Saturday at the Ice School Rink Revised to “We Could Skate All Day”

Saturday at the School Ice Rink

The playground floods into a sheet of thin ice,

a green wooden warming house edges the rink,

heater inside — ­­smells of oil, damp wool, candy.

We carry our skates,

laces knotted together, draped around our necks.

We kick off our boots,

lace up our skates tight,

stash our boots under the low bench.

Mr. B. sells candy behind a makeshift counter:

Raisinets, red licorice, Milk Duds.

Music crackles from the loudspeaker outside.

We skate clockwise, circle the rink,

blades carve ice, spin, push off again.

Skate tricks take center,

where the ice spreads wide and open.

We clomp across the wood floor,

press our wet mittens to the heater.

Hands thaw, mittens dry. 

We skate all afternoon.

At night, the older kids hold hands,

glide around to a waltz.

Cheeks red with cold,

legs tired,

joy fills our bones.

 REVISED 3/4/2026

We Could Skate All Day

The fire department floods

the school playground

into a sheet of thin ice for winter.

A green wooden warming house

leans at the edge.

Inside it breathes oil heat and wet wool.

Neighborhood kids,

we walk to school on Saturday,

skates slung around our necks,

laces knotted, blades bump against our chests.

Boots thud to the floor.

We pull laces tight until our ankles tingle.

Stow boots under the wood benches.

At the candy counter, Mr. B slides boxes

of  Raisinets, red ropes of licorice, and Milk Duds

in exchange for our nickels and dimes.

Outside a speaker blares tinny music

that crackles across the rink.

We skate clockwise at first

in slow circles.

Blades scrape snow dust across the ice.

Someone skates backwards,

another shoots to the center

to spin in the wide-open space.

We clomp back in to warm up,

mittens steam against the heater,

our fingers tingle back to life.

All afternoon we circle

the hard skin of ice,

practice figure eights.

When day turns to dusk

we change into our boots

to walk home.

Cheeks burn,

legs wobble,

ankles throb,

still tracing lines in the ice.

John Marshall School Canrival…revised: “Best Night of the Year”

John Marshall School Carnival

On a winter night,

classrooms convert to carnival,

tables set with games and treats.

Tickets change hands

to toss ping pong balls

at water-filled fishbowls,

some teeter at the rim.

Parents bring decorated cakes.

For the cake walk

we circle numbered squares,

while music plays.

When it stops

we win what’s on our square,

hoping for a cake, maybe even cupcakes.

We cast a line over a bedsheet screen.

The pole bends as we jiggle the line.

On the other side, a parent

clips a small toy or treat to the hook

then gives a tug to signal a bite.

We reel it in, eyes fixed on the prize.

Laughter carries down the hall.

Windows glow into the dark,

bright squares spill out on the snow.

Paper plates bend under cake and frosting.

Goldfish swim home in plastic bags.

REVISED 03/04/26

Best Night of the Year

Dad brings me back to school after dinner.
Windows at John Marshall school glow
warm against the snow. 
We climb the steps
into classrooms turned carnival,
the PTA in full bloom.

A few dimes and a quarter
buy a string of red tickets.

In third grade, Mrs. Yensh
stands before a hanging bedsheet.
I cast my line over the top,
a tug, a bite!
Reel in a prize I can’t remember,
only that I want it.

In fourth grade, fish bowls wait,
water dyed pink, yellow, blue.
Goldfish circle in each small world.
One ticket, three ping pong balls.
One bounces off the rim
and chatters across the floor,
one teeters, falls,
one lucky kersplash
lands in the center.

Cake walk squares
taped to the school kitchen floor.
Music plays.
We step and step,
until it stops.

Paper plates bend under cake and frosting.
Snow keeps the light.
Goldfish swim home in plastic bags.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Necklace

My neighbor, who gave me the necklace, has written the essay by the same title. The essay tells the whole story in detail. Elisa, (like Drew’s Elisa, by different pronunciation )who gave me the neckalce has had it twice…so there are really six women, but it passed around 7 times. I say 7 women in the poem, but it’s really 6 with one having it twice. Not sure if this makes a difference in my count. I am # 7 or 8, depending….

