Dancing with Dad

Tori, Here’s a poem I wrote for Moss Piglet’s next theme of “Dance.” Also, another poem I can include in my book.

Dancing with Dad

He touches the delicate needle

to the edge of the spinning 78.

Music of Vienna fills the room

Dad pulls me close,

I stand on top of his feet,

his size fourteens are my lead.

He waltzes five-year-old me

in circles, one, two, three,

one two three.

My small palm held by his hand,

Dad’s arm around my waist.

Learning to dance, I reel  

in his aura of Old Spice and whiskers

as we glide around the room   

two feet on top of two feet.

Here’s a version with tension: I’m not sure I like it. Feels “off” to me. What do you think?

Dancing with Dad

Mom and Dad danced

at the charity ball every December

and occasionally in the living room for fun.

His arm held her around the waist,

their hands pressed together,

raised to the rhythm,

eyes intent on each other

two-stepping across the room.

Tonight, Dad touches the needle

to the edge of the spinning 78.

Music of Vienna fills the room

Dad pulls me close,

to stand on top of his feet,

his size fourteens are my lead.

He waltzes five-year-old me

in circles – one, two, three,

one two three –

my small palms in his hands.

I feel a lift, a soaring,

like a baby bird learning to fly.

I remember his aura

of Old Spice and whiskers

as we glide around the room,   

two feet on top of two feet,

Mother in the kitchen,

the pressure cooker hissing.

3rd version (sent to MP 05/22/24)

Dancing with Dad

He touches the needle

to the edge of the spinning 78.

Music of Vienna fills the room

Dad pulls me close,

I stand on top of his feet,

his size fourteens are my lead.

He waltzes five-year-old me

in circles – one, two, three,

one two three –

I feel a lift, a soaring,

like a baby bird’s first flight

in his aura of Old Spice and whiskers.

We float around the room,  

two feet on top of two feet.

Going to the Polls with Mother

Here’s a poem I rewrote into a haibun for my “Summer Days at the Five and Dime” collection. Do the haiku work? I’d like to submit this to Silver Birch Press (deadline 4/15) “all about mothers” theme.

Going to the Polls with Mother

The gray-tiled floor smells of sweeping compound. There is a wooden stage to the left, basketball hoops on either end of the room. Mother is handed a paper ballot after giving her name and address to the poll worker. We walk across the gym to a wood-framed booth with a navy-blue curtain. She pulls the drape aside, stands at the shelf, picks up the yellow pencil tied to a long string; closes the curtain behind her. Voting is by secret ballot, she says. I am not allowed to look (even though I’m too young to read).

ducklings
follow the mallard
nibble at the riverbank

When absentee ballots are brought to the dining room at Woodside Manor, Mother, age ninety-one, is the first one in line. Her table mates grumble, We’re too old. We don’t care anymore. Mother bristles, explains why they need to know their candidates and vote. She marks her ballot, then returns to her room.

lion paces
back and forth
along the iron fence

Sun Sails

Annette, this is an ekphrastic poem for Art as Poetry. The painting is below. Let me know what you think.

In the cafe in the small town where the waters meet, we sit outside in a courtyard. Large triangles of canvas crisscross above our heads on heavy-duty wire. The rooted smell of coffee perks familiar. How many coffees have we drunk together? He holds a chair for me. Bistro tables hold promise yet are impractical to sit at. The chairs are painted celadon, a dewy glaze of green. "What are those called?" I ask the waitress, looking up. I am blinded by the sun-dazzled weave. "Sun sails." She smiles a full-furled smile. I am enamored by her nose ring, the smudge of paint on the back of her calf. "Sun sails," I repeat under my breath, pleased at the way the words leave my mouth. "What did you say?" he asks, holding his hand to the plaid pocket of his shirt as if retaking a pledge. "Sun sails," I say again, respite between us like placid water. The coffee arrives in ceramic mugs. My chair stutters on the paving squares as I stretch my legs, grasping the mug in two hands. My muscles tighten with the miles we've hiked. The sun sails cast angular shadow across his lower jaw, on the planter in the middle of the courtyard. I recognize impatiens bobbing in the clay bowl, bright pink. Cerise, I think, the same color as the calf smudge, the sun sails. We row about the other plant. A kind of lily, we think—dark green, palm-shaped leaves. When I say row, I mean squabble like the long-married. The courtyard creates a channel for the breeze that picks up, which stirs and swirls around us. We listen to the wires moan as they pull and slack, pull and slack. He assesses the configuration of sail and wire. "I could make that for you, if you wanted," he says. "Yes, I would like that," I say, crossing my ankle over his in the cherry-red shade.

