ALL RESPONSES |
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| I listen to my daughter sing and play guitar. Her voice is near perfection. With time and practice, she’ll be able to play with the best of them. What I hear as talent is more than daddy’s love. I’ve heard so many singers sing a song, but she has a way of her own. Her voice is soft, with a confidence that cuts through whatever mood you’re in, and focuses on what matters. If you could hear her, you’d know this is more than daddy’s love. |
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Listen to the wind.
His performance begins
With deep rustles in the ear,
Like sails on the sea.
There are
Whispers.
Muffled roars.
Elemental language.
There’s a Shhhhhhhh,
Followed by laughter,
And finally, applause.
All accompanied by pines,
Aeolian harps of the forest.
The crowd dies down, to
Wait for the next good line.
Click here for broadside.
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An angel blooming in light:
Isn’t that how all fathers want to see their daughters
As some of us perhaps are or sometimes are
Or as all of us are sometimes
The lake is a smooth mirror.
Growing away from father and into her own
Womanhood. He still sees the child
And before that, the potential, the curled
Flower waiting to be born, without yet knowing
the way his heart will stretch and enclose around her
Protectively, shelter from the storm.
And yet, the years that have skimmed by so
Swiftly to this place where she is
Both his and yet not,
Belongs to the beckoning horizon and
Belongs to memories, his initiation.
Be paternal. The terror
Of hurts he cannot soothe, the
Joy when her lovely voice floats over the
Beautiful and tattered world.
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From the south end, almost Christlike,
a drake loon gathers its feathered
alb, rises, and runs rapidly across
the mirrored surface sixty feet
before lifting. Within seconds,
a female follows within his wake
Above Speckled Alders, Spruce
and Northern Red Oak,
these life mates dot out in the distance,
and I am left to ponder the ripples
of my own existence
Birds have been communicating
our disruptive intrusion since yesterday:
Eastern Phoebes, Brown Thrashers;
shy Chickadees
At first, I hadn’t noticed the loons;
their downy blending in green water,
my own business with coffee cup and fishing pole
It is only later, fishless, as i climb the rail tie steps
toward the cabin to rouse my wife for breakfast
and I hear the loons’ echoing oboe cries of safety,
I deem it necessary, a natural penance,
to give my mate the tithing attention
she so richly deserves
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When she was a baby
we strolled along the pond
and rested on a bench
as the sun rose higher.
All the ducks awoke together
and turned
in unison towards
the light in early morn.
Mothers lead their young
out into the water
and guided their path
never leaving their side
As
fathers
stayed
home
longing for
love once given
to them
alone.
Feathers grow so fast
and time is moved
by every
moment.
She approaches
her last day
in the
nursery.
As memories
sift
through
my veins..
I wish I
could freeze
time
forever
and keep her close
as we swim with the moment
in the pond of her youth
together
That would not
be fair to
her
would it..
Every bird
must
learn
to fly.
Am I ready for her to soar?
Will she still call me mother?
Will she say, "I love you" fondly
forever and tomorrow?
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The darkness lifts as she sits
quietly sipping morning sunshine
while looking at a road map
of forever
linked in the clouds.
She crosses her arms and sits up straight,
closes her eyes and waits; breathing
in slowly, first in for a count of four
holding until seven
then slowly exhaling until
the count of eight.
Letting go in slow breaths.
Letting go of the numbness
that sets the limbs tingling
in the early morning hours
when the light outside is still pink.
Letting go like rain drops spiraling
across glass windows panes
after first dropping through a portal
from another universe.
This is the space she occupies
at the end of a lonely dock
holding forever in her finger tips
and not worrying over it.
It is small, sweet and free
like star dust caught in
long flowing hair. Here
control hasn’t a name
for it does not even know it exists. |
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1:16 p.m. 23.4 degrees requiem
once in a fountain spray waterly rushing
she traveled to climb me midlife,
as a whisper, soltice
"Even If I should'nt go to bed tonight,
the orbits of earth come back a little
rundown dark and nimble."
Funny, she has this arch to make, a farewell to me
and hurl away leaving shackles, my eyes
in her wakes as skyes to laughter
but what remains with me is anything but quiet.
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clouds gripping their way across the sky.
my fingers on a fretboard, but the air
only vibrates when I push my way
through the strings—and wood and steel
are nothing if not necessary for me.
you want to call it simple love, but
it is the way I speak now. It is my way.
ripples on the water like the ridges
of a thousand stones thrown simultaneously
into the depths of a teenage lake.