Sisterhood of the Traveling Necklace

Epigram: F (··−·) - A (·−) - I (··) - T (−) - H (····).

I finger tiny beads of Morse code on a thin silver chain

this necklace of faith.

There have been others who have worn it,

each one came through their cancers. Still here.

This necklace of Faith,

passed along from E to V, another E, then D, B, L, E again, then to me.

Each one came through their cancers. Still here.

Smooth dots and dashes of silver to soothe the worry.

Passed along from E to V, another E, then D, B, L, E again, then to me.

It looks small around my neck but holds big hope,  

smooth dots and dashes of silver to soothe the worry.

Seven women carry me forward.

It looks small around my neck, but holds big hope.

There have been others who have worn it.

Seven women carry me forward.

I finger these tiny beads, Morse code on a thin silver chain.

Glow. (See revision below and new title)

I have rewritten this many times—this is another complete rework: I’d like to consider it for the Muse contest. I am trying to do more showing images, less telling ( I struggle so with that!) Do you” get” that this is a gender transition poem? And the other point is that transition is real and positive…. and. that no one can deny another person’s existence.— Does that come through?

Glow

After “Wistful,” mixed media by Lauren Douglas

Did my hormones crisscross the placenta,

too much female, not enough male?

So what if they did. Human biology does what it wants,

makes what it must.

You arrived boy, by first appearance,

but the brain, the tender skill of feeling,

the quiet nurture of the heart

leaned another way.

For years you circled the seasons of change,

wintered your worries, and learned

which parts of yourself could survive.

In your own time, you let the real you bloom.

Some were surprised.

You were not.

There were no second thoughts.

Rightness wears the yellow of sunshine,

warm on the skin,

a wish fulfilled, birthed again.

The clouds have lifted

to reveal a glow of poise and promise.

Your genius moves outward now,

offered freely, useful, alive.

Be safe, my child.

You never have to go back.

REVISION 08. This title just popped into my head this morning.— a play on the song title: Love is a many-splendored thing. I hope it doesn’t sound trite? also other revisions included—tweaks. I stayed away from born-again—too fundamentalist-religion-like .

Love is a Many Gendered Thing

Did hormones crisscross the placenta,

too much female, not enough male?

So what if they did. Human biology does what it wants,

makes what it must, clouds the binary.

You arrived, boy by first appearance,

but the brain, the tender furl of feeling,

the quiet nurture of the heart

leaned another way.

You circled the seasons of change,

wintered your worries, learned

which parts of yourself could survive.

In your own time, you let the real you bloom.

Some were surprised.

You were not.

There were no second thoughts.

Rightness wears the yellow of sunshine,

warm on your soft skin,

a wish fulfilled, re-born.

The clouds have lifted

to reveal a glow of poise and promise.

Your genius moves outward now,

offered freely, useful, alive.

Be safe, my child.

You never have to go back.

Looking for Uncle Dick

for Muse prize it seems more serious poems usually get awards. I started this as part of my WWII _ Uncle Dick project. What do you think? I’m not sure it’s right for a contest.

Looking for Uncle Dick
     After the painting “One” by Ciel Skal

From water he came, and to water he returned.
For twenty-three years, he was here.
Then there. Then gone.

Artist, mapmaker, photographer.
Ambidextrous genius, prankster.
Brother to two sisters, one older, one younger.

A jester and tease, a student, and soldier.
A gunner with a camera, shooting war through a lens
to record what he might one day wish to forget.

Then silence. Missing in action.

My grandparents wept enough tears to lift the Pacific,
the ocean that swallowed him. His hands gripped
a machine gun, yet pressed the camera shudder with tenderness.

In this painting, the ink bleeds black through water,
the way death spread across the Pacific,
one downed plane at a time.

My uncle flew low over Japan in a B-29.
Last mission - signal lost.
Body never found.

He belongs to the ages now, leaving questions adrift.
Did the plane fail? Was it shot from the sky?
The sea holds his silence.

