Wistful

WISTFUL

  After “Wistful” Mixed Media by Lauren Douglas. (Art Speaks, Woodwalk Gallery 06/28/24)

There is yearning in her eyes

with an aura of melancholy.

It began at age ten

fidgeting with her shadow.

She would not step on it,

something bad might happen.

To be safe, she counted

steps forward and backward,

but not in the shadow.

Even the air hurt to breathe,

Something didn’t feel right.

Do it again. Count the steps.

Hold in breath,

do not breathe the bad air.

Shower away the germs

until the water runs cold.

She was born a boy

so the doctor said

but she thinks like a girl,

hormones criss-crossed

somewhere, maybe in the womb?

She’s grown into her real self.

She yearns, the time is almost here

to glow up into that feeling when ….

She walks into light

wears the yellow of sunshine,

re-birthed into a wish fulfilled.

She looks forward

worry lines relax.

Lips calm, with a slight upturn

poised to smile,

all girl now, no one can tell.

She never has to go back.

Revised version 7/23/24: I changed to 3rd person. I took out “telling” lines—at least I hope I did.  I struggle with that. added more info about the transition. I tried one long block of text, then settled on couplets. Couplets add pauses, I think. Do the couplets make it too long on the page?

  Glow-up

  After “Wistful” Mixed Media by Lauren Douglas. (Art Speaks, Woodwalk Gallery 06/28/24)

It began at age ten

fidgeting with your shadow.

You would not step on it,

something bad might happen.

You counted steps forward

and backward

but not in the shadow.

Even the air hurt to breathe.

Something didn’t feel right.

Do it again. Count the steps.

Hold in breath

do not breathe the bad.

Shower it away  

until the water runs cold.

You were born a boy

but think like a girl.

Hormones criss-crossed

maybe in the womb?

Too much of one

not enough of the other?

The glacial pace of transition

is the gender of rightness.

Now glow up into light

wear the yellow of sunshine, smile!

Certain as the cycle of seasons

you have no second thoughts.

Be safe, my child

no one can tell

You never have to go back.

All girl now.

 REVISION 2

Glow-Up

  After “Wistful” Mixed Media by Lauren Douglas. (Woodwalk Gallery, Egg Harbor,  06/28/24)

It begins at age ten,

fidgeting with your shadow.

You won’t step on it,

something bad might happen.

You count steps forward

and backward

but not in the shadow.

Even the air hurts to breathe.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Do it again. Count the steps.

You hold in your breath,

to not breathe in the bad.

Shower it away 

until the water runs cold.

You are born a boy

but think like a girl.

Have hormones crisscrossed –

maybe in the womb?

Too much of one

not enough of the other?

The glacial pace of transition

is the gender of rightness.

Now glow-up into light.

You are your radiance. Smile.

Certain as the cycle of seasons

you have no second thoughts.

Be safe, my child,

no one can tell.

 
You never have to go back.

All girl now.

An Exacerbation of Dying (NEW)

Is this a prose poem sequence? Or does it need to be something else?

Mother teased the shortness of breath. How many rests did it take for her to get ready? Leaning hard on her elbows in the bathroom, struggling to inhale past the destruction of her lungs? Greenery was color of the year in 2017, a verdant yellow-green she wore in a stone around her neck, her granddaughter, too, in a thrifted sweater, squeezed next to her at the kitchen counter. Their dark heads together, they snarked at the expense of father, grandfather, husband. How hyper he got when they used to travel. Mother said words like "hyper." Father took it on the chin, drinking a can of Bud, attending mother and her portable oxygen, set on high.

Mother and granddaughter mocked other things besides the slapstick of far-away destinations—sequins, wide-legged trousers, ottoman poufs. They had opinions. I eavesdropped while I cooked the Thanksgiving feast, basting the turkey, mashing the potatoes. The heat and steam of my small kitchen conducted memory. What I chose to remember. What I chose to forget. Mother closed her eyes when she wheezed. I fixed her a whisky and seven-up, which she only sipped and let melt to watery soda by the time I called everyone to the dining table. A napkin stuck to the bottom of her glass with condensation. She didn't like wetness in her palm.

