ALL RESPONSES |
| --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
The city was safe enough in sixty-four
to ride our rusty bikes to Daffin Park
where azaleas bloomed in sandy soil
and baseball games were played beneath the lights
on Friday nights for fifty cents a seat
Beneath the shadows of the stadium
boys stood behind the grandstand, catching fouls
while we ate boiled peanuts by the bag
and Coca Cola soothed our salty throats,
sweetening our blue blood for mosquitoes. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
In response to Minnesota Prairie II
It was time…..
You knew that.
The signs were clear.
There was no panic
no last minute trips to doctors
to forestall
inevitability.
Only this small smile
when I brought you bread and fruit
one of those last days.
It was time.
That old gypsy man
hovered there in the background.
You took your meds that last day—
we have your written record
but it wasn’t enough
neither the meds nor the careful
cataloguing you did
because
It was time.
Time to have it the way you wanted it.
Still free. Still your own woman
making each minute count
the way you wanted.
Time to leave the stacks of mail
the crumbs on the kitchen tile
the red stains in the bottom of the refrigerator
the car in the garage with one flat tire.
Time to go out of this life as you lived it
saying goodbye to insulin and needles
saying hello to the peace of stars
to the gladness of that everlasting white flower carpet
on the forest floor
to the joy of that faint prairie path, the guardian tree.
It is time. Click your shutter
on all of this.
Picture me here
picturing you.
FOR JOANNE L. GELLERMAN, BORN 9-17-28, DIED 5-9-07
NATURE PHOTOGRAPHER, POET, FRIEND |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
For the photo Ole Holsteins
Gloria LaVon traveled back and forth from St. Paul to Lamberton
the first 10 years of her life until she established residency with her mother’s sister and her husband, a sergeant on the St. Paul Police force. For an orphan last names have a tendency of becoming an obsession, and therefore when she learned to sign her name Gloria Hulteen, taking on the identity of the sergeant, the city kids at her elementary school recognized something was amiss and couldn’t stop themselves from referring to her as Ole Holstein. Jewish by heritage she felt their undercover propaganda carried merit and on a Monday late May she realized nothing was as black and white as it seemed.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
For the photo Maple for Ansel
one is in the bird-waking time, i march morning
hours, disappearing around blocks
like old Hamlet’s ghost at the precise time
i should be talking to my father
his time is early these days,
and instead, i walk
it is middle May, maple trees have not yet
caught fire
they burn green & it’s easier to think
Or not
two is every morning i see the same things:
a woman in white, walking her Setter.
each is dew sleek, and i think
in all the world, no animal really falters
they just know what to do
even maple seeds blow where they are needed
it is a rare circle my father lives
in, and he hasn’t been in favor lately
not much written about him, a few
phone calls. he seems younger
than he is, a man disguised as old
somehow i am more familiar with
what’s underneath & it scares me
three is perhaps death is a place
where things don’t matter, where
all things lapse into harmlessness:
no bitterness, no being late
later, i could meet up with father,
at the market or in the park
he could tell me what he’s been doing
since i left home nothing matters:
mother’s fine, he no longer pushes
her wheelchair in the mornings, no
need, you see, maple seeds abound
here birds are everywhere
all of them are singing
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
deliver me from these
fleshy tomes,
these prisms
that reflect only pink
hues covered in
sparse black hair.
hack at the bars,
slowly only one
at a time
and still you remain
a thousand upon thousend
of unread words that
daily need tending
much like a garden whose
soil is moist and rich but
whose stems and stalks
never produce an edible
item, or better yet,
never produce an edible
item whose skin isn't
too delicate to protect
it against these nearly
imperceptible
hurts.
Inspired by the painting
Christian Shoulder |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Inspired by the painting kiss
First grade
Mrs. Rosen passed out the primers
We all sat rapt
Four rows of five deep
Stopping at each desk
She laid the books down
Pointing with her warm grandmotherly fingers
To each of us she demonstrated in sing song
"Getting-Ready-To-Read"
My last name near the end of the alphabet
Of course I was bored
When she performed her task for me
I looked up at her and said,
"But I already know how to read. Why do I have to get ready?"