Remember That Day
Lynn Peters

Weight of the World

This is the poem I wrote the other day. I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t too—too I don’t know. Picking on him? What do you think? Appropriate for the collection? Not?

The Earth is held aloft by four elephants on the back
of a sea turtle.

I resemble a sea turtle with the same striations
in my neck.

The elephants are named for the four directions.

Each day I carry the distress of repeat-dialing
or provoked silence.

The sea turtle is a reincarnation of an improbable god.

I check Find my Friends over coffee, at lunchtime,
at the end of the day, before bed.

Elephants can haul their massive body weight, and 
their knees won't buckle.

He forgets to go to work.

The sea turtle never sheds its shell.

He gets fired.

Elephants bathe themselves in dust.

He thinks his employer didn't properly
explain the nature of work.

Sea turtles can sense their place in the world by the
direction of the sun and Earth's magnetic field.

He loses his glasses, his keys, his wallet.

An elephants tusks are really teeth.

His neighbors complain about door bells
ringing in the middle of the night.

Sea turtles make great migrations to nest.

He needs money, a jumpstart, food more substantial
than microwave popcorn.

Certain species of elephant and sea turtle are endangered
and under conservation watch.

I consider joining a support group.

Dogged

I hope this is good enough for the collection. Let me know what you think. I wanted two realities to be true in the poem. I wonder if I pulled it off?

A neighbor's dog charges toward me
as I take a walk along the gravelly edge
of a county highway. No, no, no.

I freeze. I'm afraid of large beasts
that can't be controlled by their owners.
The dog continues to hurtle, teeth bared.

No, no, no. The owner wears a look of
chagrin even though this has happened
twice before. I don't know what it is about me

that signals to the cur. The owner's bowlegs
are no match for the four-legged gallop.
I can hear keys jingle in his loose shorts

too far away to help. The hound's eyes bulge
liked boiled eggs, its ears flatten to the sides
of a brutish head. No, no, no. I step across

the white line, into the road. A car slows, stops.
I imagine my face is the color of my reflective
jacket. Can the driver see the open despair

of my mouth? No, no, no. What am I saying
no to? The sun is meant to shine on me
this morning. Not this powerlessness

again. Not this heart dread. The driver waves
me across to the other side of the road. I raise
my hand in thanks. I am meant to get air

in my lungs under a cloud-scudded sky,
away from incarcerated phone calls and texts.
The beast pauses at the road, enough that the

owner can grab its collar. I walk on the wrong
side of the road until I'm far enough away, until
my heart comes in for a landing. No, no, no.

Going to the Polls with Mother

Tori— This has been a prose poem, a free verse poem and also a several-stanza poem (rejected a couple of times.) I re-wrote the prose, added Haiku to make it a Haibun. (As I understand it, the haiku are supposed to be a different subject —usually something in nature—but the feeling should relate to the theme of the prose. I’m hoping it’s publishable now? I want to include it in my collection too.

Going to the Polls with Mother

The gray-tiled floor smelled of sweeping compound, there was a wooden stage to the left and basketball hoops on either end of the room. She was presented with a paper ballot after giving her name and address to the poll worker. We walked across the gym to a wood-framed booth with a navy blue curtain. She pulled the drape aside, stood at a shelf, grasped the yellow pencil tied to a long string, and then closed the curtain behind her. Secret ballot, she said, I was not allowed to look (even though I was too young to read.)

String of ducklings
follows the mallard
upriver

When absentee ballots are brought to the dining room at Woodside Manor, Mother, age ninety-one, is the first one in line. Her table mates grumble, We’re too old, we don’t care anymore. Mother bristles, explains why they need to know their candidates and vote, marks her ballot, and leaves the room.

Black bear
leads her cubs
to ripe berries

Grandy Teaches Me to Ride

Tori— in the last stanza I am trying to show (not tell) the feeling of ecstasy that happens when you canter on a horse. it’s like nothing else! Does it come through?- ALG. I have several good photos of White Socks to include with the poem for the book

Grandy Teaches Me to Ride

White Socks inhales – his trick to loosen

the saddle – exhales after the cinching.

Grandy cinches up the saddle again with a chuckle,

gives White Socks love-pats on the neck.

Grandy boosts me up, my leg swings high

over the back, I settle into the saddle, excited.

He adjusts the stirrups to my long legs,

shows me how to weave the reins in one hand

around my fingers.