I dive into family history. Gather fragments
of one who will never age, spared
the wreckage of remembering.

We carry the burden of not knowing.

What the Neighbors Heard

Tori, I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. Peter, Carrie, and I have been working through Steve Kowit’s In the Palm of Your Hand, and the first four chapters have inspired many new poems. Most of them are going into my book, Summer Days at the Five and Dime, which Ruth Crocker is publishing—she felt the poems were good, relatable, and worth sharing with the world. Kowit’s prompts touched deeper areas of memory—more serious stuff. I’ve added several heavier poems to the collection. This is one. I was thinking it feels finished. Is there anything that jumps out at you? I welcome your feedback.

What the Neighbors Heard

Mother set down a pan of oven-baked chicken

at my father’s place for him to dish up dinner.

Baked potatoes. Steamed broccoli.

As soon as we lifted our forks

they’d start in. Picking at each other

as we picked at our chicken.

He was critical of every

little thing she did, or didn’t do.

She was bone-tired, full of complaint.

I’ve had it, she’d say. Stuck home all day,

a slave to the kitchen. A slave to this house.

A slave to this life, while you go out and have fun.

He announced another fall fishing trip

up north to the Brule, gone a week.

She would feed the hunting dogs, shovel their poop

from the pen, haul it across the road to a field.  

Hot summer served up a side dish of insults.

He mocked her frizzy permanents.

She said his feet were too big,

she was always tripping over them.

Then came the escalation.

You can just go to hell!

Shit on the broccoli, she screamed one night.

Goddammit, Betty, he shot back.

Dining room windows open. I froze mid-bite.

Their curses drifted through the neighbor’s screens,

met by muffled whispers from their porch.

My aunt said it was how they showed love.

My stomach curdled. I called them Roarers  

I told my best friend I wanted to write Ann Landers.

One night, we wrote the letter.

Ashamed, I never mailed it.

Here’s my revised version with additional examples and dialogue. It wasn’t the fights at home as much as my embarrassment in the summer when the neighbors heard all this. It was our family secret let out in the open (The prompt was to write about a secret, 35 lines or less). I think the title I have is important. I had “The Roarers” for a first title—but thought it was confusing.

Dialogue is in italics throughout. The letter to Ann Landers is a key part of this poem; I was so miserable, I didn’t know who I could turn to to talk about it.

You mentioned your poem in “Vaginas…” and yes, I was thinking of it as I was writing this, how we both had “lively” parents and childhoods. ;-)

Thank you for your good suggestions! I like ending it with what my aunt said.
Is it too big a leap to go from my embarrassment with the letter to Ann Landers and into my aunt’s comment? ( BTW, when arranging a small plaque on my parents’ niche, at the mausoleum in Wausau, we almost had “Shit on the broccoli” engraved on it on my mother’s side, but there wasn’t room. LOL)

What the Neighbors Heard

 Mother set down a pan of oven-baked chicken

at my father’s place for him to dish up dinner.

She removed her apron, sat at the other end of the table.

My brother and I were opposite each other, a table of four

As soon as we lifted our forks, they’d start in.

They picked at each other as we picked at our chicken.

Where’s the paprika for the cauliflower?

Where’s his mug of green broth from the broccoli?

I’ve had it, she yelled, Stuck home all day,

a slave to the kitchen. A slave to this house.

A slave to this life, while you go out and have fun.

He announced another fall fishing trip

up north to the Brule, gone for a week.

She would feed the hunting dogs, shovel their crap

from the pen, haul it across the road, fling it in a field.  

Hot summer served up a side dish of insults.

He mocked her frizzy permanents,

her stash of lotions, potions, and pills

the endless headaches at bedtime.  

She said, Your feet are too big,

gunboats to trip over in the bedroom.

Fishing rods leaned into corners of the living room.

Who has fishing rods in their living room?

Today, I stepped on a fishhook stuck in the rug!

You can just go to hell! He said

Shit on the broccoli, she screamed

Goddammit, Betty, he shot back.

