Hard to leave this place

Hi everyone,

We didn’t plan to stay quite so long in Portland but there’s a lot to see and do out here and we’ve had new adventures. I had trouble sleeping last night so I worked from 4:00-6:30. Got drafts down for two poems. Then it was nap time for sure!

I’m glad you like my W.O.M. offering. I’m enjoying your poems too. Keep them coming!

I’ve decided to use PowerPoint slides for my talk about writing for children at The Writers Place next month. It takes time to put them together but in this case I have a number of points to make and the slides should help. If you’ve given any thought to attending, keep thinking. I would love to see your there.

My Word of the Month poem for October

Hi everyone,

Have you posted your poem for October yet? I’m posting mine today so I can scold the rest of you and feel holier than thou.

Global Command

Dogs show it best.
It softens their eyes,
tilts their heads,
wags their tails in code.

Swans mate for life.
Elephants grieve.
Cardinals feed seeds
to their mates.
Lions tongue-wash their cubs,
chimpanzees hold
their babies close.

Perhaps humans did not
invent it.
Perhaps it was here
all along,
this pull, this need,
this global call for love.


(c) 2022 David L. Harrison

Tree bones at night

Hi everyone,

This is a favorite of mine. It’s in the book I wrote about the trip that SANDY and I took up the Amazon River and into some tributaries years ago. The book, SOUNDS OF RAIN, was published in 2006 by Wordsong, Boyds Mills Press.

For those of you who remember the back story, I loved the trip. Sandy did not. That was the year I forfeited all future rights to choose our vacations.

The riverboat we were on, Amatista, held about 14 passengers and a crew of 8 or 10. Without notes, I can’t be sure. Small anyway. The poem is about watching our vessel negotiate its way upstream in the dark, sometimes through cramped channels and around short turns. Memories of a lifetime.

TREE BONES

The boat’s twin running lights
punch long tunnels through the dark.
Ghostly clouds of insects swirl,
a smorgasbord for swooping bats
whose shadows fly along the bank.

The narrow stream coils ahead,
a twisting snake that squeezes in
until the boat can scarcely breathe.

A mounted spotlight casts
its blazing eye from side to side
as Captain shoulders through
tight turns and shallow places.

Tree trunks caught in the glare glisten,
white skeletons surprised by light.
I imagine armies row on row
of tree bones marching on patrol
beside us in the night.

The trip eventually prompted me to write a YA novel about that gigantic forest and one of the stories I wanted to tell about it. I have not yet found a publisher. It begins like this.

The Amazon River flows flat and brown between banks guarded by trees without number. The sky is so wide that yellow sun in one area doesn’t bother flashing rain clouds in another. This is the largest rainforest on earth. It covers more than two million square miles and is home to nearly one out of every three kinds of living things. In 1999 my wife Sandy and I journeyed into the Amazon rainforest. We left from Iquitos, Peru, the largest city in the world that can be reached only by plane or boat. From there our adventure took us past the headwaters of the Amazon onto smaller rivers that led us more than one hundred miles into the forest.