Holding the leather lead, Grandy

guides White Socks around the farmyard,

walk, walk, walk.  He teaches me

to drape the reins on the horse’s neck,

left or right, like turn signals.

Soon, Grandy lets me ride on my own. He watches.

White Socks walks at first, then quickens to a trot.

I bounce up and down, my teeth rattle,

I grip the saddle horn, hold the reins tighter.

You’re doing fine, he says.

Grandy urges me to lean forward,

and gently squeeze White Socks with my thighs.

The horse shifts into a smooth

rhythm, a canter. I begin to sway,

like riding waves, up and down.

Grandy instructs — Relax, flow with the gait.

Be one with the horse.

I find my balance,

the rhythm of forward and back,

feel power under the saddle,

the drum of hooves beneath me,

wind on my face.  

Grandy calls out across the pasture,

You’re a natural on a horse.

two poems to send to WFOP Calendar for 2025

Tori, I’ve been editing these two poems to submit to the calendar (Theme: Shine). I am hoping these are ready. Do you see anything I need to change? In Blue Moon: “Is anything but blue” a decent line? Are they “strong” enough?

Blue Moon

Second moon of August
red-hot beacon
rises from the Great Lake.
The orange balloon
is anything but blue.
Natives call it
Sturgeon Moon
closest to us now.
It owns the sky
cancels the stars.
This red of a blue moon
throws torchlight
across the water,
ignites something in us.

And then this one:

While You Wait

Let a small sun
radiate from your chest
as you rush
to the post office, grocery store,
and then the pharmacy.
See the harried pharmacist,
and the stressed associate
who answers the phone
while she reaches for prescriptions
then sprints to the cash register
to ring up orders of pills.
People shift one foot to the other
wait their turn in line.
Turn your sun
toward your neighbor
smile with your eyes, your mouth.
Turn away from impatience.
Study these faces
this small community in wait.
Find kinship in the queue.
Let a small sun
radiate from your chest.

Pool

Annette, this is another “four letter word,” which came about as I teach my grandson how to play pool.

The break broke balls across the table, solids and stripes
Ricocheting like atoms, the smallest measure of my
Childhood, thwacking together. The cue slides smooth
On a bridge of practice. Father molds my hand into a more
Stable structure by planting the heel of my palm on the slate
And hooking my forefinger around the cue. I hold my breath,
Leaning my young body across the green baize like an offering
To physics or geometry or father's particular curiosities. The
Billiard light buzzes over the table. Lessons are accidental as
The balls smack, kiss and careen against the rails. For every
Action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Father runs the
Table, shooting straight shots, angled shots, bank shots. Energy is
Kinetic, transferring from ball to ball, from him to me. I pocket
Where I aim, hitting the sweet spot. It's all in the follow-through.

Displaced Homeaker

“Moss Piglet’s” next theme is “home” due 12/6/23 for Jan. 2024 issue. What do you think of this — it’s a pantoum. I completely rewrote an older poem; then decided to make it a pantoum—the repetition is effective, I think. (my mother, the less-than-fulfilled homemaker of the 1950s.) Should I have 1958 in the title? or does that just date me? (And should I drop “History was her passion” — is that too much telling?) But I love “craving college”

Displaced Homemaker - 1958

Wearing pedal pushers and a red bandana tied ‘round her head

Mother pushed the dust mop along the green linoleum floor,

kitchen to dining room, down the hall to the bedrooms and back.

She made grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch.

Mother pushed the dust mop along the green linoleum floor.

She cooked Aunt Minnie’s meatballs in cream gravy over mashed potatoes.

She fixed grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch.

She made our favorite spaghetti sauce, puffing in the pressure cooker.

Mother cooked Aunt Minnie’s meatballs in cream gravy over mashed potatoes.

She let us taste the blue cheese party dip with sherry in it before company came.

She made our favorite spaghetti sauce, puffing in the pressure cooker

while listening to “University of the air” on the radio – history her passion, craving college.

She let us taste the blue cheese party dip with sherry in it before company came

and pushed the dust mop kitchen to dining room, down the hall and back

while listening to “University of the Air” on the radio – history her passion, craving college,

wearing pedal pushers and a red bandana tied ‘round her head.

A Haibun from Art Speaks " Star Lake After Vietnam"

Star Lake After Vietnam

They balance their gear in the center of the Grumman – the workhorse canoe. She sits in the bow, he in the stern. They grip their paddles like he taught her when they were kids. Each pull of paddle makes plate-sized eddies in smooth water as they churn forward toward a place he knows from before. The only sound – the drip of water from paddles.

