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.

Hope

Annette, there was a line in one of Heather Cox Richardson’s recent emails, a quote from a journalist, who said something about the “cratering of democracy.” It has stuck with me. I actually wrote this in response to the Day 4 prompt of the Mindful Writing Challenge, only I didn’t use the line “Don’t go off somewhere else.” Then of course the extreme cold and death crept in. I’ll be curious what you think. Did I overwork it?

I recognize the chickadees in the basket of my being.
Five or six of them in the desiccated tree of my view.
They flutter in the branches, exchanging places in a busy
skirmish, chattering about the withered berries, how cold
is a kind of helplessness, a reckoning of temperature,
seeking solution to the breaking down. The aridity is nearly
criminal. My knuckles crack in a stark topography. I am afraid
to go outside. Indoors may not be any safer. I learn of an infant
buried with the wing of a bird. The mad-capped contrast
of black and white is only for birds. Our soft bodies are gray.
The gnarling of winter leaves a streak against the sky. These
messenger birds will collaborate with other birds to survive,
a key lesson when being is in discord with living, and choices
are grim. With the hope of us cratering, we save food for later.

Refuge

My original poem was “Listen with your hands.” see 2nd photo—that’s how Peter gets inspired at Art Speaks. He uses his energy to get a sense of the painting. Carrie gives him some description and then he writes great poems! I’m on draft 12 or 15. here. My other versions were titled “Listen with your Hands” —- I rewrote this for a Raft friend (whom i also met in person a year ago) who just found out she has untreatable cancer and went home from Mayo’s right into hospice. it was such a shock. She asked for comfort so I’d like to send this to her. Coincidentally, that day, Peter & I wrote from the same painting. We have another version where Peter and I combined our lines into another poem.

Refuge

Caress the air of this indigo forest,

its chalk-shadowed trees rubbed with quiet.

Huddle up in the blue shawl of dusk

to shut out suffering.

Let shades of worry be veiled away for now.

Fibers of light-blue streak the air,

proclaim azured comfort of what is still good.

Be in this shelter of shadow.

Rest in the bluing peace of this very moment.

   +++

Since I wrote this, I learned of a sweet friend from The Raft ( we even met in person once time ) —who was JUST diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. She was sent home to Wis. from Mayo’s last week in hospice care. I sent her this version with a card this morning. It still speaks to last week as well, I think. Thank you for your helpful comments! Margaret said the painting was untitled.

Respite for 2025

Caress the air of this indigo forest,

its chalk-shadowed trees rubbed with quiet.

Huddle up in the blue shawl of dusk

and shut out suffering.

Let shades of worry be veiled for now.

Fibers of light-blue streak the air,

proclaiming azured comfort of what is still good.

Be in this shelter of shadow.

Rest in the bluing peace of this very moment.

Baby

Annette, I wrote this in response to Day Three of the Mindful Writing Challenge, e.g. write from the “love window.”

The incubation of light and life in the middle of the night.
I attend the birth of my first grandson. The mother's mother
chooses to be on-call. My mother chuffs her dictum in my ear.
The unknowing of new mothers demands at least one sentry.
The percolating silence of the hospital, bleep bleep of the
monitors. My son offers his girlfriend ice chips and a warm
hand to clench. Trepidation defies the lavender oil and singing
bowl. The pain is manageable until it isn't. By then it's too late
for an epidural. The baby refuses to budge from the cradle
of the mother's hips. Pages and pages of a birthing plan flutter
in disappointment. It doesn't matter, I say. Only a healthy child
matters. She stares at the ceiling. Every mother tells this story.
How she succumbs to the primeval push, and decisions are out
of her control. The doctor breezes in. It's time now. We go in.

Club

Annette, here’s the prompt that prompted this poem.

From WRITE IT!

In "Ode to the Midwest," Kevin Young wrote, I want to be doused / in cheese // & fried. I want / to wander // the aisles, my heart's / supermarket stocked high // as cholesterol... I want to be // the only black person I know. Though the poem is playful, its last lines here reveal some real pain. Whether it was because of race, sexuality, gender, or some other characteristic, was there a time in which you found yourself the only one of your kind? Describe that place and experience in the most vivid detail you can recall.

Television was a two-headed beast. We couldn't agree
on who our customers were. We stood in clusters in the
four corners of a conference room, separated by experiment,
ostensibly an ice breaker. One group would rather be
homeless than pretend to be Black or female. Analysts
slouched like the moneyed and tried to explain the difference
between bull and bear markets. As if homelessness was a
choice or a deficit of will. Outside, the heat of the desert
steamed like a tongue. Inside, an antechamber coolness
breathed down my neck. My tablemates in their inky suits
thought privilege was a sign of character. The heavy chairs
snagged on the abstract misogyny of the wall-to-wall.
The glare of cufflinks gave me a headache. Never mind
the performative role play or the secret strip club handshake.

Pern del Mon

I wrote this after Drew shared a story about Sineu, Mallorca. Sineu is about 20 minutes from their village and we went there a couple of times last Oct. . We walked around the church that is mentioned here. I did more research about it when I got home. I shared this with Elisa and Drew (Also sent it to Elisa’s mother) — even though it may not be finished because the timing is right for today.: New Year’s Eve. I am hoping Elisa will. translate it into Catalan — it would be fun to submit to one of those contests or journals that want translations. (I forget—but there was one recently.). I placed commas where I thought pauses were needed. How’d I do? ;-)

Pern del Món

(“pin of the world”)

On the last day of the year

as the old year pivots,

under the bell tower

in the church,

in the town of Sineu,

on an island,

in the Mediterranean,

the calendar and the clock

calculate the passing of time

from one year into the next.

