August 31, 2025: “The Pediatrician Retires,” Week-Long Obsession, “Dante Shares Nachos with Me”

Yes, I know I’ve been away for almost a week.  Of course I feel guilty for this prolonged absence—I’m Catholic.  No, I haven’t been eating chocolates and ignoring the state of the world.  (Although, I have consumed quite a few snack-size Milky Ways in the past seven days.)  And, yes, I promise that I will post daily from here on out, and, most likely by tomorrow, I will break that promise.

The fall semester began last Monday, so I find myself being pulled in many directions at once—from library events to lesson plans to revisions on my new manuscript to my ongoing war with insomnia.  Now, on this Sunday night of Labor Day weekend, I dream of not working.  

Sharon Olds writes about not working . . . 

The Pediatrician Retires

by: Sharon Olds

This is the archway where I stood, next to the

panel of frosted glass, when they told me

there was a chance it could be epilepsy, and

almost before my heart sank

I felt a new-made layer of something fold

over my will and wrap it, in an instant,

as if the body takes care of the parent

who takes care of the child.  This is the door

we came through each week while the symptoms slowly

faded.  That is the fruit-scale where she had

weighed him, and his arms had flown to the sides

in an infant Moro.  And there are the chairs

where one sits with the infectious ones,

the three-year-olds calmly struggling for air, not

listless or scared, steady workers,

pulling breath through the constricted passage,

Yes, she says, it’s the bronchial pneumonia

and asthma, the same as last month, the parent’s

heart suddenly stronger, like a muscle

the weight-lifter has worked.  There is the room

where she took his blood and he watched the vial fill, he went

greener, and greener, and fainted, and she said,

Next time don’t be brave, next time

shout!  And here is the chair where I sat and she

said If the nerve is dead, he will lose only

partial use of the hand, and it’s

the left hand—he’s right-handed, isn’t he?,

the girding, the triple binding of the heart.

This is the room where I sat, worried,

and opened the magazine, and saw

the war in Asia, a very young soldier

hanged by the neck—still a boy, almost, 

not much older than the oldest children

in the waiting room.  Suddenly its walls seemed

not quite real, as if we all

were in some large place together.

This is where I learned what I know,

the body university—

at graduation, we would cry, and throw

our ceiling-at-four-a.m. hats high in the air,

but I think that until the end of our life we are here.

It’s an interesting poem about parenting a child—all the duties and worries that come with the territory.  I remember those first months as a new father—sneaking into the nursery to make sure that our infant daughter was still breathing, placing my hand on my infant son’s chest to feel his heartbeat.  As Olds says, “until the end of our life we are here.”  It doesn’t matter whether a child is one or twenty or fifty, that child will always be the tiny bundle of gas and joy from the hospital delivery room.  My daughter lives six hours away now, is studying to be a doctor, but I still worry whether she has enough to eat.  There’s no retiring from parenthood.

For the longest time in my life, I was known as “the plumber’s son.”. My dad was a well-known member of the community.  Everybody knew him.  There’s very few houses in my hometown that he didn’t fix a toilet in.  Or cable a sewer.  Or install a water heater.  Even when he decided to retire, Dad still made service calls to friend’s houses.  I think that’s why he lived such a long life—he never slowed down.  Plus, he loved what he did.

I suppose that’s the key:  loving what you do.  I love my wife.  I love my kids.  And I love writing poetry.  (I should throw “I love God” in there, too, since I’m a church organist.)  You don’t retire from love.

My love of poetry has been my week-long obsession.  The prompt from The Daily Poet on August 28 was this:

Close your eyes and imagine a poet (living or dead).  Think about everything you know about this poet.  Imagine him or her sitting down with you on a comfortable sofa.  Now, as the poet to dictate a poem to you and write down everything s/he says.

Last Monday, I started watching a three-part PBS documentary on the life of Dante Alighieri.  It followed the great poet from birth to exile to composition of The Divine Comedy to death.  Since that time, I’ve viewed that documentary (all six hours of it) about four or five times.  And I reread Inferno and portions of Purgatorio.  I’d forgotten how much I loved Dante.

You see, I studied Dante for an entire semester.  My professor was a brilliant scholar from the Medieval Institute in Kalamazoo.  To this day, when I think of the character of Virgil in The Divine Comedy, I always picture this man’s face.  He loved teaching Dante, and he made me love reading Dante.

So, all of these elements from my life sort of coalesced into the idea of a poem in which I encounter the poet Dante.  Of course, everyone knows that Dante’s muse was his long lost love, Beatrice.  I decided to write my poem in terza rima, the form invented by Dante for his epic.  Basically, terza rima consists of three-line stanzas (tercets) with a linked rhyme scheme (aba bcb cdc ded, etc.)  Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso all end with a single line and the word “stars.”  