They head to an island where they find the shore bedded in pine needles and aspens shake in a slight breeze. Granite boulders line the island’s edge, the canoe slides in over an open patch of sand with a gentle bump on the bank of earth.

They pitch a tent under shade trees, gather windfall branches for firewood on this gentle summer day – no more war, no bad news. They cook corned beef hash and eggs over an open fire. They sit without words; siblings in silence.

After a noon swim, they rest on sun-warmed boulders. Talk of shared times, family, and growing up. This weekend, this time before marriage, before kids, cousins, and commotion, when they didn’t know what was coming next.

curl of campfire

distant tremolo of loons

full moon rises 

 REVISION - PAST TENSE ( and adverb elimination…LOL)

Star Lake After Vietnam

They balanced their gear in the center of the Grumman – the workhorse canoe. She sat in the bow, he in the stern. They gripped their paddles like he taught her when they were kids. Each pull of the paddle made plate-sized eddies in water as they churned forward toward a place he knew from before. The only sound was the drip of water from paddles.

 They headed toward an island to a shore bedded in pine needles and heard aspens rustle in the breeze. Granite boulders lined the island’s edge, the canoe slid over an open patch of sand with a bump on the bank of earth.

He pitched a tent under shade trees, she gathered windfall branches for firewood on this summer day – no more war, no bad news. He fried corned beef hash and eggs over an open fire. They ate without words -- siblings in silence.

 After a noon swim, they rested on boulders warmed by the sun. He talked about when they were kids– winters skiing on Rib Mountain, and in summer, fishing on Lake Wausau. She remembered family picnics and cookouts in the backyard on hot muggy days. But this weekend, brother and sister camped together in that time before marriage, before kids, cousins, and commotion, when they didn’t know what was coming next.

curl of campfire
distant tremolo of loons
full moon rises 

Cake

Another four-letter word poem…

Cake

She traded in cake, the sheet kind, white cake with white
Frosting, birthday after birthday, in silent sequence,
Each celebration spliced to the next in our home movies.
We waited for cake, our noses to the scalloped border,
Our fingers not quite touching the pink roses, leafy green
Vines, our herky-jerky dancing around the dining room
Table, the picnic table: brother, sister, sister, sister, dad
Behind the 8mm, bar lamp flooding the occasion with
Impossible light, improbable squinting. But mother,
Always mother, slicing each cake with slow precision, her
Dark head bent, drawing the cake knife towards her belly, 
Film grainy with sugar, white confetti. Yet mother stood up
Tall at the cake table, imperious, running her finger along
The knife, dead-eying the camera, licking her finger clean.

Look (from Art Speaks/Mortenson-Davis Gallery on Aug 4, 2023, from her painting pg. 101 of the 2023 WFOP Cal.)

Look

            After “Wind” acrylic painting by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Can you see Wind Woman

throned on her cloud?

In June, she breathes life into plants

pushes waves on the ocean

ripples inland lakes.

Come July, she will tease a breeze

across your arm with a welcome chill

on a swelter-sweat day.

Listen —you can hear her

smooth-talk the pines

chatter the Aspens.

After an August afternoon rain

there’s pavement perfume

and that sweet, summer-fresh air.

Watch how she purses her lips

oh so slightly, to release muted

sky-breath the moment after

a dahlia sun descends into night.

Wind Woman readies us for quiet

her half-closed eye pauses for sleep

even the black line of her brow

points toward night and rest

from labors of the day.

The Evolution of "Look it Up"

I wrote this for the Moss Piglet issue of Totems/Talisman, & Tschotkies” - (another bike trail poem that came to mind as I was riding. )

The Evolution of Look it Up

Kids today. When they want to know

they google it,

get fast facts from phones at their fingertips.

It only takes a few seconds

Wikipedia and You Tube.

When I was a kid, when we needed to know,

it was the World Book Encyclopedia.

Sold as a set, door to door,

an investment in your child’s

education …and… In. Their. Very. future.

Twenty hardcover volumes, deep red, faux leather

navy blue alpha letters printed

on the spine, outlined in gold.

The full set spanned a whole shelf in the den.

Shiny pages smelled of ink and gloss

the spine cracked a little when you opened

each new book; plus, there were photographs

and illustrations. Anything you wanted to know:

History. Science. Geography.

Medicine – the body - with diagrams!

My cousins had the new edition

cream colored, forest green

letters on the spine, embossed in gold.