She smiled, winked
said under her breath,
"A wise man does not always advertise his talents."
Second grade gym class
Well policed by Miss Pherneton
Rounded us into a circular herd
Dodgeball, young kids' rules
Near the end of the young power discovery circus
Janet Nelson made a great catch
got rid of a jerk, I said "Allright!"
She looked at me, announcing to the whole class,
"I'm giving the ball to Gary, 'cuz I think he's cute..."
My mind ran back to the echos of "fatso" and "tubby."
Cognitive Dissonance
Third grade
I sat behind a bimbo in training
Kay Castpersen
A fool believing her own lies
Tiring, tedious
Always talking power games among peers
I let her assume her goods were selling
as she glanced at my written work
Never knowing I fed her wrong answers
and changed mine to the correct ones later
Mrs. Abrahamson easily sussed the sitch, and gave me a talking to
"One cannot do this to another!
This is almost worse than her cheating..."
her voice trailing off into guttural resonance I recognized from father
A stern look appraised me, searching for signs of guile
Finding none, she advised,
"Young man, not all people are ethical.
One's response to those who lack ethics shows one's own sense thereof."
The next day, Kay was seated a few rows over
Between the class bozo and the girl who always smelled of urine
Seventh grade winter
A bit before 5 PM
Walking home on the snowmobile path
Biting sting of the cold wind focused my eyes
Through the blue filter of snow reflection
Lots of early snow that year
"Hey Gary,"
The voice caught me by surprise
Headed home, had stuff to do
"I need a kiss for good luck."
Stacy,
The second oldest of the Rothman daughters
Their only offspring blessed with her father's brunette hair
Stepped out from behind a big oak
planted her feet in the tracks
recently laid by the Stotzki's Arctic Cat machines.
She was 11th grade
I was just thirteen
Huge blue eyes
Mom had graced her with other charms
obvious to an early teen boy
She pointed to a piece of paper in her hand
”Scavenger Hunt,"
she chuckled conspiritorially,
"I got one more thing on the list."
I sensed that she wanted to share
an adult secret
"It says," she patted the paper,
"I gotta kiss a guy...can't be family or married."
Why did she pick me?
Welcome to Rabbit Medicine, I would later understand..
"Where's Roger?" I asked.
"Not together anymore. Caught him last Friday in...forget it, not important..."
The sound of the winter birds still around
Dried out bushes frosted with sugar icing
"Come on, Gary,
no biggie,
this aint rocket science,
kiss me,"
her hands on the hips of a tiger print wool jacket
She was serious
I was taller
Wrigley's Spearmint breath fogged the air between us
Twinkle of the last rays of sun
dancing
on pearly tooth
Did it last a couple seconds
...a couple minutes?
She pulled away
with a happy grin.
Skipping away, she turned her head over her shoulder
"Y'know, kid, you'll do allright. Good luck with the girls."
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
the poet
believes
his own
eyes, all
hundred
of them
following
the better
person to
the other
side of a
bleeding
heart
is so hard
to be alive
these days
like Jesus
wandering
through his
shrouded
garden, un-
accompanied
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
clearly, her voice is
an invitation to dance
but when will it end.
in response to kiss |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Mark likes to stand on ceilings in St. Paul – but I’ve never seen him fall
For the painting Turn the Other
Read more about American Sentences |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
| This poem has been published! Congratulations, Maia. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
To the photo Minnesota Prairie II
Now that you’ve left this
world of uncertainties,
I see your love in everything:
the magic of air moving
peace rustling an abandoned pasture.
You are the encircling prairie grass
roaring over rugged earth
to feather-brush sky
and the mind of prairie
thriving with such plentitude,
such surety of purpose,
constantly waving
grassy goodbyes,
trusting wind to take you
wherever you need to go
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
