Old Nylons and Salmon Eggs (SEE REVISION BELOW)
This Dad poem came out of a free write a Robin’s workshop. I started to remember all sorts of “interesting” memories.
Old Nylons and Salmon Eggs
Whirling snow on Lake Superior
in early spring meant it was
time for Dad’s fishing trip
for the salmon spawn.
Each catch of salmon held their eggs
filled with the promise of procreation.
As the fish were cleaned Dad collected
clusters of the squishy orange beads.
Evenings after dinner he took his place
at the head of the dining room table,
orange salmon eggs slithering around
in a kitchen mixing bowl.
He asked my mother
for her old nylon stockings,
cut the sheer into dozens of small squares.
One by one he spooned a large glob
of glistening eggs onto a square of nylon
like caviar on a cracker.
Taking a spool of thread,
he snipped a length of it,
gathered four corners of
the nylon square to a peak,
wrapping thread around the top,
knotting each tiny packet.
One by one little pyramids of eggs
lined up across the dinner table,
tiny pink sacks of jewels ready
to be bundled away
into the white chest freezer
in the basement
preserved for the next fishing trip
juicy orange bait ready
for the next salmon run
in whirling snow on cold Lake Superior.
ALG 12/07/2021
I totally re-worked this poem, took out excess words. Looked up facts about spawn and migration, (I had it wrong before.) Salmon spawn Sept-Dec. Hatch in late winter, upstream in the river, then migrate back to Lake Supreior in April. I recall my Dad making this wintery fishing trip every spring to a very remote cabin. My mother worried and thought this trip too dangerous every year.
Old Nylons and Salmon Eggs
Autumn evenings after dinner
Dad sat at the head of our dining table,
orange salmon eggs slithering
in a kitchen mixing bowl.
He asked mother for old nylon stockings,
cut the sheer into dozens of squares,
then spooned the squishy orange beads
onto a square of nylon
like dollops of caviar on a cracker.
Gathering four corners to a peak,
he wrapped lengths of thread
around the top, knotted each tiny package.
One-by-one, small pyramids of bait
lined up across the dinner table,
tiny pink sacks of jewels
ready for the freezer.
Come April, Dad drove north
for the annual salmon migration
with thawing eggs and fishing buddies,
trailing a small boat.
Loaded with gear and excitement,
they followed the shore
bouncing across open water of Lake Superior,
whirls of snow leading them
up the river to a remote log cabin
baited with old stories,
bourbon, and salmon sacks.
ALG 01-13-2022
Life at Forty
Another poem I reworked, it fits with several other “dad poems” I wrote at Robin’s workshop. (Do you like the double entendre with the title?)
Life at Forty
Forty fishing rods lean
into four corners of the living room
fly rods, casting rods, spinning rods
each designed for specific
lakes, rivers, and fish.
Doesn’t everyone have forty fishing rods
in the corners where they live?
Rods waiting for action, the roll of the line,
longing for the lure of the perfect fly hatch,
rush of river, and the seasonal ritual of it all.
Each rod its own denomination with a story to tell –
a day of solitude seeking trout on the Embarrass River,
after dinner below Radtke’s Point to catch bluegills,
a cold November day fishing for muskies
as the boat rocks with cadence of the casts.
Forty fishing rods lean into four corners of the living room,
the biggest one still smells of steelhead,
large guides strung with heavy line,
its sturdy cork handle stained with the strain of sweat.
This collection affirms his dream –
forty rods owned by one man so at-one-with-it-all,
he said he had to stop reading Walden
or he never would have ventured back to civilization.
So at-one-with-himself that he owned forty fishing rods to
remember why he got up each day.
A Villanelle for the Kahler Sisters
villanelle, about a childhood memory I have wanted to write about for years.
A Villanelle for the Kahler Sisters
When summer nights were long with light
through my high bedroom window
dusk was a murmur on a hot summer night
windows open, listening through screens
to the old Kahler Sisters living behind us
when summer nights were long with light
what were their lives like these sisters to each other
on their screened in porch, they talked in low voices
they were just a low murmur on a hot summer night
What were their lives like in younger days?
