Each day is like opening a book

Each day is like opening a book

and finding another poem

waiting for you

sunlight or clouds on the page

shadows or raindrops

the sound of the wind

the silence of snow falling

of clouds passing by

each morning a different poem

lighthearted or sad

a moody melody

a gleeful reprise

the moment you open your eyes

you can hear

the song of a new day

words filling your ears

sounds you never heard before

syllables that roll off your tongue

letters spilling onto the page

one after the other

a stream in flood

pulling you into the day

filling your lungs with air

with life, with gratitude

for whatever appears 

on the page

beneath your pen 

Gifts from the sea

Some days words come unbidden

sailing onto the page like tiny boats

blown by the wind.

Some days the page remains blank,

empty, like a cloudless sky, like a vast

ocean with a distant horizon past

which you cannot see.

Some days you can only hear waves

washing against the shore, the fog

too thick to see anything.

Some days you look for shells,

hoping to find a word or story or poem

hidden inside, and you put it to your ear

to listen.

Some days you wait and wait

like a fisherman waiting for a tug

on his line wondering what's hidden

beneath the surface, wondering if

anything is there.

Some days rain falls so hard

you can't tell the difference between

sea and sky.

Some days the sun is so strong

the light blinds your eyes.

Some days you open your arms

to heaven and words appear--you don't

know why--and you gather them up, 

as many as you can hold, gifts from the sea 

to share with the world.

Reaching for words

Each morning you reach for words 

without knowing where to look 

like a blind man pawing the air 

hoping to find something to hold onto,

something to let you know where you are, 

something to guide you, 

and you keep moving your pen 

hoping the words will come and show 

you the way you need to go, 

even when you don't know where 

to go or if you need to go anywhere.

It's like drilling for oil or searching for water.

You keep searching not knowing if you'll find

what you're looking for, what you're hoping 

to find, so you keep moving your pen

across the page hoping if you write 

enough words you'll discover what you've 

been searching for, hoping the words 

will reveal a path you didn't see before, 

hoping you'll have the strength 

to follow the path.

Where do you go to find words?

Where do you go to find words? 

Is there a store you can drive to in the mall and 

purchase them by the dozen?

Or is it like going to a deli on Sunday morning 

and taking a number, waiting your turn, 

then ordering the words you want--sliced extra lean, 

a quarter-pound or a pound, 

with a pickle or two on the side?

Or is it more like bird-watching, 

waiting in stillness with binoculars around your neck, 

scanning the sky, hoping words will come into view, 

wings spread, flying into sight so you can record 

their presence before they depart for their next destination, 

as if they might leap off the page of your journal 

in search of a permanent home.

Or is it like fishing, 

waiting for a nibble, a bite, waiting

for the line to tug down and the rod to bend

toward the water, and you can feel the words pulling

as you grope for a way to haul them up, maybe

using a net, maybe just with your bare hands, 

so you can get the words on the page, 

wet and glistening like jewels, 

gills still rising and falling, 

vibrating with life.  

Fishing (For Words)

There’s a lake about two miles away from our house, and, after sitting at my desk all day, I felt the need to stretch my legs and decided to walk to the lake to enjoy the view and clear my mind.

So, I put a notebook and a few pens into a shoulder bag and went for a ramble, as they say in the UK.

At the lake a small wooden dock, maybe 20’ x 15’, with two benches and a waist-high railing, overlooks the water.

I had in mind to sit a while on one of the wooden benches, just letting the serenity of the place—the peacefulness of the water, the quietude of the woods—seep into me.

I’d open my notebook and wait for thoughts to arise that I might jot down.

The dock was empty when I arrived, and the water in front of me looked more like a sheet of glass smudged by dark charcoal than a mirror reflecting a bright blue sky until the sun emerged, spreading light across the water on the far side of the lake.

It was just after five o’clock. The park was empty except for a few dog walkers.

I sat on one of the benches, opened my shoulder bag, removed my notebook, and grabbed a pen.

Gazing out over the lake, I sat and watched the sunlight fall on the still water and waited for words.

A few minutes later, with no words to be found, I stood and went to the railing to gaze at the water in the hope I might find inspiration there.

Sometimes, at the edge of the dock, I’ve seen baby turtles poke their heads up to feed on weeds and fish leaping out of the water to capture flies.

Behind me I heard someone’s footsteps. A young girl’s red sneakers clomped on the wooden dock and echoed like drumbeats over the water.

Following her onto the dock was an older woman, not the girl’s mother but a neighbor, I learned, who was being pulled toward the railing by a small dog, a white and brown Shih Tzu.

The dog veered over to greet me, and I bent over to pet her.

“Coco’s friendly,” said the woman. “Don’t worry. She won’t bite.”

Coco was, indeed, friendly, and she welcomed my greeting when I leaned over to scratch the back of her neck. She even pressed her head against my ankle and happily wagged her tail.

The woman had let the leash run out and was standing a dozen feet or so away from where I was standing at the rail.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Fishing?”

I held up my pen so she could see what I was holding--a gel pen, not a fishing rod.

“Oh, writing!” she said. “A poem?”

“Whatever thoughts happen to come,” I said.

“A journal?”

“Yes.”

Coco pulled at the leash.

The sun was setting behind the clouds again.

The little girl clomped back across the dock toward the park, and the woman and Coco followed after her.

Once they left, the dock became quiet again, and a sense of peace (and possibility) rose off the water's surface.

I thought about the woman’s question.

I could have responded, “Yes.”

I could have replied, “I am fishing.”

But the idea came to me only after she left.

"Yes, I am fishing. Fishing for words.”

It's what a writer does.

I lowered my head, grateful for the reminder, and, as the words came, started writing this note.