Another try at a Villanelle. "Subtraction Needed"

I can’t tell if these are forced rhymes or not. Does it makes sense at all?

Subtraction Needed

1 In my house there is too much stuff

2 filled with tools and treasures I need.

3 When does collecting feel like enough?

4 Vases and tea cups, even powder puffs,   

5 old make-up, earrings, and strings of beads.

1 In my house there is too much stuff.

6 David Winter cottages, scarves, and a muff,

7 pencils and notebooks, many books to read.

3 When does collecting feel like enough?

8 If I bring in more, nothing is sloughed off

9 from the burden of owning I want to be freed.

1 In my house there is too much stuff.

10 What can I recycle or toss in a huff?

11 Buy nothing new is the opposite of greed.

3 When does collecting feel like enough?

12 Too many clothes? Let me live in the buff.

13 Subtract what I own is becoming my creed.

1 In my house there is too much stuff

3 when does collecting feel like enough?

EDITED and new title:

Subtraction

My house is filled with too much stuff  

jammed with treasures and tools I need.

When does collecting feel like enough?

Vases and tea cups, even powder puffs,   

old make-up, earrings, and strings of beads.

My house is filled with too much stuff.  

David Winter cottages, scarves, and a muff,

pencils, journals, and books to read.

When does collecting feel like enough?

When I bring in more, nothing is sloughed.

This burden of owning – I want to be freed.

 My house is filled with too much stuff.  

What can I recycle, or toss in a huff?

Buy nothing new: a cure for greed.

When does collecting feel like enough?

Too many clothes? Let me live in the buff.

Subtract what I own is becoming my creed.

My house is filled with too much stuff,  

when does collecting feel like enough?

Letting Go (Villanelle for Marilyn's class)

Tori—I kept the villanelle template line numbers in.
Marilyn said the meter didn’t matter…does this flow evenly enough?
My line 3 in S. 1 is purposely a little different. (I slightly broke the rule.)

I did not (yet) punctuate at the end of lines. There probably should be some sentences with a “.” and some areas with commas. I am worried it may sound trite and have forced rhymes. Ugh!

Can you tell that Drew’s big move is on my mind?

Letting Go

1 Children come through us to live and grow

2 we gazed terrified on that first birthing day

3 not knowing this journey is about letting go

4 feed, burp, and bathe, so much to know

5 bonding with baby, love grew in the fray  

1 Children come through us to live and grow

6 soon it was sledding and skiing in snow

7 soccer and baseball, they’re grown halfway

3 This journey is more than letting go

8 high school and band, even playing banjo  

9 learning to drive, they’re making headway

1 Children come through us to live and grow

10 they’re packing for college; I want life to slow

11 to read bedtime stories, have more time for play

3 This journey is more than letting go

12 career jobs, marriage, and making dough

13 we parents still worry as they move far away  

1 children come through us to live and grow

3  this journey is more than letting go

Untitled

I don’t have a title for this one yet. I wrote it in response to this music for a Midsummer’s Music concert in Door County. I was told to just write in response to the music. Initially I tried to write a more philosophical poem, but it was junk. I really am more of a “moment” poet, The only thing is after I wrote this I got the program for the concert series, and this date has been headlined as “Lush and Thrilling Romantic Poetry.” I am not sure this poem qualifies. Do you think I should write another one? I also have to think of a title yet, and maybe I’ll revise the form. Not sure.