One sister went strolling around the block
when summer days were long with light
she wore a mink coat in muggy July heat
wasn’t she hot as I ran sweaty with sun
she mumbled at us in the hot summer light
The Kahler sisters were transparent old
practically ghosts in their former selves
when the days and nights were long with light
they were just a low murmur, on a hot summer night.
###
Annette's major revision 01-02-2022, I made more minor edits here since I sent you the email verison.
Villanelle for the Kahler Sisters
1When summer nights were long with light
2 through my open window flowed a mystery
3 as dusk drifted murmurs into fading night
4 windows open, before stars became bright
5 sat the old Kahler Sisters filled with their history
1 when summer nights were long with light
6 on their back porch did they mumble their plight
7 of growing old, brittle, and aging silvery
3 as dusk drifted their murmurs into fading night
8 how were their lives when they were sprite
9 did they marry or work, I don’t know their story
1 when summer nights were long with light
10 one sister wore her mink in July sunlight
11 I could not relate, feeling hot and blistery
3 when dusk drifted their murmurs into fading night
12 the sisters were pale, transparent-old, alright
13 ghosts of themselves in their season wintery
1 when summer nights were long with light
3 dusk drifted murmurs into fading night
A History of Birthday Cakes
This is a villanelle ( my first one) I wrote in Robin’s class last week of October. I am working on a family book of stories through the generations.
A History of Birthday Cakes
Another trip around the sun, of living
a two-year old’s train cake with cookie wheels
the birthday cake, a gift that keeps on giving.
The airplane cake at age 4, with chocolate wings,
the odd shaped Rice Krispy dinosaur, age 5,
my kids’ years around the sun, of living.
Birthdays continued with cakes from Manderfields.
For my 35th, a double layer with many candles
Ah, delicious, a gift that truly keeps on giving.
Our dog Mindy nabbed this big cake off the counter,
ate it in one go – cake, frosting, candles and all,
to celebrate my annual trip around the sun, of living.
Chocolate and candles, so much cake in layers,
was too much for our greedy retrieving dog.
Soon it became the “gift” that kept on giving.
The cleanup of cake ‘n candles began on Monday,
worked its way through that week til Friday.
Another trip with a mop, around the sun, of living,
it was truly the gift….. that kept on giving.
Alchemy (several revisions)
From my first free write on 10-25-2021 at Robin’s workshop. I started with “alchemy of my ancestry” that line came to me before the free write. I’m s till not happy with the ending. Should I end with Alchemy of my ancenstry?
Alchemy
Their stories ring my finger
a shiny band with a diamond set in six prongs,
the gold gleaned from rings inherited
in my Mother’s jewelry box –
Grandmother’s thin band of betrothal,
my Mother’s plain orange blossom ring –
no money for a diamond back then.
Dad’s wedding ring was seldom worn
because he said it caused his finger to itch.
For their 25th he presented her
with a three-quarter carat diamond set in gold.
A peace offering, Mother said, for being
gone on opening day of fishing season
on yet another anniversary.
The inherited rings were too small or too big to be worn.
A jeweler melded them together
in a new design, into new gold,
the peace offering set in the center.
I wear this alchemy of my ancestry
recalling their lives
as stories ring my finger.
11/24/2021 REVISION into a Villanelle. (Drew’s plane is delayed in Dallas, so I had an extra hour. Thought I’d play with this poem. We leave soon for Milw to pick them up. ) I left the villanelle numbered ines in to show the pattern. I still might need to tweak rhythms (beats) of some lines.
