everyday poem. The Midwest has been pretty soggy lately. One morning after a storm, I was driving to work and the rain kept dropping off the trees. I had to keep turning my windshield wipers on even though it wasn't really raining. I decided there had to be a poem in this experience.

Residual Rain

Residual rain gathers in the trees
waiting for an opportunity to fall.
This rain doesn't make the long journey
from the clouds to the ground,
but takes a short hop
from the leaves
to the unsuspecting windshields below.
It drops with a plop,
blurring the vision
of the irritated drivers who flick it away
with one swipe of the wiper blades.
Just when we think the storm is over,
this splatter reminds us
that we haven't quite come in from the rain.

I do not write every day, but I have learned to write about the everyday. That is one reason that I am able to write consistently. About a month ago, I had to parallel park for the first time in a long time. Fortunately, the space wasn't too tight! When I finished, I scribbled down parallel parking on my list of things to write about.

Parallel Parking

How well can you maneuver into the available space?
Getting lined up at the start is critical.
Concentrate as you go back,
cutting in at the correct angle.
Make that quick spin of the wheel
that sets you straight.
Now, you are sitting pretty,
at least until the meter runs out.

The Kansas City Sculpture Park opened in 1989 and contains more than 30 sculptures. It is one of my favorite places to walk and to write. Thanksgiving weekend, there is a luminary walk in the park. I went for the first time this past Thanksgiving and plan to go back annually. I wrote this poem after that event.

The Lost Wax Process

The mold is made
of clay layered on wax.
When heat is applied,
the outside hardens;
but the inside melts,
never to have
the same shape again.
Only then is the figure
ready to be cast in bronze.

I have heard authors of fiction say that the characters take the writers in a certain direction rather than the other way around. I feel the same way about poems. They seem to have a mind of their own. When I began the poem below, I intended to write about flying. That only lasted for two lines. Instead, I ended up writing about getting away, even to the point of escaping.

Flight

Journey toward the sky.
Drowning in the blue.
Sprint down the block.
Ease into the speed.
Listen to the notes.
Let the sound surround.
Pick up a pen.
Wrestle with the words.
Empty a bottle.
Slide into the haze.
Take flight.

I think the facination we still have with Amelia Earhart is interesting. I guess I am not the only one who likes a good mystery. I wrote the two poems below after seeing the movie about her that came out last year. As I was walking into the theatre, the usher said "You know how it ends don't you?" I said yes, but we don't truly know how it ended. The possibility that someone will find the answer keeps us interested in the story more than 70 years later.

The Island in the Ocean

The challenge was a passenger on the entire flight.

The key to completing the circle

was finding the island in the ocean.

When the time came,

the pilot called out.

The island barely heard,

yet tried to respond.

They must have come so close.

Still, the connection could not be made.

The flight did not end on a runway,

but in a mystery that would intrigue generations.

Crossing Oceans

We all have oceans to cross.

The vastness of our problems.

The depth of our disappointments.

The sameness of our routines.

The span to reach our goals.

The turbulence of life.

How can we face these journeys?

Follow our compasses.

Navigate as best we can,

and see where we land.

I consider Emily Dickinson to be my "Guardian Poet". For most of the year in which I wrote the two poems that started me on this adventure, references to Emily Dickinson kept showing up in books I read. Now, I read mostly light fiction, especially mysteries, biographies (not of poets) or books about sports. All of a sudden, if an author put a quote at the front of a book, it was from a Dickinson poem or characters would mention that she was their favorite poet or they were studying her in a class. After about a year, I wrote a poem about this.

I haven't heard from Emily in a while, but then she popped up this weekend. So, I am posting the poem today.

Emily

You haunt me.
Your appearances jolt,
intrude on my solitude,
inhabit my thoughts.
Your visits puzzle.
I explore your talent,
but the message alludes.
Our encounters continue,
baffling or revealing?

When I am working with an idea, I may end up with a couple of sets of lines that don't fit together. If I am lucky, I can turn the sets into separate poems. That happened this past weekend when the comments of an announcer on a golf tournament triggered an idea. The results are the two poems below.

Right Club-Wrong Player

The club is designed for a specific result,
applied science wrapped in the materials of the day.
Perfection is built in.
The player draws it out by letting the club work,
not making it work.
Rely on the technology; don't interfere with it.
The proper execution always leads to the desired result.
The club is right.
Only the player may be wrong.

Ready to Wear

Everything fits someone,
but everyone doesn't fit everything.
Sometimes, the suitability is obvious.
The difficulty comes
when the match is questionable.
The first thought is
"Maybe I can make this work.
I can change or break this in."
Don't count on either alteration.
If it's not ready to wear,
don't buy it.