Dining room windows open, brother and I froze mid-bite.

Their curses drifted into the neighbor’s open windows.

My stomach curdled. I called them The Roarers.

I wrote a letter to Ann Landers asking for help to make it stop

but was too embarrassed to mail it.

My aunt said it was how they showed love.

Mother of Intention

I am kind of obsessed with mythology right now, because I found a classicist who writes about the women in mythology in a feminist way, uncovering more of their dimension. It’s fascinating. So I had this idea to write a series of poems about these fiercesome women. Let me know what you think. My preference is to provide enough detail that you can figure out who the figure is without naming her. This one is about Clytemnestra. But let me know if you think I should turn up that card.

At the slight I am reminded
of daughters made voiceless in myths
and life, and sacrificed to a fickle godliness
to aid the causation of men
marching on a trophy city.
I am the mute daughter
and the vengeful mother.
Mythologies take their turn
in me.
Despots silence me
in the classroom, the office,
the street, the executive suite,
as if I can't recognize betrayal,
so much white in the room.
The lack of color distorts the facts.
Even the phone is bone.
A roar of wings drowns out
the true confessions of women.
Men prefer to fabricate
their own truth.
A daughter stricken mute,
struck down, collapses to her death,
an apocalypse of horror
in the velvet of her eyes. Once,
he called her his fawn, his yearling.
Hunted, stalked, slaughtered,
her body is dragged from the room
by a leg.
A mother stands sentry
for the war years, caressing the locket
with a tress of her daughter's hair.
The shadow of revenge
moves about the house
like an envoy. She fills
the vacuum of command
as if she is made for it,
weaving guile
and a straitjacket.
I am one of the furies
on the roof, dancing
my indignation. A daughter
shouldn't have to pay
with her promise, her long
limbs, her sunshine.
Fathers are a blunt
instrument. Mother,
pick up your ax.
A woman's patience
is centurion.

Lily

After Margaret Silano

So many of my pleasures relate to sleep, or preparing
to sleep, or dressing myself for sleep, or tricks for sleep.
I could sing to the modality of my loungewear with the sounds
of the sea as my accompaniment. For a while I was hopscotching
to sleep with a gummie, but the dreamlessness began to cost me.
Not anything I could put into words exactly, mostly a blankness.
I could tell I hadn't visited my subconscious for a very long time.
Something of that soullessness of missing your grandmother's visits.
How she called everybody honey, and it still felt sticky and brand new.
How she hugged you with a hankie up her sleeve. How she called it
a hankie. The absolute best is when sleep ambushes me like a little brother
with a slippery frog. I am horrified that I could sleep at such a moment,
but the frog joy is irresistible, and I know I have touched the bottom
of the riverbed when I can look up and read the undersides of lily pads.

Waiting to Be Known

This poem came out of Art Speaks on Sept 5. I wrote from an art banner quote, and it became a poem about hope—without ever using the word. Does that come through? See the photo

Waiting to Be Known

       Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. – Carl Sagen 

These days, something incredible
waits in the corner,
fluffed and feathered.

I feel it
through the deep inhale
and the longer exhale
of a single breath
that moves beyond fear,
shedding that tightness
at the heart of my being.

It’s there
in the pastel promise
just before the sun
lifts up a fresh day,
in spite of yesterday.

I see it in the goldfinch
that clings to the zinnia,
feeding on seeds,
preparing to migrate
to a place of arrival
and survival.

I smell it in the rain
that returns life
to wilting marigolds
where bees nuzzle nectar dust.

It’s that one big fuzzy bee
pollen-drunk
in the center
of a fuchsia cosmos
in honey-scented dreams.  

 And yes, it still perches
in the quiet of me, 
never having stopped at all,
only waiting – to be known.

REVISION
Waiting to Be Known

      Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. – Carl Sagen 

These days, something incredible

waits in the corner,

fluffed and feathered.

I feel it

in the deep inhale
and the longer exhale

of a single breath

that moves beyond fear,

shedding that tightness

at the heart of my being.