I play scales. again there are clouds,
but they come out as blue and teal
notes that scamper across the shore
and away. distance is what they need from me—
my little ones that want their own kind
for company. am I growing old so quickly? |
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My grandma spread
her ashes
across the
eastern sky
I see her face
on land and sea
across the waves
of time
I walk across
the water till
I feel her
come alive.
Heavens open
up to me..
The light within
me shines..
I leave the Earth
and meet true love
with a child's
eye.
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Allyse and Eddie never really liked each other much at all. And I mean never. Ever. Originally, they were paired together at a basement make-out party. Allyse’s friend Beth thought they made a good match. They dutifully kissed and groped and exchanged gum. And it was not awkward, it just wasn’t really anything. Afterwards Eddie didn’t call her, and Allyse didn’t notice. But he did invite her to Prom. And they had a nice time. And everyone told her they were a couple.
Being Jewish, Eddie and Allyse were frequently excluded from social events. They were not permitted to join Baltimore’s affordable country club (the expensive clubs lacked exclusionary policies but the cost was out of reach for their mutually white-collar families) and local Church events seemed pointless, and somewhat unseemly, to them both. However, Allyse did not think her options were limited nor did she feel constrained. She lacked plans and aspirations. Allyse had no dreams. So, directionless and bored, Allyse agreed spend the summer as a camp counselor. Quietly, sweetly, and while playing her guitar on the dock, Allyse spent the summer with Eddie.
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Not in a hurry to go anywhere,
Lake water laps gently,
seeps into cells,
backgrounds soul music,
instructs voice and guitar.
The young woman sitting alone
on the dock—
She and the water belong
to one another.
River water, now,
is another sort of tune.
Crossing the Mississippi at Hastings,
she is overwhelmed
with water’s wide turbulence,
tumbling, pushing, seeking.
If she were musical,
there would be a drum and horn,
a frenetic barefoot dance,
in the middle of the bridge.
She is drawn to rivers.
Begin with Blue Earth, the Minnesota.
Rivers go somewhere,
to meet with the father,
cruise down a continent,
finally join the sea,
become part of a master wave.
Moving, melding,
forever.
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When the tip at the end of your rod
scribbles frantically on the air
When that whole length of nervous fiberglass
bends to the blankness of water and mist
beseeching it
You struggle to your feet, most in love
with this business now,
when it first comes into view—
That mute metallic shape
wending its way up toward you
through the wavering fields of water
Now when it could be fish
or angel
You, standing, straining to hold
that near to cracking rod
Like Abraham to his God, crying out,
Here I am!
As the surface fractures into showers of light.
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One
A small girl,
a white pigeon
on a wire
composed of tiny
bones, rend-able
flesh; destination
music and lake
Two
Something pale;
she seeks the inside
of everything within
reach; she plays
when others whisper
She knows what
it’s like to fly with
out a beak or arc
of wings |
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remain with me as anything but quiet
clocks stopped at 6 as I am
and the tide came in
Flowed to Laura, our prairie
bedrock -my day
for another I place make ruins
ember's child as Only will To Laurel: our other child
Badly from that other hearts place
she attempts to play
hallelujah
To remember why and who
nd let’s go all her belongings to the air…
her rings as warnings
her rattling ears rustling
to show how we are merely acting,
druidly who did care for feathers
ripped off my jeans
fence wire,
under the knee cap deep
kept up with the bleeding…
our loud spaces
most Hallmarks.
bones, your
in the fire that reminds us there
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Clouds grip their ways across the sky.
My fingers on a fretboard, but the air
only vibrates when I push
through the strings—
and wood and steel are nothing,
if not necessary.
You want to call it love,
but it is the way we speak.
It is our way.
Ripples on the water,
like the ridges
of a thousand stones
thrown simultaneously
into the depths of a teenage lake.
I play scales again;
there are clouds,
but they come out as blue and teal
notes
that scamper
across the shore
and away.
My little ones,
am I grown old
so quickly? |
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As far ahead
as I can see,
it’s music,
the mysterious
that waits
underwater.
A boat is possible.
A trip.
So is love,
a moment
three hours long.
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Cradled in her lap
Mute,lies her first guitar
Her fingers bend arthritic bridges
Before her an open book
Lesson One
So much in her head, her heart , aches to be sung
Peace reaches out across sunset hued water
her fingers cannot yet translate the sweetness of her voice
the right to roam within her grasp
distant shores call to her
new horizons
He watches from the porch
knows the time approaches
when he must let his beautiful butterfly free
free to soar on winds of discovery
proud that through him she holds no fear of the unknown
She turns to see him watching
Her hand raised
Waving an arrow to his heart
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“I didn’t know my father was going to die that day, but I think he did.
