My Writing Chair

      John with great granddaughter Violet       

~ My Writing Chair ~

(with echoes of Winnie the Pooh)

Of all the seats in this old house

this is the one  that holds me best

it isn’t in a bedroom, it isn't on a stair

it isn’t anywhere at all -except right here 

in the corner of the sitting room where

I can stare past two windowed walls

while pondering the perfect word

to set down next

or gaze into the past, remembering pooh stories

and small children listening -- or not

It isn’t soft. It isn’t hard. It doesn’t rock nor can recline

It holds me firm, keeps me alert so I can think and 

dream and write -- and sometimes even pine

So. This is the chair where I always sit

there isn’t any other chair quite like it.

But it isn’t really mine at all -- 

this golden chair in whose lap I muse

left on a curb many years back, too good to throw away

it found a home with us.  Settled in and soon became

John’s favorite spot to rest from hours in the garden

or in his basement shop. I’d settle on the couch to

break from working in the office he’d built for me

- a child’s bedroom became Mom’s book room

in our shrinking nest.

long years ensued as we danced alone together in our

old place until age took its toll and John was gone 

My carpenter was gone. Gone was his voice

his whistle wafting from below, his hugs

his gardening boots at the back door

his old favorite chair sat empty

his well worn gold colored

wingback chair

Slowly I began to settle here with my keyboard on my lap

Gradually it drew me with my morning cup of coffee

a good fit, it soon became my daydream place

my writing space - with kindle close at hand

It feels like home, this chair of mine

Now this is where I always stop to

sit. There isn’t any other spot quite like

it. It isn’t freshly new, it isn’t falling down

it’s in our city home where I happily live on

with words on the wing in the air all around

to capture and sort and pin on the page to

ground my illusions and settle my rage

to sort out confusion in this odd stage

on this mountain I’m climbing - 

now part way up

<><><><>

Half way up the stairs isn’t up and it isn’t down

it isn’t in the nursery, it isn’t in the town

and all sorts of funny thoughts run round my head

It isn’t really any where, it’s some place else instead...

...So this is the place I always stop….

-Christopher Robin in A. A. Milne's When We Were Very Young

JoMae

2/15/21

Spent my day playing with some fun frivolous notions - Enjoy!