Mother ate everything. Turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato brulee, sausage dressing, pear salad. Her son-in-law joked, "Leave some for the rest of us." She fixed him with a stern eye and commandeered the homemade cranberry sauce, which only she and I appreciated. My husband and nephews pined for canned cranberry, jiggling with aluminium ripples. I sat next to her while she finished her pumpkin pie, scrapping the plate, whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. She nodded, full of the day. I leaned into her. "How are you feeling?" She closed her eyes. Wheezing episodes were called exacerbations. I could hear the wreckage of her airways. A sickly green entered her eyes.

"I can't breathe," she husked. Father stood, bumping the table, checking to see if the oxygen tube was kinked. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home right now. She passed out in the back hallway, swooning on the boot bench. The oxygen tube dislodged. Briefly, she wasn't fighting for air. Father drove. My brother held the oxygen tube in her nose. She revived when they hooked her up to the house oxygen. Should they have taken her to the hospital? Father helped her change into her nightgown. She said she felt fine. She said they should watch football. Later, when my brother returned to his family, she asked father to lay in bed with her.

"Mom, mom," my daughter insisted me out of sleep. I was confused by the dark. I was confused by my daughter silhouetted in the doorway. "Grandma died." She pulled at the green sweater she'd worn to bed. A tumbling of thoughts as I stared at her in a stupor. "We need to go to your dad's," said my husband. "Get ready." We arrived with the ambulance. My brother was already there. The paramedics were sliding out a gurney. Father wrung his hands, an expression I'd never understood before. I looked past the gruesomeness of mother's gaping mouth. I imagined she was sleeping. I imagined she'd incidentally let flop the mouthpiece of her oxygen tube.

+++

Annette’s suggestions: my comments in [ bold italics ]

What a deep and powerful essay. Excellent piece or writing, Tori
I think this would work well as a haibun, where you can insert several haiku to emphasize each part of the story. Are there parallels you can make in short stanzas at the breaks? I suggested paragraph breaks because I think the reader needs to catch their breath—like your mother can’t—in each section. See below

for the title —I don’t think you don’t need to give away the dying, it’s the deeply sad turn at the end. How about “An Exacerbation?”

Mother teased the shortness of breath. How many rests did it take for her to get ready? Leaning hard on her elbows in the bathroom, struggling to inhale past the destruction of her lungs? [should this be a period instead of a question? ]
[start a new paragraph]
Greenery was [C]olor of the [Y]ear in 2017, a verdant yellow-green she wore in a stone around her neck, her granddaughter, too, in a thrifted sweater, squeezed next to her at the kitchen counter.
[new paragraph—new thought]
Their dark heads together, they snarked at the expense of father, grandfather, husband. How hyper he got when they used to travel. [who used to travel—your parents or gma and Bella?]Mother said words like "hyper." Father took it on the chin, drinking a can of Bud, attending [to] mother and her portable oxygen, set on high. [good image, high.

Mother and granddaughter mocked other things besides the slapstick of far-away destinations [this seems out of place with the 70s attire words—clarify perhaps? or just say fashions of the 70s — travels of your parents or gma and Bella? or, do you need it? ]—sequins, wide-legged trousers, ottoman poufs. They had opinions. I eavesdropped while I cooked the Thanksgiving feast, basting the turkey, mashing the potatoes. The heat and steam of my small kitchen conducted memory. What I chose to remember. What I chose to forget. [good summary—normal family time, yet something is brewing here]

[insert haiku here—holiday-normal]

[new paragraph]
Mother closed her eyes when she wheezed. I fixed her a whisky and seven-up, which she only sipped and let melt to watery soda by the time I called everyone to the dining table. A napkin stuck to the bottom of her glass with condensation. She didn't like wetness in her palm.

Mother ate everything. Turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato brulee, sausage dressing, pear salad. Her son-in-law joked, "Leave some for the rest of us." She fixed him with a stern eye and commandeered the homemade cranberry sauce, which only she and I appreciated. My husband and nephews pined for canned cranberry, jiggling with aluminium [aluminum ]ripples. [love this detail!] I sat next to her while she finished her pumpkin pie, scrapping [did you mean scraping?] the plate, whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. She nodded, full of the day. I leaned into her. "How are you feeling?" She closed her eyes. Wheezing episodes were called exacerbations. I could hear the wreckage of her airways [good line!]. A sickly green entered her eyes. [I like how you come back to the color green again, only this time it’s serious]

"I can't breathe," she husked [good verb]. Father stood, bumping the table, checking to see if the oxygen tube was kinked. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home right now.
[new paragraph—adds drama]
She passed out in the back hallway, swooning on the boot bench. The oxygen tube dislodged. Briefly, she wasn't fighting for air. Father drove. My brother held the oxygen tube in her nose. She revived [at home] when they hooked her up to the house oxygen.
[new paragraph—we the reader—need to “catch our breath” as we read; it’s a heavy story ]

[insert another haiku here]

Should they have taken her to the hospital? Father helped her change into her nightgown. She said she felt fine. She said they should watch football. Later, when my brother returned to his family, she asked father to lay in bed with her.

