ALL RESPONSES |
| --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Dream the blue canvas above you
while standing on this earth,
mossy and humid under your feet.
You are smiling,
I wish you would share
with me what's amusing you...
What is about youth
that when older
we seem to not understand?
Perhaps the fact
that we have forgotten
how to look up
and feel the innocence,
the energy running through our bodies?
We were closer to the sky then,
life breathing through us
skin, strong, radiant,
carrying the un-doubtable scent of youth,
and with it
the feeling of mistaken eternity.
Today, closer than ever
to the dirt we step on
we realize we are not the seed anymore,
but the plant from which seeds
grow and depart.
Roots for feet
we anchored our hearts
in the earth
we once took flight from.
Our eyes into today, tomorrow,
and it is already yesterday.
The hours running like clouds
concern us with every new pleat
of skin on our body.
We are looking
but not at the same blue canvas
you smile at
because,
Once upon a time,
we have unlearned how to dream. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A Fall Afternoon with a Sister near Hometown Mankato*
We took Route 66 west of town
Not for kicks
But because Mother had sent brother Wilbur
Years ago, when this skinny kid
Found adventure all over Blue Earth County.
“Go out, Wib,” she said
“Toward the Red Jacket Bridge
Past Carney Cement, out by Rapidan Dam.
There’s history there.
You’ll see it – a plaque where
This Frenchman, LeSueur,
Started Ft. LeHillier back in 1700.
The DAR put the sign up in 1926, with a bench,
Into a little clearing
That the county keeps up now.
Go out there, Will –
Get a little history first hand.”
Sisters thought of mother and brother
As they sat on the bench
Covered with walnut shells the squirrels scattered.
We thought of Pierre LeSueur, 300 years ago,
Building a fort where the Blue Earth and LeSueur Rivers meet,
Because he thought the blue-green earth along the river
Might hold copper.
He named the fort after the man back in France who said
Yes, there was copper—
Something to be mined here.
(LeSueur had bagged some of the earth
And sent it back to France.)
Nothing ever came of it
Except that a river and a part of Mankato got named, and except that
Here we are today,
Two of seven siblings
Surrounded by spirits,
Remembering mother, thinking of brother,
As dogs bark at us from behind the fence
And we think of lunch to come –
Damburgers at Rapidan Dam’s
“The Dam Store – Best Store by a Dam Site”,
A greeting from Jim Hruska, Dorothy’s school friend,
And Mrs. Hruska’s home-baked pie,
Caramel-pecan, or groundcherry if we’re lucky.
Mother sent us here, after all these years.
She nods approval. Perhaps she’s saying,
“They’re out Red Jacket way –
Something to be mined there.”
*The sisters are Dorothy Hollnagel Mumma of Mankato and Betty Hollnagel Benner of Austin, Mn. Brother is Wilbur Hollnagel, Grand Rapids, Mn. Mother was Helene Hoberg Hollnagel, 1903-1968.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Autumn again. The canopy of summer
shattered below our feet; taken river-
borne to warmer climates. Coffee in the
morning, a touch of frothy milk, your breath
clouding crystal front-porch breezes: simple
pleasures almost forgotten arise again,
reborn in the fading sunlight. Stare skyward,
cast your eyes to freezing earth. Prepare. Sing.
Remember: Cold preserves us for the Spring. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
guilt arrived
at fifty
with a bad cough
last April
it was as old as i expected
it sat on the edge
of my bed, trembling
hands, the way my father
now sits on the edge
of his bed
i did my best to ignore it;
thought instead about nineteen:
streaking in a gold Buick, airplane
paint, with a white top
the sequined girl, a sexual acrobat,
working high without a safety net,
warm beer,
and what was
left of weekends
feeling good
for a few black minutes:
itwasgood
until
guilt
coughed
again |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
inspired by Road to Ely
he doesn’t get
all the excitement
building within me
as the highway turns
from gray to mauve
miles and miles of forest
winding roads
cutting through cliffs
ROCK!
being a city boy
he doesn’t get
my love for
PINE!
ravens feeding
on road kill
flocks of vultures
spooked
by our car
black bears
eating wild berries
in an emerald green ditch
gray-wolves crossing
streets in city limits
or the excitement
of seeing so many
deer we lose count
MY ELEMENT!
my trekking poles
are ready
my lungs and legs
ache for the wilderness
ELY!