We read those tomes cover to cover.

Years flipped by as fast as pages

when sequels of new discovery and invention

were published in a separate volume.

The day the annual Yearbook

was delivered we gathered,

with clean hands, to read about

new diseases, outer space,

the stuff of science fiction  

happening now, then carefully slid

the new volume onto the shelf, next to W-Z

REVISION 08-03-2023 into a prose poem:

Look it Up

 Kids today. When they want to know, they google it, get fast facts from phones at their fingertips. It only takes a few seconds on Wikipedia and YouTube. When I was a kid, when we needed to know, it was the World Book Encyclopedia. Sold as a set, door to door, an investment in your child’s education …and… In. Their. Very. future. Twenty hardcover volumes, deep red, faux leather, navy blue alpha letters printed on the spine, outlined in gold. The full set spanned a whole shelf in the den. Shiny pages smelled of ink and gloss, the spine cracked when you opened each book; plus, there were photographs and illustrations. Anything you wanted to know: History. Science. Geography. Medicine – the body - with diagrams! My cousins had the new edition, cream colored, forest green letters on the spine, embossed in gold. We read those tomes cover to cover.  Years flipped by as fast as pages. Near the end of the year a sequel of new discovery and invention was published in an additional volume. The day the annual Yearbook was delivered we gathered, with clean hands, to read about new diseases, outer space, the stuff of science fiction – then, carefully slid the new volume onto the shelf, next to W-Z

But All I Really Wanted was Dance Lessons

This is one of those weird memories; how i remember it now..…with more than one memory pressed together in my childhood bank of memory. That year when I couldn’t swallow..was it the same year as the “no dance lessons” decree? It seemed so… either way—it came together where I reveal my secrets. Tell me if it makes sense. Are there missing pieces of info?

But I Only Wanted Dance Lessons

Mother held fists full of tension

with perpetual hand wringing

made appointments on the phone

from the dark edge of her own abyss.

Tried to fix herself by fixing me

the year I couldn’t swallow

and had to chew and chew

until food was liquid

before it finally slid down my throat.

I asked for dance lessons on Wednesdays

She said, No

she didn’t have the time to drive me.

My friends were all shuffle-ball-change

tap, point, flex 2,3,4

in their patent leathers with cleats.

Instead, on Wednesdays I was driven

downtown to a dim office

where I sat on a couch

with a shrink (who eventually killed himself.)

I threw up on Sundays

got carsick on the drive across town

lost more weight

while the shrink prescribed

Librium for a ten-year-old 

when all I really wanted

was to take dance lessons

wear a tiara, a tutu,

and tap shoes, all black and shiny.

Rash of Indeterminate Origin

This is very much a free write. Frankly, I was happy to write anything. I’ve been in such a poem-less space. Just let me know if you think it has possibility.

Pink clouds across my torso pose the question
when is a life worth living?
the earthy smell of wild geranium
doctors can’t explain
some inflammation or other
when I'm hot the sky grows angrier
it’s an effort, pushing dad and a wheelchair
to another appointment
he holds out less
hope I’m afraid
to ask him too many questions
I used to joke that if I couldn’t read anymore
I might as well be dead
now I don't joke
what is the price of autonomy?
I remember as a child
dad and I on a perpetual shore
under the cool dome of horizon
after a turbulent storm
skipping stones across the water
just to see them ripple
no, really, is it enough
to see the sunrise,
exchange a smile,
hear the ocean?
a perfect sand dollar
of irritation wonders
at the aging expectation
is he entitled to his
exhaustion?
do I help him
live or die?

Heartache Could be a Stamp

I wrote this for the Art as Poetry exhibit with Lakeshore Artist Guild. I was working on a villanelle, but they take me soooo long to write that I was worried I wasn’t going to finish by the deadline. And then the line “The first day I didn’t write the letter” popped into my head, so I went with it. I am also sharing the art that inspired it.

The Old Post Office

Heartache Could be a Stamp

The first day
I didn't mail the letter
a wedge of early sun
woke me on the other side
of what I meant to do.
I watched the river's
high water heave —
a float of phrases
knocking shore.

The second day
I didn't mail the letter
I blamed the birds,
the loud, metallic
chirping of cardinals
warning me
that more words
were not always
the answer.

The third day
I didn't mail the letter
I watched our son sleep,
gurgling bubbles
with his pursed lips.

The fourth day
I didn't mail the letter
coffee tasted bitter
on my tongue.

The fifth day
I didn't mail the letter
I remembered I needed
cream, the vast variety
in the grocery store
a wall of
faltering love.