I tried to follow Dante’s lead.  For about four or five days, I’ve been writing and rewriting my poem, using terza rima and trying to stick the landing with the word “stars.”  I think I finally nailed it, but you will have to be the judge of that.

I’ve driven myself crazy writing this poem.  It’s all I’ve thought about for days.  And I’ve loved every minute of it, which proves my point.  (Yes, I do have a point.)  Love/passion isn’t something from which you retire.  I could no more retire from writing poetry than I could retire from being a father or husband.  It’s just who I am.

So, to end August, Saint Marty presents his little Dante-esque tidbit . . . 

Dante Shares Nachos with Me

by: Martin Achatz

He craved chips with lots of cheese,

enough cheese to sate

all the bloated bellies

in that glutton circle, while I ate

a bowl of Cheerios

sprinkled with raisins.  The great

poet, sulfur-seeped, lovesick, rose,

paced to the kitchen, fetched

bottles of beer from the fridge, crows

scratching the world outside with wretched

caws, as if they knew

the syllables of the name etched

on his savaged soul, drew

each letter with their inky

beaks on the sky’s blue

chalkboard:  B-E-A-T-R-I-C-E.

I tried to distract him,

avoid yet another melancholy

feast that ended in drunken hymn

after drunken hymn about

unquenched tongues, unkissed skin,

but his heart was stubborn, devout

in its infernal pining

that no Cheeto or hotdog with kraut

could dim.  So he sat beside me, whining

about all the scars

his crush’s spurn left shining

on his heaped plate like pepper jack stars.

August 24, 2025: “High School Senior,” Dreams, “Breathing”

It has been a week of ghosts, strangely.

It started with a memorial service for the father of a good friend of mine.  A lovely, selfless man who launched me on my career as a writer.  That service happened on the tenth anniversary of my sister Sally’s passing.  On Thursday, I led an open mic at Al Quaal, a little recreation area in my home town.  The open mic was, among other things, in honor the third anniversary of the transition of one of my best friends..

If you’re keeping count, that’s three ghosts.

Sharon Olds writes about the ghost of her daughter . . . 

High School Senior

by: Sharon Olds

For seventeen years, her breath in the house
at night, puff, puff, like summer
cumulus above her bed,
and her scalp smelling of apricots
—this being who had formed within me,
squatted like a wide-eyed tree-frog in the night,
like an eohippus she had come out of history
slowly, through me, into the daylight,
I had the daily sight of her,
like food or air she was there, like a mother.
I say “college,” but I feel as if I cannot tell
the difference between her leaving for college
and our parting forever—I try to see
this apartment without her, without her pure
depth of feeling, without her creek-brown
hair, her daedal hands with their tapered
fingers, her pupils dark as the mourning cloak’s
wing, but I can’t. Seventeen years
ago, in this room, she moved inside me,
I looked at the river, I could not imagine
my life with her. I gazed across the street,
and saw, in the icy winter sun,
a column of steam rush up away from the earth.
There are creatures whose children float away
at birth, and those who throat-feed their young for
weeks and never see them again. My daughter
is free and she is in me—no, my love
of her is in me, moving in my heart,
changing chambers, like something poured
from hand to hand, to be weighed and then reweighed.

Yes, Olds is hearing the tiny, ghostly feet of her daughter pattering around her home.  In all truth, I’m in the same boat as Olds.  I have a daughter who’s in med school.  A son who’s a high school senior AND.a college freshman.  My days of hearing little feet patter around my home are long past, unless you count my puppy or the occasional mouse.

I miss my toddler daughter and son.  My friend’s father was one of my favorite profs.  I think of my sister, Sally, every day of my life.  (Sometimes, I think of her hourly, depending on what’s going on in my life.)  And my friend—three years gone—well, I hear her voice every time I sit down to write a new poem or watch a fantastic movie or read an inspiring book.  All of them have been hovering around all week long.  

I start teaching again tomorrow.  The start of a new semester.  I spent a good portion of yesterday updating my online course content.  I’ve got my textbooks packed up, laptop fully charged, and The West Wing playing on the TV. (I’ve started watching the entire series again because I need to see a President of the United States I can get behind—even if said president is fictional.)

Sometimes ghosts aren’t scary.  Sometimes they remind you to be a better person.  A better husband and father.  Better teacher and writer.  And a better friend.  Maybe that’s what being “scared straight” means.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about dreams, based on the August 20th prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about a dream that has seven syllables in each line.  If you can’t remember your dream, ask a friend, lover, spouse, or child about a dream s/he recently had and write a poem about that.  For extra credit, write this poem immediately after waking up in the morning.