It’s there

in the pastel promise

just before the sun

lifts up a fresh day,

in spite of yesterday.

I see it in the goldfinch

that clings to the zinnia,

feeding on seeds,

preparing to migrate

to a place of arrival
and survival.

I smell it in the rain

that returns life

to wilting marigolds

where bees nuzzle nectar dust.

I hear it in
that one big fuzzy bee,

pollen-drunk

at the center

of a fuchsia cosmos,

that drifts in honey-scented dreams.  

And, yes, it still perches

in the quiet of me, 

never having stopped at all.

Body

I wrote this this week, and I don’t hate it. (Sex is so hard to write about.) Let me know what you think.

Morning comes with the thrum of the sea. I shiver at the remembering,
the eddying. My ordinary body moves, makes coffee. Catkins cluster
in tall trees that telescope to the watery blue of the sky. I sit in a camp
chair and let the slow minutes fall like bleached pebbles. Your ordinary
body shifts next to me. A languid breeze drifts over us. My skin is aware
of sweetness, rumor of breath. Our eyes connect watching a dark-haired
couple enter the shower room together. They're in sweatpants, holding the
handles of plastic caddies. I read three pages. Four. The shower door opens
with an echo that carries, fan rumbling like a thunderstorm across the waves.
The man emerges first, rugged in boots and chinos. The woman's hand lingers
on the doorframe. She wears a sweater, seashell pink, tight jeans. She stands
for the longest time in front of the mirror, combing her shoulder-length hair.
He watches. We can only imagine their reflections in the mirror. The aftermath
of sex is like a hangover—nebulous and blurry—with an unaccountable ache.

Knot

I tried to make this poem like a “knot,” but I think I went a little overboard. Another four letter word poem.

Knot

When I start to imagine a peaceful tranquility unspooling
from my chest, I walk into a new snarl of emotions with a text.
The tangle steps in front of me like a crude oaf and snags me with
frustration, worry, anger, regret. It's true you can't escape your past.
But neither can you escape the pasts of those you love. That weave
of actions, gestures, mistakes grows dense with time like tumbleweeds
blowing across the daily plains. The knot tightens as I struggle. I pluck
at the twisted strands on uncountable nights, a restless deity trying
to disentangle sleepless souls into a twilight of some relief. The issue
of sunrise on a grainy morning. Light filtering through the terrible gnarling.
The inevitable dawning. What can I do? I must set aside myself and help.
Ultimately, this is our purpose—the giving away, the lending of hope.
Here's another lesson: there's always something. We are called to
renegotiate natural disaster, personal calamity, acts of god.

Threshold of Slumber

I edited this one about 50 times in the past week or so…when Pau was here…I was thinking about the “hidden” theme for Moss Piglet, but I feel this is a stronger poem, I should save for “One Art” or some other pub? (The next poem “ Scar” also has something “hidden “for the Moss Piglet theme)

Threshold of Slumber

Cicadas hum with summer heat,
the stroller rocks forward and back.
You blink against sleep.
Eyes bright as stars flicker in the shade.
Legs kick as if ready to spring
like a grasshopper into green.

At last, you quiet.
Legs loosen, feet draw together,
knees drift wide like a Monarch
folding and unfolding,
that slow hush of wings.

You float between flight and rest.
Eyelids flutter
open, close –
open, close –
the stroller eases you
into that threshold of slumber.

I lean in –
breathe sweet baby-air
memorize your perfect lips,
button nose
lightly graze your milk-smooth skin.

Watching you breathe,
joy spills through me, sweet grandson,
the whole cosmos cradled
in the gentle rise and fall
of your breathing.

A sudden twitch
shakes loose a dream
that flares in you
then fades
hidden behind
that thin curtain
of your sleep.

Scar

I was writing to the “hidden” theme for Moss Piglet, and thought of this memory: (could also go in my poetry memoir manuscript) The lines are wonky in here…it should be in three-line stanzas—tercets, until the last stanza, which is four lines.