"Mom, Mom," my daughter insisted me out of sleep. I was confused by the dark. I was confused by my daughter silhouetted in the doorway. "Grandma died." She pulled at the green sweater she'd worn to bed. A tumbling of thoughts as I stared at her in a stupor. "We need to go to your dad's," said my husband. "Get ready." We arrived with the ambulance. My brother was already there. The paramedics were sliding out a gurney. Father wrung his hands, an expression I'd never understood before. I looked past the gruesomeness of mother's gaping mouth.

[can you turn these last lines into a final modified haiku?] or even compare to something nature] my sample haiku needs tweaking but you get the idea. It does NOT have to be 5-7-5.

I imagined she was sleeping.
Imagined she'd let flop the mouthpiece
of her oxygen tube.

[— Good job, Tori, this had to be hard to write, yet I hope it was healing too.

ALG]

Lost and Found (REWRITE)

I found what looked like a key
on a dusty shoulder
of a country road.

It felt natural in my hand,
stamped out of metal
with a looped eye,

the blade vaguely Egyptian.
It crumbled against my thumb
with age and rust.

A key would be useful
to unlock the disorder
of my son’s mind.

Wind blew in tiny coils.
Birds cried into the spiraling.
Anxiety raised my hackles.

I felt a tin can clatter
in my chest, a coat wire mangle
through the widest part

of my back. I stepped past
orange caution flags
marking future groundwork

that was also hidden
from me in a complex
infrastructure.

Dread knocked
on the clouds, clumping
an ominous gray.

Rain spit. I was out
of answers. The key
wasn’t really a key.

Dad's Vise

This started out in short-lined stanzas but I think it’s better as a Haibun with so much descriptive material. This is for “Moss Piglet,” theme issue: Tools. I have GREAT photos to go of his lures that are works of art. My other photos are colorful, I couldn’t add more than one image.

Dad’s Vise

The cigar-sized metal barrel narrowed to a silver cone at one end with serrated grooves. This miniature jaw could hold the smallest fish hook for tying handmade flies.

Lock-cammed to another rod and tilted toward Dad, it was C-clamped to an old door laid across two file cabinets in the basement rec room. After a long day at the office, he’d unwind at home after dinner, settling at his makeshift bench.

Shoeboxes, light as air, held feathers, while others, smelling of mothballs, were stuffed with deer tails dyed red, yellow, white, and black, stacked next to him. Wooden spools of silver and gold thread lined up like soldiers across the bench.

With precision, he’d snip strands from a bucktail, select a feather, and secure a fish hook in the vise’s teeth. He'd pinch a tuft of fur, and add a feather to the shaft of the hook, winding metallic thread around and around in stripes to mimic a fly hatch or minnow. Half-hitches fastened the thread, he trimmed the fur to shape the lure, and on some lures, added a coat of nail polish on one end to finish it. He created Digger-Jiggers, Spinners, Poppers, and every size Mayfly to match the hatch, including Nymphs.

He took art classes to learn sketching and designed catalogs of his lures, selling them to fishermen around the world.

His vise a virtue
each hand-tied lure
a catch of art.

Unconditional Love

Tori, this is a draft of the essay James Crews requested for his LGBTQ Love Poems anthology. He said 300-500 words. This is a 620. I went over. I trimmed it down to 680 words. I would like to take out more words but each section is needed. I need honest feedback. he wants it submitted by April 15.

Unconditional Love

The first time I heard your heartbeat, when I felt that first flutter in my tummy ­-- was that a kick? I was in awe, in love. An actual human being was growing inside me. Such comfort that nine months, feeling I was never alone.

An April day, as the world was reawakening, you entered as new life itself. Our first born; pushed, birthed, born…into my arms.

Where did you come from? Two lives became three and love multiplied with this soul of the universe.

Growing into a curious, creative child you asked profound questions at age three and were spellbound by the stars when you and dad laid on a blanket in the backyard looking at the Milky Way. When you were eight, we gave you glow-in-the-dark stars; you arranged them in the correct constellations on your ceiling.