Breathing

by: Martin Achatz

Listen.  Are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?

          — Mary Oliver

I never remember dreams.

They slip away like one-night

stands as soon as I open

my eyes.  I can almost hear

the front door closing behind

them, cologne or perfume still

lingering on the pillows.

I want my dreams to hang out,

maybe stick around for eggs

and bacon, or to listen

to morning news, sip coffee,

talk about how amazing

last night was, exchange contact

info that I’ll never use,

because that’s the way dreams are:

they slip away without a

word, walk up the street, vanish

around the corner, leaving

a vague sense you’ve lost something,

some deep, wild, and precious breath.

August 19, 2025: “First Formal,” Memorial Service, “Homeland”

Life is full of firsts and lasts.  First kiss.  Last day of school.  First time watching The Shining.  Last day of work.  First day of retirement.  That’s the way most human beings remember events in their lives, through firsts and lasts.

Sharon Olds writes about a first for her daughter . . . 

First Formal

by: Sharon Olds

She rises up above the strapless, her dewy
flesh like a soul half out of a body.
It makes me remember her one week old,
mollescent, elegant, startled, alone.
She stands still, as if, if she moved,
her body might pour up out of the bodice,
she keeps her steady gaze raised
when she walks, she looks exactly forward,
led by some radar of the strapless, or with
a cup runneth over held perfectly level, her
almost seasick beauty shimmering
a little. She looks brave, shoulders
made of some extra-visible element,
or as if some of her cells, tonight,
were faceted like a fly’s eye, and her
skin was seeing us see it. She looks
hatched this moment, and yet weary—she would lie
in her crib, so slight, looking worn out from her journey,
and gaze at the world and at us in dubious willingness.

I’m not quite sure which is harder to endure—firsts or lasts.  Olds’ daughter is obviously uncomfortable in her dress, going to her first formal dance.  Formals are the first time young people get their brushes with adulthood.  The difficulty is that, when you’re 13- or 14-years-old, you really are a child still.  You’re not prepared for all the pitfalls of being in charge of yourself.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, young people usually first experience loss when a beloved pet dies. Suddenly, mortality becomes a very real thing and, unfortunately, never goes away.  Even when you’re a grownup (twenty-something, thirty-something, on up), I don’t think you ever lose sight of that first experience of death.  I’ve lost some people in my life in the last ten years or so, and I can vouch for the fact that every death feels like a first.

I attended a memorial service this morning for the father of a close friend.  It’s been a year since his father passed, but the pain was obviously still fresh.  My friend’s father was also one of my profs when I was an undergraduate and graduate student.  He was the first person at the university who encouraged me as a writer during a conference in his office.  Before that conversation, I was on a clear trajectory for a job as a computer programmer.  When I left his office that day, I was carrying an application for grad school in my hands.  The rest, as they say, is history.

From all that was said today about Ron (my friend’s father) this morning, I know he had a similar impact on many of the people in attendance at the memorial service.  He had the heart of a servant, caring for his terminally ill first wife, encouraging his students to work harder and better, and finding happiness in old-time country music and dancing.  I can say, without a doubt, he is the reason I became a published author.  Because he said I was good at it and could do it.

It was the first time anyone expressed that kind of confidence in my artistic abilities.  Before that conversation with Ron, I pretty much was told by close family members to get my plumbing license or learn how to program computers, to have “something to fall back on” if the writing didn’t pay off.

I went to graduate school.  Taught college classes.  Wrote short stories and essays and poems.  Served as U.P. Poet Laureate.  Got married.  Raised a family.  So much of what defines me as a person is because Ron told me that afternoon that I was a writer.  A first for me.

Today, we said a last goodbye to this selfless, giving man.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for his friend’s father today, based on the following prompt from August 18 of The Daily Poet:

Stand up and take three steps in any direction.  Look around and note three different items, the color of the wall (or whatever is in front of you), and note what is above you.  Imagine that you have just arrived at this place from another country and are homesick.  Write a poem that includes what you see, how you feel, and what you miss about your home country,

Homeland

by: Martin Achatz

for Ron Johnson

1.

I grew up in a house of plumbers—
my dad, three brothers, a sister
shared stories at dinner about
clogged sewers and frozen water
pipes while we forked hotdogs
and meatloaf onto our plates. I learned
how to solder when I was nine,
snake cables into plugged toilets
by the time I was eleven, replace
leaky faucets before I blew out candles
on my thirteenth birthday. Dad put it
this way: You got shit in your veins, son.
I always felt like a displaced person,
refugee child from some war-
torn land where soldiers forced
me to bleed radiators and dig
drainage ditches at rifle-point.