Scar

     See how the flesh grows back - Jane Hirschfield

The day I fell off my bike when my face greeted the sidewalk,

I lay there, like a stunned bird, until my brother lifted me home,  

my just-grown-in-front teeth dangling by their roots.

Mother rushed me to the dentist.

In the elevator, strangers stared at the crimson handkerchief

I held to my face.

Smelling of tooth polish and antiseptic, the dentist bent close,
gentle hands pushing my teeth back into their sockets,

binding them with a thin silver wire.

Doctor’s orders: for six weeks I ate baby food, smashed bananas,
creamy oatmeal, and milkshakes slipping cold and smooth,

through a straw.

The cut above my lip swelled, then sealed into a dark crust.

Dad caught me in a photo: straw pressed to swollen lips,

my eyes glazed with ache, and a trace of fear.

When the scab peeled and dropped away,

I touched the tender nick, a vertical dent, a puckered scar.

The pale crease in my skin, always there,

slips out of sight when I smile

Insomnia

This was the pantoum I started at the conference. That I’ve been working on since.

I hear the paleness of the moon, sounds of scurry.
I wonder about the dreams of trees,
the meandering river, sleepless, wending, weaving,
the sinewing of a body tight with worry.

I wonder about the dreams of trees.
An applause of leaves repletes the recurring story,
the sinewing of a body tight with worry.
I float the anxious sons and daughters.

An applause of leaves repletes the recurring story.
In lavender fields of flagrant amputation,
I float the anxious sons and daughters.
An awareness that hunts and forages

on the knife edge of sedge grass and wildflowers,
in the lavender fields of flagrant amputation.
Night jams the agitating paddle of my heart.
An awareness that hunts and forages

on the knife edge of sedge grass and wildflowers.
I hear the paleness of the moon, sounds of scurry.
Night jams the agitating paddle of my heart—
the meandering river, sleepless, wending, weaving.

Indifferent to Housework

I was thinking of your frenzy, which made me ponder my approach to housework.

Mother ruined me for the work of cleaning house.
I had more chores than my sisters, being the eldest.
Dust the living room. Vacuum the dining room.
Sweep the bedrooms. Scrub the bathroom sink,
tub and tile. And it wasn't like I could go through
the motions, half-ass it. She could tell from her perch
by the wall phone, by the disruption of air, by the decibels
of rubbing. I mean, by the very molecules of Endust®
if I was thorough, if I was doing a good job. And if I was sick,
if I had a cold or the flu or worse, a fiery inflammation
of the throat, which happened often, despite the removal
of my tonsils, it didn't pay to stay home from school,
because mother would say I'd had enough lolling
in my French Provincial bed and point out that the windows
could use a spray or two of Windex®. She couldn't abide
dirt or shoes left by the doormat, but it was more than that.
It was as if slovenly pillows or misplaced chairs said something
about her, about the order or disorder of her mind,
about the notice she took.

I had this trick with my hip when I vacuumed,
a bump and grind to the turntable. I also learned
to wipe away abrasive cleanser with a soft cloth.
The gleam was worthy of a reluctant smile.
Mother's hard scrutiny was a force field of will.
Yet dust was not the enemy. Grime was not malign.
Taking care of the home front was a fight she could wage.
Appearances were not everything, but they were defensive,
and she never wanted to hear another put-down from any
of my grandparents or guests about her housekeeping,
a word I've always thought sounded like a prison.

Meditation in Time —after maany edits

I wrote this to submit to Phyllis and Gloria’s new anthology (due soon!) on the Mindfulness of Aging. Gloria and  Phyllis are asking for first-person, narrative poems that make folks feel good about aging. I also think this poem fits with the music assigned for my Midsummer Music poem. Phyllis is fine with previously published for her anthology (If I use it for Midsummer Music, which is a limited audience). This reflects our day last Tuesday, kayaking north of Shawano Lake on a small, quiet lake. It was a jackpot day of wildlife watching. There was also a green Heron fishing, which I took out. I like my last line, (I began with that in mind) .but am not sure it’s strong enough. For Phyllis, it can be no longer than 30 lines. This is 26…but 28 with title and the space between. I had it in stanzas of 4 lines each, but the breaks weren’t right.

