My world is small but seldom feels so
except today

one friend leaves for Nassau  
the other for Norway
another to a German river cruise
a cousin to Italy

I feel excessively provincial
with a touch of wanderlust today
to ease my travel fever
I decide to plan our Bastille Day

our few hours in imaginary Paris
we always have real champagne
paint plein air
along our pretend River Seine

but this year I will level up
dressed in black and
wearing my beret we’ll dine
at a fancy French restaurant

I went to my browser
where can I get French cuisine near me
with the disdain and condescension
of the average Parisian
Google ridiculed me

It gave me the name of 
a local diner
a local tavern
a local gas station

I whine to Keith
see, even Google knows
I never go anywhere
this is the closest 
I’ll ever get to France

I grabbed my cruise catalog
and pulled it out of the trash
with flourish
for dramatic emphasis

I have a new mission!

I have never been trolled by an algorithm before. As AI continues to increasingly permeate my world, I can’t imagine the emotional abuse in store. I was expecting kinder overlords. Very disappointing!

They say it’s a time for letting go
of treasures, of hopes, of dreams
of precious plans, and long lists 
but I tighten my grip
on this falling ladder

they say it’s a time for letting in
for smelling the lilacs
rejoicing in the songs of birds
but I tighten my laces
to outrun this oncoming storm

I say it is a time for letting out
the passions, the poems, the prayers
to chase the shadows on the sundial
until I am empty
I race against a setting sun

I have a staff of unpaid editors
people who taste my words
and spit out the sour ones

they wince and hesitate
at angry poems
frowning til I yield

like my rant about 
memorial day 
being a deceit

they scrunch their faces
urging me to be loving 
and to stop throwing down gauntlets

I’d hoped my abundant use of flowers
might offset an occasional diatribe
but my poisonous words make the flowers wilt

I’m thinking I need a pen name
and a Twitter account

Now before I get that Twitter account, if that last “Trigger Warning” made you wonder about all those angry poems that never make it to you, here’s a peek at one. Promise not to tell the editors. I intended to write a “grateful for your service” poem on Memorial Day morning and this came out instead. The original version didn’t have that last stanza. I added that the next day to make it past the frowning critics that surround me and can really look disappointed. But, alas, this poem was too far from the loving poem you deserve. At your own risk, proceed . . .

DAMN THIS HOLIDAY
(The original title included the F Word)

those cowards are driven
by power and greed
sending others to suffer
and others to bleed

memorial day
is but a deceit
mass murder and death
cleaned up to look neat

for war's heavy toll
we must regard
the souls that are burdened
and lives that are scarred

our freedom they say
is last on their mind
in battle it’s horror
no words can define

if we meet a soldier
on this solemn day
we express our regret
for the price that they pay

as countless more soldiers
to rest they are laid
we butter our corn
and watch our parade

while inside our chest
as hearts turn to stone
we pick up our pens
and write stupid poems

if a world at peace
is just a lie
why do soldiers
have to die

(and then this pollyanna-speak the next day to cheer it up)

what will it take
to thaw our hearts
I know that mine
is where it starts
———————-
See what editors save you from!

Torsos contorted by 
corsets with whale bone ribs
tearing at flesh

too tight for breath
rendering victims
unconscious and injured

wasp-waisted torture
rearranging
internal organs

she was a seamstress 
a feminist
a revolutionary

it was 1889
nineteen year old Herminie
took her scissors and thread 
and revolutionized cleavage

how strange it would seem
to this liberator of breasts
that her gift was a symbol
of female oppression

As I write my love letter
he finds me in the kitchen: 
I just made my move

in another hour
I will saunter to the porch
to demurely look over the board

I will scrutinize his options
mount my defense
and plot my attack

as he trims the grape vines
I will interrupt him:
I just made my move

he’ll tease me with threats
or silently raise an eyebrow
smiling with misplaced confidence

our matches can take days
I’ve come to realize chess
is one of the ways we flirt

So her children can eat
she gently harvests
tiny blue flowers
wondering if it’s true 
that gringo ladies 
wear them on their ears

preserved in resin
and set in silver
these perfect blooms
seem enchanted
locked in time

from the heart of Mexico
to the gift box in my hand
two women’s hearts connect
our random fates
laid bare

tiny blue flowers
their delicate grace
their graceful sway
it seems fitting 
these earrings are
teardrops

We were seventeen
and they looked about the same
newlyweds from Pompeii
first century
before Vesuvius erupted

it was their wedding portrait
painted on the wall of their house
scholars can tell 
it’s an actual likeness
we could too

that chunk of their home
preserved by volcanic ash
hanging on this wall before us
the people vibrant and real
he cried

my new tough guy boyfriend
standing in the gallery
in the Chicago museum
with tears on his cheeks

we’ve talked about it
many times since
overwhelmed
he knew at that moment
you can paint a memory
if you really see
you catch the feeling
and others will feel it too

at that moment
he knew 
he wanted to be a painter

at that moment
I knew
I wanted to be his wife

There once was a viking named Blunder,  
Who caused other vikings to wonder, 
When drunken on mead
His wounds would not bleed
“The Bad Bloodless Blunder of Gunder.”

Many enemies feared he be dead.
“Evil demon or ghost,” they all said,
Till Blunder was cut
On the cheek of his butt,
And he hemorrhaged sweet wine that dripped red.

They stole him in chains cross the seas. 
A poor prisoner, they did as they pleased. 
Inside their Mountain 
He was their fountain
Spitting wine from his ass when he sneezed.   

Sytennde Mai is a Norwegian festival day that loosely correlates to our Fourth of July. It means Seventeenth of May. Keith created this little character and I wrote the poem to serve as a bawdy viking-inspired gift for my Gunderson clan.

It was a standing joke
one mother’s day
we even made a t-shirt

slowly but shirley

her pace was
relaxed
amused
curious

hers was not a hurried life
it was sipped
like hot coffee
like her vegetable soup
like good brandy

can you stay for a visit?

and I’d answer
no
sorry
have to go…
to work
to pick up the kids
to the store
to the bank
too much to do
do do do do

but today
I sat on the floor
surrounded by
her poems
her photos
her letters
my regret

yes, mom
I can stay for a visit

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

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