2.
I remember a typewriter sitting
on the desk and shelves stacked
with the likes of Anton Chekhov
and Larry McMurtry. I also remember
the view from the window: the campus
crowded with snowdrifts, students
blown along like winter surf. And I
remember the professor with his
mustache, crooked smile, brown
cardigan, how he handed me
my short story from EN 500,
leaned back in his chair, nodded
at me the way my dad nodded
when I handed him a crescent
wrench before he even asked for it.
You’ve got writing in your veins, son,
the professor said. I’m not sure
he actually said son, but that’s how
I remember it, this moment,
this invitation, this welcome. It was
as if he had just booked me passage
on a freighter steaming across the cold,
cold sea toward some distant place
I didn’t know I belonged.

August 17, 2025: “My Son the Man,” Nothing Bad, “Eating Pizza While Writing a Poem: A Prayer”

Nothing happened today.

That’s not a bad thing.  In fact, given the state of the world, I would choose nothing over Putin being in Alaska or President 47 invading Greenland or J. D. Vance trying to repeal the 19th Amendment.  Nothing is healthy.  Allows me to fall asleep easily.

Sharon Olds writes about putting her son to bed . . . 

My Son the Man

by: Sharon Olds

Suddenly his shoulders get a lot wider,
the way Houdini would expand his body
while people were putting him in chains. It seems
no time since I would help him to put on his sleeper,
guide his calves into the shadowy interior,
zip him up and toss him up and
catch his weight. I cannot imagine him
no longer a child, and I know I must get ready,
get over my fear of men now my son
is going to be one. This was not
what I had in mind when he pressed up through me like a
sealed trunk through the ice of the Hudson,
snapped the padlock, unsnaked the chains,
appeared in my arms. Now he looks at me
the way Houdini studied a box
to learn the way out, then smiled and let himself be manacled.

There are going to be no magic tricks with this post.  Nothing happened today.  Period.

I did lead a Zoom poetry workshop this evening, based on the poems of Charles Bukowski.  I’ve been doing a deep dive into his poetry this month, and, as always happens, my writing has taken on some of Bukowski’s signature literary moves.

Here is Saint Marty’s poem about nothing tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Spend ten minutes meditating on the quote by Wallace Steven’s, “The Poet is the priest of the invisible.”. When you open your eyes, write down the words and images that came to you.  Now write a poem using those images.

Eating Pizza While Writing a Poem:  A Prayer

by: Martin Achatz

The poet is the priest of the invisible

wrote Wallace Stevens, which doesn’t

surprise me because I hardly ever

understand the bastard’s poems

anyway, and I’m kicking myself

in the balls for starting this poem

with his words, and I’m also

kicking myself in the balls for

eating pizza while scribbling

in my journal because my fingers

are all greasy and spotting up

the page, plus I just dripped

tomato sauce, and it now looks 

like the paper is wounded. 

I guess I’m trying to tell you

to order Mexican or Thai 

for dinner next time. 

A-fucking-men.

August 16, 2025: "Physics," Anniversary Party, "Purple Haze"

When do you officially become an adulthood?  When you turn 18?  Or graduate from high school?  Or college?  Perhaps, when you get your first full-time job?  Or get married?  Have kids?  

There isn’t really any kind of clear cut, bar mitzvah-type ritual to mark the transition.

Sharon Olds reflects on what it means to grow up . . . 

Physics

by: Sharon Olds

Her first puzzle had three pieces,

she'd take the last piece, and turn it,

and lower it in, like a sewer-lid,

flush with the street.  The bases of the frames were like

wooden fur, guard-hairs sticking out

of the pelt.  I'd set one on the floor and spread

the pieces around it.  It makes me

groan to think of Red Riding Hood's hood,

a single, scarlet, pointed piece, how

long since I have seen her.  Later, panthers,

500 pieces, and an Annunciation,

1000 pieces, we would gaze, on our elbows,

into its gaps.  Now she tells me

that if I were sitting in a twenty-foot barn,

with the doors open at either end,

and a fifty-foot ladder hurtled through the barn

at the speed of light, there would be a moment

--after the last rung was inside the barn

and before the first rung came out the other end--

when the whole fifty-foot ladder would be

inside the twenty-foot barn, and I believe her,

I have thought her life was inside my life

like that.  When she reads the college catalogues, I

look away and hum.  I have not grown

up yet, I have lived as my daughter's mother

the way I had lived as my mother's daughter,

inside her life.  I have not been born yet.

