Cancer Journal

There was some unusual kind of balk advancing to the next line for #81 which prevented me from writing anything more than what appeared at the end of the poem.    This is my comment to that entry.   My mother read Daffodils by Wordsworth to me in my early childhood along with maybe four or five others that were not children's poems.  The poem has been in my head for 70 years,   "I wondered lonely as a cloud..."   Among the things in my head has been the word "Jocund", a term that doesn't get used much nowaday.  It has come to me particularly when I see the air filled with cottonwood seeds.  "Now here's a jocund company."  In the poem Daffodils, there's a line, " A poet could not be but gay in such a jocund company"  Hence the ending of my poem.  However, there have been suggestions that I change that word "Jocund" to something a little more common.  That ruins the punchline, of course. It makes me realize that p...

                Charlie Schaefer               July, 2022              Peak Cottonwood Seed             They scurry as on an urgent errand             and then, an aimless meander.             Lazy and sedate but then a wind gust              and it’s disruption like a puppy              scattering a flock of chickens.             Panicked and disorganized.            Now kids releas...

  Why I Like Poetry   She enters the room slowly,  Some extra flesh, prudence and damaged joints  Delaying her progress. It’s been a while since she’s exuded sexuality But that’s all right.   Time moves on and that’s the world of her grandchildren Who are growing so fast! Now she’s a roosting hen.   But Oh, her words!   They are a black lithe figure springing to the top of the garden wall, Blade and eyes aflame in the California sun. She weaponizes a flower pot, Sending it with booted instep, soccer ball style,  At the villain who has to duck not to be hit. She advances along the top of the wall with light steps, Recalling a minuet, then the tango.   She closes in; her rapier with strong surprising strokes, Putting fear in the villain’s eye. With a cunning thrust, she cuts a rope, Releasing a wooden water bucket, Clunking him, drenching him, rattling him.   Her blade, ever so sharp, does playful but dangerous mischief. Zip, Z...

  The Robin: A Critical Evaluation   The Robin, when it’s still, stands proud and tall, dignity to spare. Like a WPA mural of Lewis and Clark gazing West Having perhaps a vision of the great things men will do in these lands. Sacajawea* gazes West too, Although further back and secondary, deferring to the great ones. Or maybe it’s the correct posture of the high school choral group, girls especially, Standing with back straight and head high just as the teacher demonstrated So that breath is drawn from deep within the diaphragm. The Robin moves and the effect is lost. What’s this rodent scurry, head no higher than the thighs, style points be hanged? Surely you can do better than that!  It’s unseemly. The crow’s irregular strut wouldn’t quite do although it would be an improvement. You know Robin, your hop is not too bad.  I’d go with that.  Or just fly. *I got her name wrong in a fourth grade spelling test. This is the first poem I ever wrote, perhaps in the spr...

  Custom of the Country rural waving rituals are one way of cutting through the tribalism of our times Charlie Schaefer | May 20, 2019 As I walk my two little dogs up the road, I wave at the cars that go by. Often, the drivers wave back. Many are perfunctory acknowledgement; a raised hand, the minimalist but not unfriendly index finger lifted off the steering wheel, maybe a nodded head. Some are tentative and wary as if to say, “Do I know you? I don’t think I do.” Some, though, are full of vigorous enthusiasm. The hand goes back and forth rapidly and I can make out a face with a big smile. Possibly, they really like my little dogs. Some I may have waved at before and consider some sort of friendly relationship has been established. I suppose a few I know personally without realizing it. It’s hard to make out a face through the reflection on the windshield. Some people don’t wave, but that’s a minority. A widow in her 80s gives her full attention to the road and has none left f...