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
“Love is a temple
Within the fog
covering the blue of your eyes,
I found the signs; thick and palpable
yet soft like the invisible hands
touching me through your skin
Love is a higher law
After days filled with green and rain
I hiked those steps where the Inca gods lived;
I dreamt of holding you there, arms spread
in sacrifice, in indecision; begging
for just one more earthly kiss
before the storm
You asked me to enter
And I did; forgiven were all sins
forgotten were the lives and blood
of the natives, who cried here before us;
for their land, for the offspring in the womb
of their lovers; for this one, about to be born
And then you make me crawl”
I, like the ground under us, would swallow
the stones of this temple; a gentle fracture
Kneeling by your painful tears, I learned
the true taste of devotion; meanwhile you deepened
your nails on my forearm
The memory, the tiny cry, the silence of the quiet thunder that was his voice…
His handprint was etched on my chest that morning
the way history will exhale from these rocks
(portion of U2 lyrics)
“Love is a temple
Love is a higher law
You asked me to enter
And then you make me crawl”
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
“Love is a temple
Within the fog
covering the blue of your eyes,
I found the signs; thick and palpable
yet soft like the invisible hands
touching me through your skin
Love is a higher law
After days filled with green and rain
I hiked those steps where the Inca gods lived;
I dreamt of holding you there, arms spread
in sacrifice, in indecision; begging
for just one more earthly kiss
before the storm
You asked me to enter
And I did; forgiven were all sins
forgotten were the lives and blood
of the natives, who cried here before us;
for their land, for the offspring in the womb
of their lovers; for this one, about to be born
And then you make me crawl”
I, like the ground under us, would swallow
the stones of this temple; a gentle fracture.
Kneeling by your painful tears, I learned
the true taste of devotion; meanwhile you deepened
your nails on my forearm.
The memory, the tiny cry, the silence of the quiet thunder that was his voice…
His handprint was etched on my chest that morning
the way history will exhale from these rocks
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Wheeling down
wide open country roads
making dust
of place, of time
of care
Fresh relief for
haggard souls
and weary eyes,
dimmed by
city sameness
Drawing on
each now of newness
the unfamiliar miles bring
And trusting
journey’s end
delivers me.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
to this photo
The Road to Ely or: Dog on Board
I ride in the front seat, beside my pal.
He drives, I wag my tail.
I love the world when it’s still.
I love it more when it rolls.
I could chase the tires to bite them,
but prefer this high, upholstered throne.
Keep the window rolled down, if you please;
there’s nose- news on every breeze.
Me, Prince, love-time companion,
navigator, Fido Minnesotan.
Do that magic with your hand,
let’s get this buggy out on the land.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
response to day 2: Embarrass
If you live in rural Minnesota and are religiously challenged, God and His Eternally Saved will cut you till you bleed Baptist. Such was the fate of Cromwell Strom one balmy July evening in the township of Embarrass during a baptismal ceremony.
Blood Bought Baptist Church shimmy-shined the Holstein feeding trough until Cromwell’s Gibraltar-like hangover cried for thicker eyelids as Minerva Jorgenson, Blood Bought’s Baptismal Committee Chair lead him in chains and cuffs from the small sanctuary past the seated congregation toward the dunk tank. Tonight Cromwell’s life, as he knew it, would experience interference; an internal combustion would free him of his demons and he would be eternally saved.
Cromwell, in his white baptismal robe, sat off-kilter on a metal folding chair slowly sinking into the moist grass. Minerva’s homily scorched and scalded any doubts Cromwell had of damnation, so much so that the psoriasis on his neck caught on fire. This did not interfere with the ceremony however; Minerva reached behind her, grabbed the pitcher of lemonade off the card table and thrust its contents on the flames until extinguished.