Olds’ point is simple:  it doesn’t matter if you’re eight of 80 years old, you will always feel like you’re still in kindergarten, learning your days of the week and ABCs.  

I’ve gone through most of the milestones that symbolize matriculation into adulthood—graduations, marriage, fatherhood, jobs, and careers.  Yet, I still feel like I’m that gangly, awkward 17-year-old who got his high school diploma so long ago.  Despite everything  I’ve done and all the lessons I’ve learned, when I look in the mirror, I see still a spoiled brat of a little brother.  

For most of my so-called adult life, I’ve had a partner in crime—my beautiful wife.  We met when she was in high school and I was directing summer youth theater.  (I believe it was a production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.). It may have been love at first sight.  That summer, she consumed me.  Five years later, we got married on a windy, cold October day.

I’m not gonna lie—it hasn’t all been smooth sailing.  My wife and I have had our fair share of ups and downs.  Some of those downs were almost marriage-ending.  But, here we are, going on 30 years of messy wedded bliss.  We have a daughter who’s in medical school and a son who’s a senior in high school.  So my wife and I must have done something right, even if we both still feel like clueless teens.

Perhaps that’s the secret of staying youthful—not losing that connection with your weird younger self.  Tonight, my wife and I attended an anniversary party for a couple we’ve known for close to 35 years.  They are, quite simply, two of the best human beings I know.  Compassionate.  Kind.  Loving.  Generous.  Sweet.  Accepting.  There really aren’t enough superlatives for this man and woman.

Something magical happened at the party.  I was surrounded by people I’ve known since my grad school days.  Yes, we all have a few more miles under our belts, and our hair has turned a little grayer (if it’s present at all).  But it felt like we were twenty-somethings again, our eyes filled with dreams and hopes.  I swear, it was as if those 30-plus years melted away, and we were all itching to save the world.

When the dancing started, all the couples (young, old, married, single, gay, straight) got out and swayed to James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”  At that moment, we were all newlyweds, looking with newborn eyes at a world fresh and bright.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for his friends today, based on the following prompt from August 15 of The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1969, the Woodstock Music and Art Festival opened.  Listen to the music of Janis Joplin; Jimi Hendrix; the Grateful Dead; Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young; Joe Cocker; Joan Baez; or any of the other performers who appeared that weekend and write a poem inspired by one (or several) of their songs.  If you are unable to listen to their music today, write a poem about a concert you've attended.

Purple Haze

by: Martin Achatz

for Jonathan and Amy on 30 (plus one) years

I read a story about a couple
who met at Woodstock going on
60 years ago. Her car broke down
on the way to the farm, and he
pulled his Volkswagen Beetle over
to give her a lift. They spent
those three days together in mud
while Hendrix shredded the country
with his fingers and Joplin spat
out a little piece of her heart onstage.
And this reminds me that love
can be found by just sticking
your thumb out on a busy
road and not being afraid
to climb into a weed-soaked
backseat to get where you want
to go. Yes, the Vietnam War
was still bleeding on and Tricky
Dick was still in the White House
and the students at Kent were safe
for another year, but if there’s
enough room in the sleeping
bag, you can save the world
by those tiny acts you commit
in the dark with someone you just
met who wants to play your
body like a Fender Stratocaster
until you kiss the sky.

August 13, 2025: “41, Alone, No Gerbil,” Meteor Magic, “My Son and I Watch for Perseids”

Some days are magical.  Other days, you have to hunt down that magic.

As a poet, I’m constantly on the lookout for magical, poetical moments.  They don’t have to be huge.  I can put myself in a state of nirvana simply by eating a homemade chocolate chip cookie.  That’s the mistake most people make.  They think magic has to make elephants disappear into thin air.  Really, magic is a cold drink of water, a favorite song on the radio, or a phone call from an old friend.  It can be that simple.

Sharon Olds reflects on the magic of childbirth and rearing . . . 

41, Alone, No Gerbil

by: Sharon Olds

In the strange quiet, I realize
there's no one else in the house. No bucktooth
mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
hairy mammal runs on a treadmill—
Charlie is dead, the last of our children's half-children.
When our daughter found him lying in the shavings, trans-
mogrified backwards from a living body
into a bolt of rodent bread
she turned her back on early motherhood
and went on single, with nothing. Crackers,
Fluffy, Pretzel, Biscuit, Charlie,
buried on the old farm we bought
where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it
and it sucks. Creatures she loved, mobile and
needy, have gone down stiff and indifferent,
she will not adopt again though she cannot
have children yet, her body is like
a blueprint for a woman's body,
so now everything stops, for a while,
now I must wait many years
to hear in this house again the faint
powerful call of a young animal.