Our house is under siege.
Redbirds bombard us in flashes of hurtling red.
The male and female birds swoop together,
slipstreaming from the front to the back of our house.
Their seductive song pierces our attention -- chirrrp chirrrp chirrrp.
Cardinals are made to be seen with their sharp crests, seed-splitting beaks
and faces of intrigue.
She is tawny in her elegance and red-tinted wings.
The shadows in our house provoke them.
They divebomb our windows.
Their bodies ricochet against the glass, sounding eerily like flung boxes --
kerchunk rustle flap flap,
kerchunk rustle flap flap.
They are relentless.
They will not give up challenging the movement behind the glass.
They try every window.
Their desperation infects the house.
I can’t concentrate.
My husband mutters under his breath.
Every day I look more like my mother.
My husband researches their crazed behavior.
He would not bargain with my mother.
The female behaves the most deranged.
Her puffed up body is irate.
Who are these intruders?
Kerchunk rustle flap flap,
kerchunk rustle flap flap.
My husband puts a black X in each of our windows with electrical tape.
I am not the interloper.
The birds are stealing my peace.
My mother gave up in the end.
The cost of breathing was too much.
I think this will be how it winds down.
This will go and this will go, a gradual X-ing out
of abilities, inclination.
I smell the loamy earth as if from another kind of box.
The female perches in the chokeberry outside my window
and fixes me with her beady eye.
This knowing about death is the erraticism behind living.
Don’t you dare, the mother bird seems to suggest,
aiming for my window.

Great White Father

From Donna’ s class: prompt, write about a humiliaiton. It became more than that. Need to find a feminist journal to send this to when it’s done. (It really happened. ick) Been working on this the past 2 weeks.

Great White Father

Tall, big-shouldered

snow-white hair,

bank president

always addressed

as Mister Hudson.

Behind his back they called him

The Great White Father

The dress code:  

skirts (shorter the better),

hose and heels.

My first job out of college

Public Relations Manager,

I’m invited to the bank officers’ dinner

to take pictures,

my co-workers are jealous

of the fancy meal, a night out.

Country Club dinner

martinis, olives on frill picks,

rare steaks, man-talk,

back-slapping laughter.

Invited for after-dinner drinks

at the President’s house

you get to come too, the officers say,

so I go.

It gets late, we find our coats

The Great White Father

grabs me with strong arms, holds me tight

red bulbous nose nuzzles my neck

boozy breath slurs

let me have a little kiss.

Next to me, the vice president stands idly.

I break away,

run out the door.

Next day

is work as usual.

REWORKED into a prose poem, I incorporated your suggestions, also added more de taills and time/place. Is it took l ong? (281 words)

Great White Father

Twenty-two and naïve, my first career job out of college. As the new Public Relations Manager, I’m asked to take pictures at the bank officers’ dinner. Long-term tellers, and women co-workers are jealous of the fancy meal, a night out, for one who has only worked there a few months. Country Club dinner, martinis, olives on frill picks, rare steaks, man-talk, back-slapping laughter. I capture retirement moments on film for the honored officer. Invited for after-dinner drinks, we leave the country club for the President’s home, you get to come too, the officers say, so I go. The president, an imposing man; tall, big-shouldered, snow-white hair is always addressed as Mister Hudson. Behind his back the tellers call him The Great White Father. Officers sit along outside edge of the lobby behind big wooden desks, lamps with green shades spotlight loan applications and ledgers on desk blotters. 1972 female dress code: skirts (shorter the better), hose, and heels. As female staff walk across the cathedral-style lobby, officers stare at creamy-slim legs, skirts above the knee, silky hair cascading to mid-back. After more drinks at the president’s house, it gets late, we find our coats to leave, The Great White Father grabs me with sturdy arms in a tight hold. He’s surprisingly strong; red bulbous nose nuzzles my neck, boozy breath slurs, let me have a little kiss, jus’ a little kiss. The vice president stands idly at my side. A grab from the boss never occurred to me. How could I let this happen? I break away, run out the door. Next day is work as usual.