The sixth day
I didn't mail the letter
I drove by
the post office
on our way home,
the lobby a lullaby
of light.

The seventh day
I didn't mail the letter
I lugged your chair
to the curb.
It was gone
by the time
the sun breached
the back yard.
The churn of river
calmed. I forgot
what I was
going to say.

First 100 Days

The news item in the epigram was my prompt. (and a new twist on the meaning of first 100 days…a rant of sorts. Too long? Enough showing? (not telling?)

First 100 Days

             Gun-related violence is leading cause of death for children ages 1 to 19 in US: CDC 

Melodic robins sing
cardinals whistle courting calls,
the news is “pop, pop, pop”
rapid fire from war rifles
again    –   and again.

Seven dead this time,
nine-year olds and teachers
breathing one moment
pulseless the next. 

I’d rather write about
a fresh day and the chickadee-dee-dee
not the ball that lies still in the yard
bicycle idle against the porch.

I don’t want to write about
the ones who did not come home that day,
the airless abyss of parent-sobs.

I don’t want to write about
the empty desks, no graduation,
no marriage, no new inventions or cures for disease
from bright minds of these souls.  

I want to forget the congressman
and his children posing with rifles
on their Christmas card
who boast their “right to bear.”

I’d rather write about
new life, this greening morning
instead, we grieve and cannot agree
upon the rights of nine-year olds, teachers,
the fallen of 146 mass shootings –
even before spring has started.

I’d rather write about
buds feathering maples
snow drops and crocuses
pushing up through the dark.

 REVISION: from your comments: 4/17/2023

Today’s Headline - Seven dead

            Gun-related violence is leading cause of death for children ages 1 to 19 in US: CDC 

Robins sing, cardinals whistle
I hear courting calls.
On the news I hear “pop, pop, pop”
from war rifles.
The headline – Seven dead.
Nine-year olds and teachers
breathing one moment
pulseless the next.
I’d rather write about
the “dee-dee” of chickadees
not the ball that lies still in the yard
bicycle idle against the porch.
I don’t want to write about
the ones who did not come home,
the airless abyss of parent-sobs.
I don’t want to write about
empty desks, missed graduations
and weddings, undiscovered cures.
I want to forget the dad
posing his children
with rifles on a Christmas card.
I’d rather write about
the new nest on our porch
daffodils almost opened
buds feathering maples
rather than grieve
the rights of nine-year olds and teachers
even before spring has started.

ALG

Mimi's Rolling Pin Version #3 below original, with new title

I am not sure about the ending. It doesn’t have a metaphor— the point I want to make is even though not “whole” it’ still treasured and useful. (like a person with a disability.)

Mimi’s Rolling Pin

Smooth and tan
wood-grained
whiff of pie crust
and sugar cookie
scent of prairie pantry
on a sticky July day.
One-handled and
handed down to me.
My palms press
the floured forearm
begin at the center
inch outward,
north, south, east, west
thinning dough to round.
One end amputated
the other loose and useless
opposite its missing twin,
the one lopped off
a century ago
to fit the kitchen drawer.

Revision #3

One-Armed Rolling Pin

I lift it from a crumpled box of
her household things,
one-handled and handed down
from grandmother – to mother – to me.
Takes me back to
Gramma Mimi’s prairie pantry,
the smell of old wood
sticky with July,
tall cupboards painted white.
Windowed in white light,
she was surrounded by white flour, white sugar,
stirring spoons, glass measuring cups,
and a one-armed rolling pin —
the one of flaky pie crust
and tender lemon cookies
rolled out, baked,
then fed onto our eager tongues.

Smooth and tan, wood-grained
still smells of pie crust
and cookie dough.
I press palms
to the floured forearm
begin at the center, inch outward,
north, south, east, west,
thin the dough to round
roll back time
as I maneuver the blunt end,
lopped off a century ago
to fit the kitchen drawer
of her prairie pantry.

Pendulum

Annette, here’s my attempt at an “object” poem. I am not sure about the title. It seemed better than “Beaded Earring.”

The jewelry began
after the diagnosis.
At first, a dangle
of straightforward
bead, bead, bead —
emerald, aquamarine,
agate — sharply faceted
like cheekbones,
a shine
too gold,
scalloped spacers,
extravagant hook of
earring wire,
single loop.
My radioactive
sister touches
my ear.
She guides
the wires
into the holes
of my lobes.
The earrings
pendulum
the windowlight.
They bring out
the green of my
dread.