Yes, it’s even magic when a young person learns hard lessons about death and suffering and loss.  A pet gerbil or goldfish dies, and, abracadabra!, the young person understands a little more how the universe works and is a little closer to adulthood.  (For the record, I’m not sure losing childlike wonder is a good thing.)

It was a long, difficult day at work.  The details are inconsequential.  Let’s just say that there are people on this planet who are born to be pebbles in shoes.  They remind you about the importance of patience and empathy.  I had a pebble in my shoe almost all day long, and no magician was around to make it vanish.

I think I’m a better person after dealing with difficult people because it forces me to set aside personal biases and angers.  Become more saintly.  But I have to learn this lesson over and over and over and over.  I have a very thick, stubborn head.  Change is hard, no matter what.

Pebble or not, I survived the day, with no irreparable scars or psychological trauma.  And I did a little magic hunting with my son tonight.  It’s peak Perseid meteor shower time, with around 50 to 100 meteors per hour zooming through the heavens.  I found myself around 11 p.m. in my backyard, waiting to see the universe pull a rabbit out of its hat.  And it was, well, magical—not so much the actual meteors, but the time we spent together in common pursuit of dazzlement.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a magic moment, based on the following August 12 prompt from The Daily Poet:

We are in the middle of the Perseid meteor shower.  Write a poem that includes a celestial event and features an explosion or some sort of light show in the middle of the poem.  For extra credit, bring your pen, paper, and flashlight outside and write a poem beneath the Perseid meteor shower.

My Son and I Watch for Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

Jesus, my son can be

a crab ass when I wake

him up too early or

from a nap.  Tonight,

I yelled up the stairs

to his bedroom

Do you want to see

some meteors?

He yelled back What?

I yelled Meteors!

again, and I heard

him sigh like

that sick Stegosaurus

in Jurassic Park.

He stepped heavy

as he descended,

each foot filled with

with extra gravity.

We stood in our

backyard in coma

darkness, necks craned

up at the dim stars.

The moon was bloody

with Canadian wildfires,

a clot in the heavens.  

I knew I had

very little time

to produce a Perseid

for my son to see,

and I patted

my pajama pockets,

as if I had one

saved for emergencies

on my person,

the way my mom

always had Kleenexes

in her purse.

I located Ursa

Major, Cygnus, pointed

them out to my

son, who nodded,

grunted.  I raised 

my voice like Bob

Barker announcing

a new car, pointed

to other constellations,

then planets, feeling

my desperation grow

each second like

a radioactive mushroom.

And then

a filament of fire

streaked across

the sky, and 

I see it, I see it!

my son shouted,

all pretext of teenage

boredom scrubbed

from his voice.

Did you see it?

he asked.  I nodded,

I saw it.  He spun

in all directions,

drunk with meteor,

and, like all good

drunks, wanting

another one

and another

and another

and another

and another

and another,

until the entire

bottle is empty.

August 11, 2025: “Bathing the New Born,” Good and Bad, “Radioactive Wasp Nests Have Been Found Near Former Nuclear Weapons Production Site”

I woke up today, and everything was great.

Then I got out of bed and went to work.

Two simple, declarative sentences that pretty much sums up my day.

Sharon Olds writes about a good moment in her day . . . 

Bathing the New Born

by: Sharon Olds

I love with an almost fearful love
to remember the first baths I gave him,
our second child, so I know what to do,
I laid the little torso along
my left forearm, nape of the neck
in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as
small as a least tern's tail
against my wrist, thigh held loosely
in the loop of thumb and forefinger, the
sign that means exactly right. I'd soap him,
the violet, cold feet, the scrotum 

wrinkled as a waved whelk, the chest,
hands, clavicles, throat, gummy
furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he'd
slide in my grip like an armful of buttered
noodles, but I'd hold him not too tight,
I felt that I was good for him,
I'd tell him about his wonderful body
and the wonderful soap, and he'd look up at me,
one week old, his eyes still wide
and apprehensive. I love that time
when you croon and croon to them, you can see
the calm slowly entering them, you can
sense it in your clasping hand,
the loose spine relaxing against
the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear
leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue
oval plastic baby tub and
looked at me in wonder and began to
move his silky limbs at will in the water.

Giving a newborn a bath constitutes a pretty good moment.  You simply can’t be angry or sad when something so fragile and tiny is smiling up at you in toothless delight.  That’s Olds’ point.  Those first baths are filled with grace and blessing.