Georgia Bancroft stood up and yelled, “Hell fire and brimstone!”
“Amen, Praise Jesus,” the congregation sang and swayed in unison.
“Our Savior works in mysterious ways, Cromwell Strom,” said Minerva. “You’ve been blessed with a sign and now it is time to turn your life over to Jesus. Come into the water.”
Cromwell struggled to get his footing, shuffled up to the trough with his head bowed and stood next to Minerva. He faced the congregation of fifty-some people, thirteen of whom were men. After nervously clearing his throat, he noticed his legs were shaking like oak limbs in the midst of a tornado warning. His white gown, clinging to his skinny middle-aged torso, now revealed a ring of pink around the neck. Once a child prodigy for spelling bees, Cromwell later in life had lost faith in words and become silent and staggering with the bottle.
“I need a drink,” Cromwell said softly. His face dripped with moisture, resembling the forlorn look of Christ on his way to Gethsemane. Minerva scowled. The congregation gasped.
“Dunk me for Jesus,” Cromwell yelled. Minerva unlocked his ankle chains and handcuffs. He rubbed his wrists where they were worn raw and licked the blood from his right one before touching his seeping neck; then he threw his leg over and into the trough. Slowly he descended. Everyone gathered around and Minerva recited, “We gather here to welcome into our membership at Blood Bought Baptist Church through the witnessing of baptism Cromwell Arlen Strom. Here before God and His humble servants Cromwell leaves behind his wicked sinner to become born again in the body of Christ.”
Cromwell stayed under, looking at the world above through a rosy hue. All those believers huddled around. Must be feeding time, he thought. His eyelids closed, his this was quenched, his neck unclenched and he let go, for now his blood was in someone else’s veins.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I came out of the desert
aching for rain. I came to be
good, I came to claim
myself back from the road.
All those miles under my feet
like a tumbleweed in wind
never knowing when your
back will be fenced up
against rock or wood,
whether you will be ground to
dust or burnt in the fire. I
came here to be fresh
and wet and green,
to be a fish in your silver
lake, to be a deer
licking corn from your fields.
I brought with me stories
and tears, I brought with
me a willingness for joy
and weather.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
to the photo it was good
While the sun was up, life was warm and good.
As children, we learned to walk and swim,
rising with day, making sounds, scratching letters
with crayons into records of brief history.
Later, we sang sonnets of love to setting suns,
romanced the moon, made deals with distant stars,
ran on beaches against salted waves that pounded
our faces, looking eastward to foreign language.
We ate oysters, eggs, pizza and choucroute,
went to school, read books, played guitar
until the sun rose to hear the music,
finally awakened by our amplified youth.
Of course, there were adjustments made;
marriage, a divorce, new jobs to get it right,
but looking at this painting of the past
lit by the sun's last rays, I say, It was good. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
to the photo a map of Britain
I found a map of Britain on a tree,
At first it was a curiosity,
Yet another natural accident
With no evidence of man's intent.
But I, upon close observation,
Found upon it scribed illumination
Of the island's ancient history
For each stone garrison and shire on sea.
The more I read, the more it revealed
Of defense against Saxons in the field,
Viking incursions and Norman conquest
Driving surviving Britons to the west,
Where, living on trout and watercress,
They had left behind a linguistic mess.
From Latin, German, and Norse did it ring,
They set upon earth the language of Eng.
From this land poured forth a civilized host
Bringing teapots, scones, and the Holy Ghost,
An appreciation of high commerce,
And fine literature written in verse,
Like the words inked in English on this tree,
Giving instructions intended for me.
I wish no longer to dwell upon it,
With no more ado, I'll write a sonnet. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
In days a gentle
northern breeze
blows warm
and nights are cool
It’s the dawn
of a new season
She arrives subtly
entering softly
a whisper of color
She Leaves too soon
but before she sleeps
Autumn radiates
a rhapsody ablaze
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
lake's edge
autumn winds move
cold waves |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Returning from rehearsal
My avatar awaits inside the door
Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon
Letsgototheparkrightnowrightnowrightnow
Jumping up shark move
sees me grab the leash
follows me eagerly to passenger door
jumping up on the seat
willing me to move the world
to his favorite place
Window wonder open
He alternates happy whines
with air gulps of discovery
Does he sense the destination?