My mom called me over to their cabin because he was in pain and she was taking him to the hospital.
I kissed him and gave him a “get well soon” hug.
He smiled.
He looked tired.
He turned to the lake.
I watched him take in the view. He lingered there, looking across the water, for the last time.”
Kristi choked on her words. Wiped her tears, composed herself, and offered an apology.
“Believe me, the last time I eulogized my father, I knocked it out of the ballpark”
And through our tears broke thunderous applause.
Moments earlier we watch a slumped-shouldered and broken-hearted family enter the church for the second time that day. To conduct the second funeral of their father, uncle, brother, cousin, grandfather and spouse. To offer up their pain, a second time, for the immense Lutheran congregation in Minnesota.
To support us.
To pray with us.
To ask us to try to stay together, now that Pastor Youngdahl was gone.
He requested no tributes.
He wanted to be remembered as a broken sinner in need of redemption.
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evening descends from places
we cannot see or hear.
gathering grey clouds
edges fraying and tattered.
jack pine reaches toward the wooden dock
an emerging scene of colliding times.
there is music and there is the voice
of gods and goddesses beneath the water
waiting in delicate slumber and held breath
for what emanates from the human world.
vibrations escape the being
a layer upon the calm surface.
between each caesura the water
calls back and this conversation
continues as it always has
the music of ages and the
awareness granted from patience
and respect of the landscape. |
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Water is soft
or hard
depending on what
one measures against it
Are the notes she strums
soft to your ear
because of the memories
of your swimming in them
Or are they hard
because only the unfiltering
surface of the lake
could reflect them across the bay
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I remember a girl praying the rosary
by a lake. It is 1955.
The beads from Ireland
a present from her grandmother
A ruby light smolders in them.
She is away from her family. Away
from her mother's screaming and her brothers'
wrestling and boxing all over the tiny house.
Away from the merciless teasing,
babysitting her cousin in the north, living
with the uncle who yells and swears at her aunt.
Hungry for beauty, she sneaks out, walks upriver
to the waterfall with its shooting stars, fountains
of cloud where she feels safe, at night even.
She doesn't see how the water is also driven chaos.
She thinks of what she's been taught
to call her soul, believing it is a thing
she has yet to do, not really knowing
how, in late sunlight, she is her soul.
Fifty beads she holds glow with an inside light.
She cannot know she shines too, rushing
in the red light toward a future she won't reach.
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Going my way come on in and save them
clicking on the sideways walk plink the bonerain-
Wander struck and climbs into me once- leads the way.
Toes you are the Worms who know where me -the waters going
under sprinkled lawn
skies open up as a card
I heard...she lays down lambs singing
Clarinet, as grape tones sweetly she is spending.
Clouds go where I’ve been: on route or goin’ as the trees
She stands Never never to dismember
or cast a wild look into the black opening.
the sun has arrived just in time
our own fiddle and thumper Wherever it is choosing
dumping into ME
there was no part of my woods Loved as much,
Wherever and whenever the doorway stands there open...
Flirt!
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To be a good Minnesotan poet
there has to be a lake somewhere
in the poem. And probably
birds as well. Geese. Blackbirds,
cardinals, but I would write about
swans which makes me seem Irish
though I don’t claim it as home.
Poetry is home and I am her
lover, her playmate, her jester
and her guest. To be a good poet
there has to be heartroaring
uplift and perhaps a twist
of language that bends like that
fishing rod to the silvery catch.
(See, I have found the lake again.)
The truth is, out of the crowded
dirty sidewalks of the city, the bus
curves the shore
and I am offered a glimpse of sky, water
and trees. In winter barren, flecked with
ice, the lake white as death.
In summer the green is a balm and
a anthem to how Mother Nature
cradles us in life, in death
and we are sailing through
on our way to somewhere else.
Like birds with wings unfurled.
Like home which is
where we hang out hats
and our hearts.
And if this is too obvious, it must be
a Minnesotan poem, white
with fire at the edges, fire on the tongue.
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Dear Friends, I know I have been lax with responding to your work these days. Please accpet my apologies. I do read what you have written and I love the community we have created here. Like many of you, I find time slipping away and many hours spent at the computer doing other stuff, all of it wonderful but there is still discomfort at sitting for too long in the chill in the basement (finally leaving for summer warmth!) and the attention needed for my work.