At age ten anxiety began inside you, the source of which you did not know, nor did we. The unrest continued. We sought help. Yet, you carried on through high school and college excelling with honors in spite of angst gnawing at you. You married your soulmate right out of college. There were happy days and deeply depressed days. We worried.

We were gathered in the family room one day in September; you said you had news. You sat on the floor in jeans and a t-shirt. We noticed your hair was longer on top, getting curly. We noticed your face was softer and calmer, you looked happier.

You handed us a letter. We read silently as you watched. As we read, a bolt of electricity went through us — This has been a long time coming, I identify as a woman.

We were stunned into silence. How did we miss the signs? After all, you weren’t the first transgender person we knew.

You interrupted the silence with, Can I have a hug?

Of course! Yes, we are so happy for you.

In a role reversal our new daughter reassured us. She said she felt safe and was working with a specialist in transgender healthcare. She provided us with valuable information to read. We connected with other parents of transgender kids online.

We felt like bad parents because this took so long to figure out. She reiterated that none of us had the knowledge or language for gender identity and gender dysphoria in the past. She and her spouse had been privately discussing transition for seven years. She assured us the time was right at this point in her life.

Some parents do not take this news well. Some even cast their children out into the streets.

I always go back to that day our child was born, cradling the miracle of a perfect human being with a cherub face, those fingers, toes, and tiny fingernails! Our love has grown as big as the Milky Way. It will not change. That is unconditional love; loving no matter what.

When I asked, how did you know you were a woman?

You turned the question back to me, Mom, how did you know you were a woman?

I just knew.

Well, see? That’s me also.

When a person feels at one with themself, anything is possible. Our daughter has flourished with her own computer business and has become a scientific artist of Astrophotography. She works with astronomers in Chile and Australia using remote computer telescopes to journey deep into the stars, still a child of the universe.

This is our love story, a story of deep listening, learning, advocacy, and affirmation. Whatever happens we will always love her, no matter what.

Oh, by the way, the love keeps going; our daughter and her spouse have been married for more than twenty years.

      By Annette Langlois Grunseth

Porch Cigarette

This went in unexpected ways. Let me know what you think.

I heave up each ritual drawbridge: cigarette
and coffee, cigarette and phone, cigarette and
window-staring. I get distracted by the constant

negotiation to stay present in the meeting,
the ride-along, the homework. I fortify myself
through my nostrils, my true and false ribs,

a mug compress held to my forehead with two
soft hands. Despite the gimmicks to quit, a marauder
grabs me by the scruff of the neck. I am levitated

by dangling arms and legs. The dangerous withdrawal
of tobacco, ascetic acid, ammonia, arsenic, cadmium
formaldehyde, lead, methanol, nicotine and tar.

A bridge permits or hinders passage. I am
the absence of smoke, a body mass of cranky
determinism. It's true I can taste the Mediterranean

in the pasta sauce, a remote and crumbling castle.
The bar stools rumble at the breakfast counter.
We never eat at the table, even when all five of us

are in the tower. A drawbridge lets down chink
by chink. The plunder is real. I stand on the other
side of myself. The long tunnel of bedtime—I whisper,

I laugh. It's always the same story with children.
The heat of their small to medium bodies pressed close,
rooting to belong. Husbands, too, swallowed up

by the lateness in an underground of unspoken.
The thrall of a household after the silence. I pad
the hallways in sock-footed imminence. Trees

rustle through the windows. I open and shut
doors. Ovate leaves rattle at the base
of my throat like craving. Anticipation is a box of

Marlboro Reds. I break in half three-quarters
of the cigarettes. A lighter is a talisman in the
pocket of my bathrobe. The front door unlatches

the ambience of night. I feel my way to the stoop,
waiting for my eyes to adjust. The porch is a wind
tunnel. The chimes gong three clear notes. The roof

casts a rectangular shadow in the grass. I sit on the
cold cement next to the hydrangea. I protect the scratch
of a small flame and inhale the burning tobacco. A rush

dowses my body with a chill. Mist rolls from my brain
to my shoulders to my coccyx. Stars prick my night
vision, pulsing unknowable points. Burden of bridge

triggers counterweight. A barbarian calm washes over
me, rank as moat water. I am out-urged by the
machinery of desire, the last portcullis of addiction.

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