I pull into the lot
parking as his pitch rises to fever happy
ohboyohboyohboy
Distance from the lot
to the double gate entrance
the hardest heel in the world
I crack open the inside barrier
Join the party
Olfactory bliss
panoply of smells
all breeds and sizes
filling his nose
world of scent
universe of pleasant butt aromas
Cardigan Ambassador
breaking the hearts of little old ladies
charming standoffish lasas
sparking jealousy in tail-less pembrokes
and conspiring with the dachshunds
The ride home is calm
The gentle panting smile serene
Thanks dad
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
By Day 4, we were beginning
to hate him and his damn
travel log
with pix of his
balding pate
casting shadows
on a dry dock
a DRY!!! dock.
We’d been getting nothing
but rain and gloom
day after dreary day
dark when we leave
for work, dark again,
and WET!!!
when we snail our way home
at night.
He, meanwhile, blithely fritters away
the hours, almost as if they were
free and endless,
photographing, my god,
photographing the bark on trees
while we are forced each day
to bind ourselves up in
chains of mindless activity
just to pay the damn bills
fill our bellies
keep us solvent
our assets liquid
Our souls meantime moldering
in the never-ending rain
Oh rot!
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I need something, I need to write without end to feel the pen pressing dragging depositing ink along the prescribed paths without punctuation, only sequestered by the width of the page and the lines laid down, decided as it was so long ago, I need to get out, I need to get in, I need to burn my tongue on hot coffee dispensed from a machine into a styrofoam cup, I need to lick the inside of a dimpled golf ball, I need to know the texture of it, I need to feel more deeply, to cut myself out of the human complexity so that I may be part of the solution, if there is one at all, to be stripped down to the barest essentials to find out--
I need to exist on a net zero mode of existing, to eat what I need only nothing more to leave the air clearner than it was before, friend of tree, friend of lake fish, friend of alge, green moss resting on sides of trees nostril fresh salt grains drift from prepubescent mounds, I need to eat the keys from my keyboard, pluck them like kernels of corn one by one, what magnificent sounds they make against my greedy teeth, like the clacking of fingers tapping furiously against deadlines, times, facts pounded out, hard fought hard won, they say. John Henry pounded his way, iron on iron in a straight line bent against the--
halls barely wide enough for two skinny stooping heads scraping pen tip bending elbow creaking clock ticking past by two minutes from whence they said STOP--
I could be in the lobby loitering, leaning under its towering mirrored ceilng waiting not writing, observing watching and packing it away for the winter, for a rainy day duldrum--
the man at the haberdasher sat out front smoking a handrolled Fin that smouldered underneath his upturned stylized steering wheel of a mustache it was almost enough to get me inside, that and the yawning hats in the window behind the gold lettering painted by a steady hand, not a drunken hand to get the fob on my watch chain wound red and white candy cane I saw him come back from lunch, I saw him sipping his biggie drink before putting on a white jacket that hid his biggie belly buldging over his beltine Tell your mom I say Hi. maybe I will go in and strike a thumbmatch conversation about the best creme to hold that ‘stache, that riverboat run on steam with twin pinwheels churning so quietly and predictably, navigating the span between the rocky outcropping of his nose and shoal of upper lip, quietly enough to put one to sleep, like that girl on the bench, resting chin on shoulder, I’d rather it were moss from a hillside, damp and chilly as that might be I had an espresso after lunch with my fellow ants |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
today i love Keats
tomorrow, maybe Shelley
ahh, but Keats. always Keats
as steady, as enduring,
as a map of Britain
right now i am loving the birch
tree outside my window, its broken
whiteness, its peeling bark
how it swings, how it sways
as though dancing
with an unpredictable breeze
so like a man
filled with inherent uncertainty
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Another cliché photo. Trees reflected in a lake on a foggy day. Something you've seen on gift shop postcards a hundred times before. The framed poster in the dentist's office. State tourism ads. The bow of a canoe, pointed towards pristine rows of birches and pines. Ho hum. Overdone, lacking in imagination, suitable for coffee table books sold on the bookstore bargain shelf. I give up. It's all been done. I'm just here to relax anyway. Time to open a beer. Like that's something I couldn't do in Mankato.