Ba Ba

a poem from a prompt in Donna Hilbert’s class

Ba Ba

Blue and yellow comfort

plaid remnant

soft and fleecy

I stitched light blue binding

along salvaged edges

you dragged it around

slept, wrapped in it

your first words

Ba Ba

Your beloved Ba Ba

folded in quarters

stored in a lidded box

on the closet shelf

adult now

you visit

take down the box

hands caress

eyes all teary

Blue-Eyed Jesus

I don’t recall if I shared this poem about John’s mother back in 2017 when I first wrote it. I thought about it today, and resurrected it ( pun intended, LOL) ;made a few new edits. In our chruch we’ve been discussuing how Jesus could not have been white and the church is trying to change out Jesus photos to be more accurate. There’s much talk about “White Jesus” being a micro-agression in these days of racial awareness. (PS and a little “double-entendre” for the ending. )

Blue-Eyed Jesus
for Nona

She lived in her house until the end.
Car in the garage, keys on the kitchen desk.
Ninety-six and a half, determined to drive
if she needed to.

Mostly bones and skin, she hung on 
rocking back and forth
in her harvest gold chair
doing less and less each week. 

A painting of a white, blue-eyed,
Jesus hung over her bed. 
She was a believer - He, her protector,
first thing she saw upon waking in the morning,
last thing when retiring for the night.
His eyes followed as she crisscrossed the room.

She had it all figured out; how it would be,
blue-eyed Jesus taking her by the hand
in a halo of gossamer light
ascending to heaven
reunited with her beloved Frank,
of this she was certain.

I didn’t grow up in that tradition,
figure no one knows for sure,
(except maybe her.)
If blue-eyed-Jesus-above-her-bed
gave comfort what was the harm?

While emptying her house,
I feel those blue eyes
following me,
or do they lead –
from above her well-made bed,
not a wrinkle in sight. 

Shaking Hands

The idea for this poem popped into my brain… I can’t remember what I was doing.. so weird. I had an additional three lines at the beginning that I realized were just ramp so I cut them. But maybe they’re needed? Also not sure if I’ll keep the format so straightforward and left-aligned.

In the door of the refrigerator,
I tiptoed for the half-and-half.
Mother said I should shake hands
with father. Father said Yes and drank
the dregs of his coffee as they sat
together at the breakfast bar. 
I set down the cup in my hand.
Father stood up by the stove, both coiled.
The low sun beamed in the windows,
creating a nimbus around mother,
a gleam off the faucet. My confusion stared
back at me from the toaster. I rubbed
my girl-child hand on my pajama leg.
Father's gaze was healing
from the accident, his one eye
scarred and blank. I concentrated
on his still-working, chocolate shake eye,
which he could still wink. He held out his hand.
I shook it quickly like a dishtowel
and turned away. No, they both said,
shaking their heads. The timbre
in their voices got my attention.
I looked from mother to father.
Try again, said mother. I focused
on father's hand -- wide palm, short
fingers, flared nails. Father lifted
my chin. Keep eye contact,
he said, his brow bone ghostly
with crosshatches. This time
I leaned into the handshake,
my eyes on father, letting go
of his hand like burnt toast.
Father's one cream and sugar eye
insisted. Hold my hand firmly
one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Mother smoked, her ear to the phone,
the fingers of her other hand
bracketing a pale cheek.
I extended my hand. I held his gaze.
I counted one-one-thousand,
two-one-thousand. I greeted father
in our kitchen as if he was a stranger
I was encountering for the first time.
His hand was warm and dry.
His one eye fizzed like coca-cola.
I met him with my open palm.
We clasped hands like a gift,
two people in the moment,
equal in every way.
Good, said mother.
Good.

March Migration

Tomorrow, 3/15 is Wis People and Ideas deadline. I don’t think this is “heavy enough” for WP&I , but it’s a poem I have been working on ever since I saw those strollers in the news. I played with line length, went for long and narrow, like a journey.

March Migration
Red wing blackbirds
and robins
have returned
on their journey
of instinct.
Hear them call
from bare treetops,
or perched on
bending marsh reeds, 
snow on the ground
ice in rivers.
No fresh seeds
or bug hatch to feed on,
no worms to pull,
asleep below frostline,
yet birds survive
travel early,
scrounge.

