How do you translate silence onto the page?

I hear nothing but ringing in my ears.

My brain feels numb.

I want to write, but words surface in scrambled nonsense.

I cannot put together anything that makes sense.

Thoughts jump from one incident to another,

like a squirrel jumping from limb to limb,

from maple to white birch to hemlock,

never staying on a branch more than a second before searching out the next branch.

Doors to the past open wide.

I know the story.

Why can’t I tell it?

Why can’t I put the words down on the page?

There is nothing to fear in the telling of an ordinary life.

Is it just too much work?

Certainly it will take time.

Is it fear of failure?

What’s too fail?

It is just an abbreviated record of one life.

Just isolated memories of what it was like growing up in a small Iowa town.

Some days my mind is as vacant as the

elderly resident I encounter at Eiler House who waits

day after day for a loved one to come. 

Sitting by the door. 

Staring out the window. 

When are they coming? 

How long must I wait? 

Words are as elusive as the relative who never shows up. 

I search the windows of my mind. 

I open doors to the past. 

When will the words come? 

How long must I wait?

Watching the elderly resident gives me impetus,

gives me determination,

to tell my story before I, too,

am transformed to the bent body

sitting by the door,

staring out the window for

one who will never arrive.

K K McClelland

January 4, 2006

In the stillness of first light before the birds sing,

while my love slumbers in silence beside me,

words come rapidly with beauty and clarity,

with humor and poignancy,

without abandon.

The writer within is free!

The internal editor is asleep!

The phone isn’t ringing.

There’s no one at the door.

I must write this down.

Where is my notebook, I frantically ponder,

and where is my pen when I need it?

Out by my chair where I left them?

Covers thrown back, my feet hit the floor;

I race to the spot and I grab them.

Pen poised over paper to record those words,

filled with beauty, clarity, humor, and poignancy,

that came so rapidly just seconds ago.

But the words have abandoned me!

Like birds on the wing,

They disappeared with morning dew

under warm summer sun.

Another epic poem lost.

K K McClelland

April 16, 2005

My mother was always throwing important “things” (translation: treasures) away during spring and fall housecleaning.  In my mind she clearly did not understand the significance of a saved stone or a dried, crumbling collection of pressed leaves stored in a shoe box.  She kept what she felt important…dolls placed carefully in carriages…games neatly stored in their boxes on the proper shelves.  Things of permanence can be saved, but rocks and leaves, after all, can “easily be replaced” was her argument.  “And besides,” she said,  “that stuff just makes a mess.”

Perhaps she was right.  I still have the dolls, though stored away in boxes.  Yes, they are a treasure I will someday hand down to my only granddaughter.  But, for now, I remember the importance of a collection of pressed leaves and a saved stone, acknowledging the treasures stored these days by my grandchildren.

FOR A CHILD

(edited version of CHILDHOOD TREASURES)

Stones stored in a box

Crumbling leaves from yesteryear

What’s become of them?

Unimportant stuff

Not difficult to replace

No use shedding tears.

Newly gathered stones

Leaves placed in a press with care

Remembering mom. 

K K McClelland @ The Clearing, Ellison Bay WI

August 28, 2000

dwindling afternoon sun

casts long shadows on sand

connects with water’s edge

tide lapping at shadows

fading last rays of sun

become one with the sea

K K McClelland

June 14, 2004

silence breaks slow autumn rain.

sun struggles through dark cumulus clouds.

raindrops, competing with silence,

drip from lichen covered tree branch.

K K McClelland

October 19, 2002