But this fresh air is killing me. All I want to do is sleep. I'm used to the noxious cloud rolling off 169 every minute, the rumble of Harleys, jake brakes clearing their metal throats in our valley, teenagers discussing Nothing loudly at one A.M. And I've been drinking too much water, which, as you know, can kill you. OK, so now I'm drinking a beer and eating pretzels, looking out the window at an immense washing machine drainage called the October sky. It hangs there like damp toilet paper. The lake mirrors its indifference flatly. Typical. If I were in Belize it would be raining, never letting up except to unleash hordes of thirsty mosquitoes on my pale, freckled skin. At least there are no mosquitoes here this time of year. A good reason to keep moving north, until the bugs disappear. How far north does one have to go? Never mind, I'll wait until winter. I'll spend my life on a cold sheet of ice, with no sound, insects, people or other distractions.
Everyone thinks I'm having fun here. Bunk. There's so much work I could be doing. Leaves to rake. Oil to change. Lots of cleaning to do, but not cleaning up after me; cleaning up after THEM. I miss them, though. Their energy, their optimism. They would be bored here, staring at the rotting forest, as I do. No TV. Horrible cell phone reception. A wireless internet connection that is accessible only if I walk to the resort office, forcing me to sever myself from the computer for most of the day and night. Oh, is that why I'm here?
I've been on walks. Long walks through wet woods, where whitetails disappear quickly into brush. Yesterday, the Thup Thup Thup of a huge bird taking off a few feet from me caused my heart to jump against my chest and beat strongly for several minutes. It moved swiftly. I never saw it, only movement in leaves and branches, but I felt it. And driving back from Ely Monday night, I saw an eagle close in flight. I slowed down as it flew across the road far ahead. I knew it from its white head. I was coming to a stop, when it flew back across the road again, a few car lengths in front of us. Had I not been so shocked, I might have seen a creature in its talons. It perched in a tree where we could see it fully, but without a camera with sufficient zoom, we would have to be happy with the memory.
This northern vacation, with its poor weather and clean living, leaves me no choice but to sit by the window and write rants to post on a website. What more is there to do? Shall I go for a swim? |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
for the photo dockunder
The water swallowed
the traces of wet footprints
reclaiming their small droplets,
tricking us to think that maybe...
they never were. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
seven shades of gray
If one loon
cries all day
in the fog
and when the sun
you can’t see
sinks
the others answer,
the whole lake
shaken
with concentric echoes
the Chippewa called
ghost wailings
If in all this you hear
only your own heart
beat on the edge of,
surrounded by song
If you cannot learn
to name this
water, bird, sorrow
you think you too
will vanish
like the mist
that rises
during rain.
You watch it
hesitate
above the body
it clings to
then drift down
the channel.
The wind blows it away.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
just for fun a good swim
Finns migrated to
the North-woods
because the surroundings
were so much like Finland
They brought their
traditions with them
One being a hot sauna...
afterwards a
dip in a cold lake
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A child
drained
into my eyes.
Trapped in
clouds
it searches
inward. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
in response to Seven Shades of Grey
Each year I drink my pleasure's fill
while walking in the springtime rain
to watch pale trees on snow-free hill
drink up each drop and thus regain
the strength to spite the wind at will,
wind bound to play a wilder strain,
while, at their feet, from waiting soil
green shoots of grass begin their toil.
But I do hate October's rain;
it brings a strange, foreboding chill
that fills each pore and every grain
of soul and body, saps the will,
for without wind the leaves won't drain
but hang there...dripping, sodden, still--
a weary fencer, without foil,
exhausted from the drizzly toil.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
.jpg)