Outside of Time

No Older This Morning

75 and Alive

Where Time Pauses

I step into my kayak
on the morning-glazed lake,
slip into the worn seat,
feet braced, knees soft.
The paddle slices through unbroken water,
my torso moves with pull and push.
I pass loosestrife and arrowroot.
Wild iris wave their violet flags.
Even the water waits;
only droplets from the paddle stir the silence.
White lilies tilt toward sun.
Yellow pond lilies clench
tight fists above green pads.
In a lone pine crowned with a nest,
an osprey feeds its chick
ribbons of torn fish.
Her mate lands with precision,
his wings fold to nestle in.
Loons call across the water,
a sound older than time.
One dives, comes up with a flash
of silver in its beak,
a minnow passed to her waiting chick.
I paddle forward
as time rolls back in the kayak.

+++

7/23/2025 Final edit (Maybe)—I think it’s ready to send. I keep doubting myself…aagh! I wanted it to have a message at the end. The music I listened to was calm, with one movement a bit more animated, and sounded like birds.

Poem for Midsummer Music:
Here’s my preface for when I read it: In music, we measure time — in beats, pauses, or in movement. That’s what this poem became for me: a meditation in time, shaped by water, light, and the peaceful rhythms of the natural world.

Meditation in Time

On the morning-glazed lake,
I step into my kayak,
slip into the worn seat,
feet braced, knees soft.
The paddle arcs through unbroken water,
my torso swings with the cadence
of each pull and push.
I want to know the music of this water
to forget the dissonance of this world
if only for a little while.

I paddle legato through loosestrife and arrowroot.
Wild iris wave their violet batons.
Water droplets from my paddle
are prelude to silence.
White lilies tune toward the sun.
Bright yellow pond blossoms
sway above green pads.
In a lone pine crowned with a nest,
an osprey feeds her chick ribbons of torn fish.
Her mate lands with grace,
his wings fold to join their duet.
I paddle forward in rhythm,
while time rolls back in my kayak.

Loons echo across the lake,
their voices older than time.
Their haunting call draws me in.
I secretly watch their two offspring;
the female lifts a wing to push
one baby up on her back.
For now, they are safe.
I wish it were so
for everyone, everywhere.

Cleaning Out My Parents' House

I wrote this for Moss Piglet, their next themed issue is on “is it junk, or not?” This will fit for my “big legacy “ book too, I think.

Cleaning Out My Parents’ House

In their den, eight olive-green metal file cabinets stand at attention, four drawers high. They swallow the light coming in from the west window. Each drawer scrapes open, stuffed with manila folders, brittle and bulging.

As a teen, I spent hours reading books or talking on the telephone in here. When my brother and I were kids, Dad had a special way of calling for us, the high-low song of a chickadee courting. When we heard it, we came running.

I pull files and find tags and instructions for every appliance bought in the fifty-five years they lived in this house. The new chest freezer from the year my appendix ruptured and I almost died when I was five, the Sunbeam Deluxe hair dryer with the plastic hood and coiled hose that Mom and I shared. My giant rollers barely fit beneath its shower-cap crown.

A receipt for the yellow bed tray with foldable legs and pink flowers blooming at the edges. I brought her toast on sick days. She brought me chicken broth when I was small and fevered. I find Dad’s warranties for fishing rods and reels neatly filed for his fly-casting passions.

Handwritten notes from church council meetings. Speeches for Friday night forums. Mother's jotted notes from history lectures on the State Station's University of the Air. League of Women Voters debate notes; scribbled thoughts on theology, philosophy, her books. Her presentation for the church circle on Gift from the Sea.

Operator manuals: the Oster blender, hand-held electric egg beater, and the black Singer sewing machine. The Cuisinart Food Processor she feared; the blade too sharp, the motor too fast.