I did experience a blessing today.  I learned a wonderful writer friend of mine was chosen as Writer of the Year for the 2025 Marquette Art Awards.  She’s simply a force of nature and art and poetry and prose.  She’s also one of the most generous, modest individuals you’ll ever meet.  I’ve known her for many years, and she has lifted me up in some very dark times.  I’m absolutely thrilled she’s being recognized.

That’s the good thing.

My wife sent me a text around noon today.  It basically said:  “You know how lucky we are?  Our daughter is smart and funny, our son is smart and caring (when not crabby).  We both have jobs and food on the table and a roof over our heads.  We are so blessed.”

That's the second good thing.

The rest of the afternoon was fairly uneventful.  I had a lot of busy work to get done, but it was painless.  It was when I picked up my wife from work that things took a turn.

As my wife got into the car, she said to me, “I have some bad news.”

I put the car in park and said, “Okay.”

“I got let go today,” she said.

“What?!”

“The company that bought the business is using a remote call center,” she said, “so they involuntarily terminated me.”

Now, you may recall that my wife left her other job five months ago to accept her current position.  She was excited, loved her coworkers, and enjoyed what she did.  But, as we all know, corporate America doesn’t really care about all that.  (If there’s one thing the current administration in the White House has taught us, it’s that large business enterprises only worry about making money and saving money.  Saving money usually involves downsizing, layoffs, and firings.  AI has only made this worse.)

That’s bad thing number one.

When we got home, my wife and I discussed our next steps.  Over the past year, we have been diligently stashing money away for emergencies.  We’d accumulated close to $1500.  I went to count how much money we actually had, and I found the envelope almost completely depleted.  There was about $148 left.  That’s it.

We have no idea what happened to the cash, although we have our suspicions.  Nothing that we will ever be able to prove, however.  We could file a police report, but we have no evidence, aside from a mostly empty envelope.  It’s a complicated situation, and I can’t really say more than that.

I was upset.  My wife was upset.  Our son was upset.  Part of the reason we started the fund was to finance a family vacation next summer after our son graduates from high school.  That possibility has become less possible now.

That’s bad thing number two.

So, the plan is to start rebuilding.  My wife is going to file for unemployment and begin looking for another job.  I’m going to start booking more readings.  And we’re all going to have to live more frugally, at least until my wife lands a new position.

I don’t know what I did to piss off God, but I sure had a few choice words for Him this evening, most of them expletives.  It’s going to take some time before things are on an even keel again.

Good and bad go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Find a newspaper or go to your favorite Internet news source and write a poem inspired from one of the headlines. For extra credit, choose a headline about something specific and write a poem that has little to do with that topic.

Radioactive Wasp Nests Have Been Found

Near Former Nuclear Weapons Production Site*

by: Martin Achatz

On days like today,

I wonder what

I’ve done

to deserve 

what happened.

Maybe I watched 

too much porn

when I was

younger, or maybe

pissed off 

some undercover

angel dressed like

a radioactive wasp,

or maybe

the smoke 

from Canadian 

wildfires is so

thick the miracles

that almighty bastard

upstairs sent my way

got lost, ended

up falling

on the head 

of a drunk

at a racetrack

who hit it

big on a 50 to 1

long shot, took

his winnings

back home, 

and drank himself

to death.

At least

the fucker died

happy, with enough

cash stuffed 

under his mattress

to pay for a funeral

and a nice

marble headstone.

* headline from abcnews.go.com

August 10, 2025: “May 1968,” Home Again, “Spending Time with My Daughter the Weekend Before She Starts Med School”

There are moments in your life you know will change you completely.  Sometimes those moments are pretty obvious—graduations, weddings, births.  Other times, they take you by surprise—a serious diagnosis, sudden loss, unexpected death of a loved one.  

Sharon Olds has one of those moments . . . 

May 1968

by: Sharon Olds

When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off—above them, the sky,
the night air, over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop's
shoe, the gelding's belly, its genitals—
if they took me to Women's Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers—I gazed into the horse's tail
like a comet-train. I’d been thinking I might
get arrested, I had been half-wanting
to give myself away. On the tar—
one brain in my head, another
in the making, near the base of my tail—
I looked at the steel arc of the horse's
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop's
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I'll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse's heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter.

There’s a lot going on in this tiny moment Olds describes.  A student protest.  Hostile police.  Horses.  Possible arrest.  An unplanned pregnancy.  Whatever happens, the speaker of the poem is never going to be the same again.

I am home again after attending my daughter’s white coat ceremony and spending time with her and her significant other.  This morning, we had breakfast with them at IHOP, and then we packed up and hit the road.  