Ukrainians
leave everything
flock to
outbound trains,
Poland and beyond,
migrate
to parts unknown,
their young
tucked under
puffy coats
and fleecy blankets,
bending
to kindness extended.
Polish women
bring strollers
to the station
lined up like birds
on a wire.

03/15/2022 after edits, (changed a number of things) Here’s what I sent in. Each stanza 15 lines.

Migration – March 2022

Red wing blackbirds
and robins
have returned,
a journey of instinct.
Hear them call
from bare treetops,
or clinging to
bending marsh reeds, 
snow on the ground
ice in rivers.
No fresh seeds
or bug hatch to feed on,
no worms to pull,
asleep below frostline,
yet birds survive.

People from Ukraine
leave everything
flock to outbound trains,
Poland and beyond,
migrate with
their young
tucked under
puffy coats
and fleecy blankets,
bending to kindness
as Polish women
bring strollers
to the station
lined up like birds
on a wire.

A Finnish Finish

(“My bad”. I couldn’t’t resist. FWIW. Here’s my poem from the “headlines” prompt I sent you. Do I neeed to “tweak” it LOLOL.)

Epigraph: Cross-country skier suffers frozen penis at Winter Olympics - Daniel Moxon, Sports Writer for the Mirror

 A Finnish Finish  

A Finnish cross-country skier
braved frigid temperatures
and bone-chilling winds
during the winter Olympics.

In Finland, they say
there is no bad weather,
just bad clothing.

Olympic layers of spandex
fell short on the task of protection
during the grueling race.  

In addition to handknit
bouquets of flowers
presented to medal winners,
Beijing knitters might have
thought to offer up handmade
willy warmers to the skiers.
Instead, competitors were forced to
warm themselves by hand. 

Those with a distinct advantage
in the skiing competition were 
Women  

The Beatlettes

(This started out as a much longer poem. I have edited, trimmed, hacked and cut much. There’s no place to add phtoos in the bar on the left. I will email to you separately. )

The Beatlettes

We’re only thirteen, infatuated
with the fan-frenzy on Ed Sullivan,
watching in black and white.
Paul, John, George, and Ringo
shake their radical, ear-length hair,
and personally
want to hold our hand,
want to hold our ha-ah-ah-ah-and
and we feel happy inside.

We form The Beatlettes, girl-band cool.
We are Paul-ette, John-ette,
Georg-ette, and I am Ring-ette.
I take my brother’s band class drumsticks,
mother’s hat box for a drum,
a stencil and blue Magic Marker
with that piercing smell, to inscribe
The Beatlettes on the drum.
Handmade cardboard guitars complete the ensemble, 
Paul-ette makes sure to play left-handed.
We comb our hair forward, shake bangs over our eyes,
lip-sync to the 45s spinning
I want to Hold Your Hand,
I saw her standing there
All my Loving.

We practice on the front lawn,
cardboard drum balancing
on a wood chair from our dining room.
We take our show to Horace Mann Junior High,
perform for Mr. Kalkoske
who says he despises the Beatles.
In disgust, he watches us shake our hair,
strum fake guitars, thump a 4/4 beat,
as The Beatles blare from behind us.
Secretly, we guess that Mr. K
is putting on his own show.
For all his talk, we’re pretty sure
he feels happy inside too.  

I Got my First Cavity Because of the Beatles

For the Moss Piglet Beatles issue- deadline is 3/2. Do you get the reference “Look ma, no cavities?” ( It’s from a 1950s TV ad. for toothpaste. :-) I REVISED put a newer poem here….as of 02/19/2022

I Got my First Cavity Because of the Beatles

It all started with two-inch by four-inch
slabs of chalky-pink bubble gum
tucked behind Beatle cards –
packaged together in colorful wrappers.

Black and white trading cards
Paul, the cute one, with dreamy eyes,
John the bad boy, with long hair,
George, the quiet, thoughtful one,
drummer Ringo, engaging and goofy.
We liked the Paul cards best,
those eyes and pouty mouth.
Most cards black and white,
special ones in color,
four cards per pack.