Alchemy
1 Nested in my jewelry box are rings of gold
2 a family of wedding rings I’ve inherited
3 each gilded with stories my ancestors told
4 Grandma’s gold band worn thin with time
5 and mothers plain orange blossom ring
1 nested in my jewelry box are rings of gold
6 Dad’s shiny wedding band seldom worn
7 said wedding gold caused his finger to itch
3 That’s one tarnished story my parents told
8 For their 25th dad presented his wife
9 a large sparkly diamond in a new ring
1 nested in my jewelry box is this gem in gold
10 a peace offering, she said, for his being gone
11 on opening day of fishing season
3 for yet another anniversary she told
12 this family of rings each too small or too big
13 was melted, remade, the peace offering set in the center
1 the ring nested on my finger is an alchemy of gold
3 still gilded with stories my ancestors told
ALG
Back to free verse—more tightening, rearranging: as of 12/04/2021
Alchemy
Nestled in my jewelry box are rings of gold,
a family of wedding rings I inherited.
Grandma Mimi’s gold band worn thin
and mother’s orange blossom ring,
dad’s shiny wedding band was seldom worn
said he was allergic to the ring.
For their 25th anniversary dad presented mom
a large sparkly diamond set in a new ring,
a peace offering, she said later just to me
for his being gone again opening day
of fishing on their anniversary.
What to do with this family of rings
nestled in my jewelry box each too small
or too big, gilded with stories they told.
Had them melted, melded, remade
the peace offering set in the center
a bold gold ring now circles my finger
an alchemy of family.
Here’s my latest revision 01-08-2022, I played with allieration some more and changed the ending.
Alchemy
Nestled in my jewelry box are rings of gold,
a family of inherited wedding rings.
Mimi’s gold band worn thin
and mother’s orange blossom ring.
Dad’s shiny wedding band was seldom worn
said he was allergic to the ring and the idea of it.
For their 25th anniversary dad presented mom
with her first diamond in a new ring,
a peace offering, she said (privately, to me)
for his being gone again on opening day
of fishing for their anniversary.
This family of rings, gilded with stories
was nestled in my jewelry box
each one too small or too big to be useful.
I had them melted, melded, made-over
with the peace offering mounted in the middle.
A transformed ring now circles my finger
in an alchemy of family.
Girl on an Orange Schwinn
I can’t quite remember the genesis of this. I think I was remembering memorable Christmas gifts, and this was definitely one. Also Doug has the bike mounted on a fence post at the end of our driveway, so I see it every day LOL.
*
A whoop of joy Christmas morning startled the coffee-perked parents
as their three barefoot girls discovered bikes with bows under the tree.
Three Schwinn bikes
the color of orchard: orange, lemon, lime.
10-speed boys' bikes with skinny seats and ram horn handlebars wrapped with bright tape.
The girls bunched up their nightgowns and rode the bikes in a circle
around the basement, their feet dimpled by the gripper pedals.
All winter the girls dreamed of wind in their hair,
tick-tick-tick of the wheels turning,
chunka-chunk of the gears shifting.
Come spring they rode those bikes everywhere. The girl on the orange Schwinn
rode fast enough a streak of orange streamed at her ear like an oriole chirping urgency.
Ribboning roads unfurled their orangeade possibility.
She pedaled and pedaled.
She could hardly stop.
She rolled through intersections
until a neighborly cop warned her to put her foot down. She rode the Schwinn where the cars couldn't go,
off-road in the woods behind the park,
pedaling into dawn's marmalade and sunset's dying fire.
She carried essentials in a rack with a steel arm stay.
Her swimsuit into summer at the magic bean of a lake.
Books from the library where squares of tangerine light shapeshifted on the thin carpet.
Treats and games to a babysitting job on the other side of the highway
where she looked after two impish boys with Orange Crush smiles.
The girl rode her bike to school most mornings,
parking the orange Schwinn under a flag pole
where she could see it from the cafeteria window.
Her first love left her poems on the orange Schwinn,
weaving slips of paper around the steel arm stay.
Rhyming poems with words like "neat" and "sweet."
She smiled her clementine smile and kept the poems in a pencil box
in her bookbag, which rattled as she rode bittersweet, burnt orange, neon carrot.
As dusk snuffed each day, she pedaled harder, the generator light chirring and whirring,
sparking licks of orange-red flame.
She slept in its apricot glow,
urgency sleeping with her,
waiting for morning.