Instructions for a 1962 copper stove, countertop style, paired with a matching, shoulder-high oven built into brand-new cupboards. The GE fridge that replaced the old white Kelvinator. Receipt from Mirman's Furniture for the brown loopy couch where I rode the arm like a horse, watching The Lone Ranger.

A folder titled Genealogy. Typed notes tracing our family back to Norway to an eighth great-grandmother, born 1798, died 1898, weeding her garden. Personalities of elders and long-gone cousins, their quirks cataloged.

And thick envelopes of letters my grandparents wrote each week through the 50s, 60s, 70s. News from their lives inked from a time when no one would call long-distance unless someone had died.

I open the patio door to breathe. I sweat. I recycle receipts, old manuals, and empty folders into the junk bin. But I keep the letters. I keep the family tree.

In the back of the last drawer, I find it:
A letter from Dad, never mailed. His shaky hand drifting downhill, eyes failing. He writes of Mom’s complaints, her aging anxieties. His frustrations. Addressed to me, sealed in silence.

I close the last drawer. Eight olive-green soldiers, ready for auction.

Warm breeze
through the open door
a single chickadee calls

Playing Paperboy

I did a free write of a childhood memory (to include in the “Summer Days” book). And then, thought this might fit into a villanelle since the event is repetitive. I am determined to figure out this form. I am hoping that the lines do not sound awkward. I was thinking about Chuck Rybak’s comments about meter and “feet”— I don’t know one foot from another, stressed or unstressed. I settled on counting and evening out syllables. (I’ve been tweaking this for a few weeks.)

Playing Paperboy

At three years old, I rule the morning street

I ride my red trike, old news in a stack.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

From my basket, grab a paper folded neat,

throw one on the porch, it lands with a smack.

At three years old, I rule the morning street.

Dad shoots a movie, tries to be discreet.

Play is my work, newspapers in the rack.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

I ride back down the sidewalk, then repeat,

toss more papers, turn around, come back.

At three years old, I rule the morning street.

Dad’s paperboy game is a memory sweet.

The news is old, and time can’t bring it back.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

Playing Dad’s movie makes my days complete.

An elder now, there’s nothing that I lack.

At three years old, I rule the morning street,

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

City

This has to be somewhat oblique. Hopefully not TOO much.

We meet for dinner in the city between our two cities. We arrive
crammed together. My sister points at the wine list from her padded
bench. I look on from a facing chair. Our ghost sister, the middle one,
marvels at the grain in the olive wood. My sister and I secretly wish
the waiter were our offspring. They're attentive and full of praise for our
decisions. We clink the thin-blown glasses. We contrive closeness
despite the specter that separates us. I'm careful not to mention
estrangement. I'm careful not to mention daughters. My sister grows
louder with the wine and rigatoni. The man next to her tilts away.
The imperfect tense of her words tricks my lips. A relationship
stands up good or bad. Our ghost sister cools to the misplaced
diagnosis. None of us is blameless. If my sister didn't lean up against it,
her daughter couldn't punch a hole in it. Only the backlash inhabits us.

Silent Foes of Many Distances. (after Rainer Maria Rilke)

This poem was inspired by the Rilke poem, from day 2 or 3 of the daily meditations. I posted the Rilke below also for reference.

Silent Foes of Many Distances

  After Rainer Maria Rilke

Our fevered earth, wounded by UV light –

to those in charge heed this warning:

Tornadoes of fire engulf day and night

Winds of terror huff their storming.

Now, shift east to oceans out of control.

Hurricanes whip water with surge and flood,

homes and people lost, unable to console.

Darkness covers all like the lotus in mud.

Our planet convulses with what’s at stake.

Earth’s tragedies cannot go on like this,

the plates are shifting, unstable with quakes.

If earth cannot tolerate what we do,

we must bend to the brokenness of her ailing.

To those in charge: our healing is up to you.  

Annette Langlois Grunseth

by Rainer Maria Rilke

English version by Stephen Mitchell
Original Language German

Silent friend of many distances, feel
how your breath enlarges all of space.
Let your presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face

grows mighty from the nourishment thus offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine.

In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their magic ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.

And if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am.