On New Year’s Eve

as the bell tolls midnight,

the world prepares to turn

to a new year.

The mayor and the priest

descend the steps in the church

to the center of the world,

to the center of time,

to oil the bolt of the world.

They turn it to the new year

to keep the world from going under

to keep us from falling away.

Cradle of Life (renamed “Symbiosis”)

I’ve been working on a poem for Elisa based on a memory of when we swam tog. at a beach in Mallorca last Oct.. I think it would fit the WFOP theme of “Pathways” for the next calendar submission.

I want to give this as a “gift poem” to Elisa at some point. I was inspired by a painting at the Miller Gallery in Sturgeon Bay at a December Art Speaks session. See attached. photo.
This poem has evolved through 4 titles, I am going with “Cradle of LIfe” for now. I’d love some feedback on it. (I’m on draft number 15 —maybe more) (btw, she wears a lap suit instead of a bikini since she is pregnant.)

Cradle of Life

         For Elisa

She sheds her clothes on the beach

slips into a black lap suit,

wades in past volcanic rock,

through papery seagrass

past patches of sand

swims arm over arm into turquoise,

finds cadence of breath,

rhythm to each pull of water

exhaling herself forward.

She carries a baby in her amniotic sea

swimming the life within,

her baby curled into itself.

In this hammock of sweet darkness

the symbiotic swimmer grows

to feel, to wake, to know.

Together they swim

from shore out past the point

into the vast sea

on a planet in the Milky Way

filled with galaxies of the Universe.

From the cosmos within

the baby travels the rhythm

of the mother who swims arm over arm

a journey toward arrival

cradled by the salt of the sea.

01/10/2025 a complete rewrite—about 25 times rewritten: for WFOP Cal. Pathways theme.

Symbiosis

         For Elisa

 She wades through papery seagrass,

over volcanic rock, and patches of sand.

She swims arm over arm into turquoise,

finds her cadence of breath,

a rhythm to each pull of water,

exhaling herself forward.

Her amniotic sea carries

a baby curled into itself.

In this hammock of sweet darkness,

her symbiotic swimmer grows

to wake, to feel, to know.

Mother with child glides

from shore out past the point

then swims back

through the rippling sea.

Like a compass the baby spins within,

the mother reaches

arm over arm, focused

on the journey toward arrival,

umbilicaled to breath,

cradled by the salt of the sea.

Fuse

Annette, I can’t seem to write anything longer than 14 lines these days, so — by default — I am working on my series of FOUR-LETTER WORDS. This poem was prompted by a WRITE IT! prompt: God is Your Shoulder // Is the bone in you / the place you didn't / grow a wing, wrote poet Molly McCully Brown in the poem "God is Your Shoulder." Whether your believe in God or not, take a deep breath and imagine part of your body is divine. Describe that holiness inside you.

Fuse

What is god but the healed clavicle collaring of
statuesque posture. You stand tall to the ache you
were born with, that existential clagging for belonging,
connection. God gives you bones to articulate like
runes, an alphabet of protrusions, bumps, grooves,
chronicling attachment, fracture, fusing of bone with
momentum. You feel for the finger bowl at the base
of your throat. God is the squared off shoulders,
the press of three fingers at the fluent hollow,
the strut of two bones on the catwalk of becoming.
God is the plush of velveteen pulse, the smooth nap
of what perceives as lovely, the high-stepping susceptibility,
the suture of windpipe and breastplate. God is the thin-
skinned vulnerability, the body notched with soul.

The Wedge

( a poem I’ve been working on for the sequel to “Becoming Trans-Parent”). I’m thinking of a positive, supportive book of poems. Anna is also writing it with me—her story will probably be written in prose.) this came from the talk we did together when Anna mentioned transgender topics have become a political wedge in our country. )

The Wedge

A political wedge splits us

with divisive rhetoric.

The tension, a rope with splitting strands

ready to snap – each side on the verge

of reeling backward

into the abyss false claims.

I see exhaustion

in your rounded shoulders

in your eyes wet with empathy.

At the end of the day

Breathe, recharge, rest.

You are good and devoted.

Replace the wedge with hope.

Be who you are.

live, and pursue happiness

like everyone else. 

Stay true to yourself.

You are always kind

always offering your hand.

Never stop.

And know that I will

always be right here with you.

Best Love,

Your Mama Bear

Be Careful of What You Wish For

A poem in response to Rebecca Meacham’s prompt #1. Should I left and right justify? Or no?

My father lost his best friend in the move from Coleman to Peshtigo, an upheaval of maybe fifteen miles. Not that he left his friend behind. The friend drowned at the swimming hole where they played hooky. My grandpa became a barber after his doctor advised him to leave construction–too much strain on his heart. Father couldn’t forget the concavity of sound as he dove into the water. They all dove, father, the friend, two buddies. The friend never surfaced. The water was green-black with treachery. Father and the buddies couldn't seem to hold their breath for the panic. Their hands didn't belong to them, fingers wrinkling maladaptively. It was all wrong—the day, the sky, the water slurping at the bank while they waited on the shore for the rescue crew to cast their trolling nets. Grandpa brought more towels than three shivering boys needed. Father shifted from foot to foot, his ink black hair gleaming in the terribleness. The bikes didn't fit in the trunk of grandpa's car. One wheel spun and spun. Barbering was easier on grandpa's clogged arteries, but the burden of standing got to him in the end. Father dreaded the black combs swimming in barbicide.