And more gum.

Numbered on the back.
Collect them all.
Portrait cards and group shots:
descending stairs of an airplane,
swimming at the beach – shirtless!
Boys, fooling around in the park
like celebrities, which they were.
Ninety-nine Beatle cards in all

and stale, pink slabs of sugary gum.

As the granddaughter of a dentist
I prided myself on brushing
after every meal. Look ma, no cavities!
I made it until thirteen years old
when the Beatles
took our country by storm.

Nearly every lunch hour we girls trekked
across the street from junior high
to the crowded candy store on Scott Street
where we anteed up a few nickels in
exchange for Beatle cards, bad bubble gum
and my first cavity.

Ordinary Days

(my transitions poem. It’s klnd of long, but then again, so are our lives—lucky, lucky!)

Ordinary Days

We promised, in sickness and health,
through the depths and heights
of our experiences
to love until death do us part.
After the I do’s, we assumed
only good times ahead.
Young forever and healthy.
Illness and tragedy were for other people.

I could not have known
we would birth two boys
and one would transition to a girl.

I could not have known my brother would
die young, from war-related cancer, then
you would get war-cancer, and survive
after six months of chemo, two ambulance rides,
plus, two stays in intensive care.
Terrifying, but lucky again.

Now in our years labeled golden
we are again the other people
enduring two months of multiple surgeries,
grateful we are able to care for each other,
coming out on the other side, repaired, restored.

Those early years were all luck and happiness
shoring up fond memories
for the scary days when we needed a laugh
or a simple gift of something ordinary.

When did we realize it was half over?
Each birthday moving the notch of halfway ahead
35? 40? 45? It does not compute.
We have outlived our grandparents who died in their sixties.
Our parents died in their eighties and nineties.
It happened so quickly to be next in line. 

Our job now, to enjoy ordinary days:
this tree, the hammock in the breeze,
our kayaks on quiet water, autumn’s golden light
on a wooded trail, the dry-cold night
of this January full moon.

###
Note: I used “this” twice in the last stanza. I could say “of a january full moon.” But I wanted it to sound urgent so used “this”, again. Does that sound ok?

REVISION 02-10-2022

(I changed stanza 1 a bit, to empahsize the “custom words” from our vows). Thanks for the recognition of my “exposition” — hard to catch when I am so close to it sometimes.)

Ordinary Days

We promised
in sickness and health,
through the depths and heights
of our experiences
to love until death do us part.
After the I do’s we assumed
heights, not depths,
only good times ahead.
Young forever and healthy.

I could not have known
we would birth two boys
and one would transition to a girl.

I could not have known my brother would
die young, from war-related cancer, then
you would get war-cancer, and survive
after six months of chemo, two ambulance rides,
plus two stays in intensive care.

Now in our years labeled golden
we’ve endured months of multiple surgeries,
grateful we are able to care for each other,
coming out on the other side, repaired, restored.

When did we realize it was half over?
Each birthday moving the notch of halfway ahead
35? 40? 45? It does not compute.
We have outlived our grandparents.
Our parents are gone.
It happened so quickly to be next in line. 

Our job now, to enjoy ordinary days:
this tree, this hammock in the breeze,
these kayaks on quiet water,
autumn’s golden light on a wooded trail,
the dry-cold night
of this January full moon.

An Apple a Day

So here’s the poem I’ve been working on in response to Angela’s session. About first heartbreak. Let me know what you think.

