Poet, Playwright, Workshop Facilitator
Sunflower Opening.jpg


Welcome to daily nature photo and creative writing blog, #NewThisDay

Welcome to my daily nature photo blog

Writing from My Photo Stream ~ Kelly DuMar


#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

In the dry bed of the brook

In the dry bed of the brook

Did I dream the rain last night? No! I heard the rain as if the roots of my hair and pores of my skin were drinking it up. Rain pelted the roof and it washed the leaves and when I went out onto the deck with the dogs I saw the splash of it and the broken branch litter and the blown leaves. It was a much desired rain by all the thirsty plants. My feet, and the dogs’ feet, got very deliciously wet. And yet, the brook, full all through the summer is drying up. I walked into the cushiony mud of it, sinking only a little, I mucked around and looked for organic treasures that can be viewed, little beauties and mysteries that live under water and now are exposed. Suddenly, it’s a new world, this brook. Indoors, I was busy tweaking two lines of my newest poem. I fussed with these two lines Tom mentioned last night that he thought I might work on, and I agreed. And now, I am satisfied with this strange poem of the equinox: the mysterious tumble of it, its aphoristic curiosities. Also, today, I dug into my prep for the Farm Pond Writers tomorrow morning, preparing the prompt. Also, my upcoming retreat is coming into my vision. Thanks to you, dear readers, for sending me words of encouragement about this retreat that starts Friday. In the late afternoon I had a dentist appointment, and felt anxiety, and yet knew I needed to go and find out what’s wrong with my tooth. The familiar dread. I changed my clothes at the last minute, because I had taken a quick jump in for a swim, and this helped. I wore something cottony and baggy and bright that made me feel warm and comfy and safe. And, every one was so friendly and welcoming even though they had not seen me in such a long time. Nobody made me feel guilty. Pam, the dental tech, warmly inquired about my children. The dentist bent her smiling face into mine and looked me in the eye and she had removed her mask. Smiles. Welcomes. Nothing intrusive. I relaxed. The news, not bad. Some manageable work: two temporary crowns to come, but no disaster, no pain. So, all this talk of dentists. I will share with you one of my poems from my poetry collection, “girl in tree bark,” about a trip to the dentist:

Count Backward

            Words wear masks, his bossy

thumbs jerk around inside your mouth

and see? he’s aiming his needle for

                                    open your nice

clamped shut. You’re resisting –

even if your mother

                                    wants – the jab

done, quick, but you can block

him coming with your lips

refuse to let him stick you ‘til he’s mad

and makes you exit, without a trinket           

                                    a hospital nurse

knows how to help you climb into a high

cushioned chair, unmasked, her face

beams a grown up – safe, your nice

mouth opens wide so she can reach

                                    the hurt.

You have exactly

                                    the right kind

of teeth, she counts, only one

is bad – one has to go away

all you have to do is sleep

                                    to be forgiven

inhale, backwards counting 100, 99, 98, 97 – waking up,

she’s smiling still – and there’s your mother, too, waiting

                                    the rotten deed, it’s done

and in the basket, choose from all the rings

a ruby glowing, fits your finger – close enough

you flaunt it to the beach

                                    your mother’s rushing

your sisters and brothers have been

swimming through one whole day

                                    you can’t get wet, but what

you’re wearing everyone wants, except yours is –

the nurse promised –

                                    priceless, your mother

says it’s time to go home, and on the fretful trek

from beach to car – past bushes wild with berries –

your tongue lifts cotton, licks a hole, tastes of blood,

now will your other teeth try harder to be good