The tornado made me nervous about losing my work so many hours are spent scanning what was typed out on a word processor onto the travel drive.
I appreciate your creativity and look forward to the next event (hem hem, Britt;) where we can meet.
Blessings,
Wendy |
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Welcome back
to Division Street;
halfway to Daniels:
campfires, a walk
along the Beach
Road, somewhere
between words lost
spoken from a wooden
patio bench outside
those educational walls
you first strode passed
in those mysterious dark
blue shorts and white top
Welcome back to intellect,
kisses, Webster’s definitions,
a protest of perfume, smoke
and mirrors where everything
is closer than it appears
Welcome back to when people
actually thought about what God
thought about them, the beautiful
blue balcony, the blue sedan
parked in the street, and all those
blue times we walked beneath
corner street lights, watching night
moths bang against huge incandescent
bulbs; the world hummed truer
then and I didn’t know it wasn’t
going to get much better
Welcome back to the Blue
Cafe in Eau Claire where I read
Robert Creeley’s “The Hero”
for the first time and wondered
for the first time why all heroes lived
but more importantly why they died;
everyone should memorize
impermanence; it’s like waiting
for a little more space, a little heart
Welcome back to the dock of my youth;
it glistens in the morning, pulls up
beside me, waits for my space,
mean and earthly, like your heart;
I wanted to stay until everything made
sense but there wasn’t time, there is
never enough time to watch someone leave |
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We are little ripples
that travel indefinitely
increasingly subtle until
we would not even recognize ourselves
if we passed on the street,
but the smile seems vaguely familiar
and greet ourselves, "Hello."
Our former selves have already died
yet we feel no need to mourn
as no harm has come to them
but the pain we feel now
We emanate in the form of constant concentric circles
from a center that will still be there
when we have gone
to find ourselves on the other side
of a pond where we sit on the docks
of our summer homes, casting lines
and wait for unseen Northern to tug the lure
and make new waves |
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the angular ropes of dreams
tie themselves to mournful clouds
falling northward
a hymn played over waves
whispered along a fine breeze
a daughter
of a man and woman
who’s shadows lie within shadow
sets her feet to drift
coiled string laid upon wood
hums sonata
meeting the brusque waves of early summer
the hand of her voice
reaches across water
feeding moss covered roots
while her fathers heart
joins the chorus. |
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Bottle or notebook that floats out to kettle bottom,
your parts of you- the clipped photo's insides- are best!
These are waiting for us back
to child's letters - Godstrewn
across the road, in that mailbox next to a magazine
never has it spilt out better.
all was better then, now and then reread
never as sweetly written as when,
it was our time as an American
.... |
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The red handled broom leans on the deck
fencing as if propped on an elbow
to see the wind push green platters of water
lilies to shore. The deck hangs from the cabin
as if it’s a slab of warm gray rock over a wild
incline. A large dog lies on the boards
in a caramel-colored heap. When a big bird
flies overhead, she gives brief chase to the railing,
her nails skittering as if someone dumped a box
of metal junk. She never tries to jump over.
She couldn’t make a jail break from such height
and live. When the broom’s used to sweep
and push pine litter of needle and cone
over the edge, she cowers – someone beat her
when she was a starving puppy weak
with parvo virus and bacteria. On occasion,
the dog still eats shit the way a human
who corrected a drinking problem of the past
might binge on alcohol even after asking all
the right questions. What is this emptiness
that begs for an old habitual response, doesn’t
like to wait? The drinker’s hand shakes
with excitement as it lifts a glass of liquor
shining like sun on the surface of the lake. |
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I was alone and decided to walk along the path we used to roam.. Memories of you seeped through my veins. The river ran freely. Your willow tree danced with the sun without reason. The sunlight filtered effortlessly through the leaves. "Look at that tree" you used to say.. "Look at how wise she is. People think she is loud.. but she is quiet.. very quiet indeed." I looked out into the water and watched it breathe from beneath the surface. When I closed my eyes I could almost hear the music of your laughter.. I could feel the tears of joy in you.. the peace you have now..
I raised my head and saw two birds floating along the riverside. I wept at the site of them. They reminded me of us.. how we walked on water as our river met the sea.. You flew to Heaven with such grace and dignity... very quietly indeed. |
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You play your guitar for the water
coming in small waves to listen
and murmur below your feet.
White t-shirt loose around your waist,
hair, long over your back,
sitting on wooden planks.
The dark day brings low mellow notes,
sentimental tune, stroke on string
with all sincerity.
A moment of your own in the silence of
a day ending in a darkening sky,
reflected on darkening water.
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