An Apple a Day

You polished an apple, gleaming and red.
He said there was another girl.
A heart is like an apple.
He said he liked to watch you walk down the hall.
An apple is a fist of a fruit.
He said it wasn't you.
The tears in your eyes disbelieve him.
The curled tongue, also, mistrusts.
You wish you could stop yourself from crying.
He said he was sorry.
You stare out a blank window,
desperate to blame someone.
Instead of stars, you count your faults.
You miss the transport of kissing,
You begin at the body.
Slow as mashed potatoes, you run at night,
from streetlamp to streetlamp.
You welcome gasping for breath.
An apple bites clean.
You teach yourself to eat the whole of it,
seeds and all.
He said he didn't mean for it to happen.
Most days all you eat is an apple,
dreaming of teeth marks.
Your hunger is some kind of company.
Over time, you become less.
He said he'd see you around.
You are hard to find,
you take up so little space.
One day your sister makes you laugh.
You laugh and laugh, resetting
all your appetites.

Great Lakes Perch Fry

I wanted a 2nd poem to submit for the WFOP Cal. for Mythos of Wis. i think I had Charlie Berens in my head. I had to write this.

Great Lakes Perch Fry

Friday nights.
Go out to a supper club
when the waitress asks,
What do youse want?
Order the
Great Lakes Perch Fry
and a Brandy Old-fashioned,
sweet.

She will bring you
lightly breaded perch,
buttered marble rye
with a slab of raw onion,
fries, or if you’re lucky,
potato pancakes with applesauce,
coleslaw in a fluted paper cup,
tartar sauce,
and a Wisconsin Classic Cocktail
good enough for
da bot’ a yas.

Keeper of Memories (Alt. title: Look Up)

For possible Collecton of family poems. Title of Book “Keeper of Memories”, and open with this poem. (Early draft, not sure how I want to tie in Keeper of Memories, as I think stanza 4 could come out; but then the title has to change.)

Keeper of Memories (Alt. title: Look Up)
for Anna and Andrew

Mother loved history
and the full moon,
Dad was naturally curious,
loved short stories,
astronomy, and writing.

I learned journaling early,
making notes, saving tidbits 
passed down in family stories,
photos, notebooks.

As the keeper of memories,
their yarns are my poems,
keepsakes for all who outlive me. 

Fascinated by the night sky,
Dad took me outside in the night,
pointed to planets and stars,
named the constellations.  

When I am gone
go out at night
look up,
find me with your Poppa
in the stars.

Look up,
I’ll be with your grandma
in the full moon.

Hot Love at Bamboo Bend or Swimmin' Upstream at Bamboo Bend

“Hot Love at Bamboo Bend “ or “Swimmin’ Upstream at Bamboo Bend”

Hey baby, I be waitin’ for ya
things are heatin’ up, it’s April.
For a good time
head upstream on the Wolf.
When the water rises to a steamy 53 degrees
meet me at Bamboo Bend
swimmin’ upstream in Shiocton.
I’ll sidle up to the riprap on the outside of the bend,
then you come by when it’s pushing 60
and Woah, Mama! Drop yo’ eggs on the rocks
like 800,000.
Woo-ee! then I’ll swim over a little past noon
for some Sturgeon sqirimin’ and spermin’
swirlin’ and thrashin’ over those eggs on the ledge
of the riprap for a slap dance at the
Shiocton honeymoon egg fest
like we been doin’ since pre-historic days.
Yeah, for a good time see you
on the rocks at the river bend this spring.
Oh! And, there be a crowd there
to watch us doin’ it too!

Buffalo Plaid (for Moss Piglet, Theme: Red)

(Do I need the brand name, “Woolrich”—does that add any neccesary detail?) I made some edits since reading it to you. Thanks for the title revision idea!

Buffalo Plaid

Made by Woolrich
Red and Black Buffalo plaid
original tartan of clan outdoors
heavy-duty thick wool
long-sleeved, extra large
in good condition.
Found in my basement
a week before the holidays.

Gone nearly 20 years now
I feel the ghost of him
coming in the back door
can still see him hanging
his wool shirt on the brass hook
at the top of the basement stairs
in from a pheasant hunt
or fishing for muskies
in early November.

I nuzzle my face
into the red and black
checkerboard of long ago
familiar dad-scent
still on the collar.

Poetry Archive - 2021

I created a document to archive the poems from 2021.

Archive

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.