Now, that sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it?  It doesn’t really touch upon how I felt like a piece of myself was dying as I drove away from my daughter who was standing outside her apartment, waving at us.  Or how I would just start crying occasionally as the miles between us increased.  Or all the government vehicles at Mackinaw City (where we stopped for fudge)—ICE and/or Border Control.  Or how moody my 16-year-old son was because he doesn’t really know how to deal with his big emotions.  Or the emptiness of being home again, knowing that my daughter is six hours and a new life away.

It’s a big moment of change.  Our lives will never be the same again.  My daughter is pursuing her dream, and I’m doing my damndest to support her in any way I can.  Yet, another part of me mourns for my little girl in pigtails.  That’s where I’m stuck, and I think I’m going to be stuck for a while.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about this big moment, based on the following prompt from August 9 of The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1854, Henry David Thoreau published Walden.  Write a poem that uses the names of two regional trees in your area and two types of flowers or ground over.  Have the poem begin in an urban environment and end in a wooded setting.  For extra credit, include a name of a regional bird, shrub, and amphibian.

Spending Time with My Daughter

     the Weekend Before She Starts Med School

by: Martin Achatz

A good friend of mine sees

the world we live in

as a shitty place, filled 

with Hitlers, Stalins, Trumps.

We exchange text messages

about the ash we’re leaving

for our children to

inherit, we even use

the word apocalypse.

I think we’ve both read

way too much Bukowski.

This weekend before, I am

surrounded by asphalt

and buildings and heat,

progress some people

would call it.  I’ve toured

campus, been surrounded

by young people with 

faces bright as ripe

apples, my daughter

one of them.  All are

living in the future

right now, time travelers

who see themselves

not as “I am”

but “I will.”

For me, an old man

more than halfway

through his “I am,”

I drink their optimism

like gin and tonic

on a 100-degree day,

bitter and sweet.

When I hug

my daughter goodbye

tomorrow, head home

over hundreds 

of blacktop miles

(more evidence of our

misguided progress), 

I will take

her spirit with me

like a shiny penny

in my pants pocket.

I will cross

the Mackinac Bridge

into a place

that’s been stubborn

in its battle to survive,

a place my daughter

was born, full of

trembling aspen,

sugar maple and lupine,

butterfly weed and wild

turkeys, sweet gale,

and blue-spotted 

salamanders crossing

a paved road to

lay their eggs

near the waves

of vast, blue

waters.

August 8, 2025: “Adolescence,” White Coat Ceremony, “SpongeBob Gives My Daughter Advice When She Starts Medical School”

It has been a long, incredible day.

We all go through rites of passage as young people—kindergarten graduations, First Communions (if you’re Catholic), bar mitzvahs, high school graduations, first sexual encounters, weddings.  You get the idea.

Sharon Olds writes about a rite of passage . . .

Adolescence

by: Sharon Olds

When I think of my adolescence, I think

of the bathroom of that seedy hotel

in San Francisco, where my boyfriend would take me.

I had never seen a bathroom like that—

no curtains, no towels, no mirror, just

a sink green with grime and a toilet

yellow and rust-colored—like something in a science experiment,

growing the plague in bowls.

Sex was still a crime, then,

I’d sign out of my college dorm

to a false destination, sign into

the flophouse under a false name,

go down the hall to the one bathroom

and lock myself in.  And I could not learn to get that

diaphragm in, I’d decorate it

like a cake, with glistening spermicide,

and lean over, and it would leap from my fingers

and sail, into a corner, to land

in a concave depression like a rat’s nest,

I’d bend and pluck it out and wash it

and wash it down to that fragile dome,

I’d frost it again till it was shimmering

and bend it into its tensile arc and it would

fly through the air, rim humming 

like Saturn’s ring, I would bow down and crawl to retrieve it.

When I think of being eighteen,

that’s what I see, that brimmed disc

floating through the air and descending, I see myself

kneeling and reaching, reaching for my own life.

Olds’ poem isn’t a sex poem.  It’s a poem about a young woman figuring out who she is, what her values are.  She’s obviously aware that what she’s about to do is illegal (“Sex was still a crime . . .”), but she doesn’t care.  She’s a college student, and the world (and her diaphragm) is in the palm of her hand.  A rite of passage.

Today, my daughter had her white coat ceremony for medical school.  There are 104 students in her class.  That’s a lot of white coats.  My daughter looked radiant—this is something that she’s been thinking about for a long, long time.  (My sister, Sally, was a surgical nurse, so I know that medicine is in her blood.)  Did I shed some tears?  Of course.  Did I cry when I hugged her after the ceremony.  Of course.  Did I tell her she’s amazing?  Of course.

We went to Olive Garden for dinner (her choice).  She ordered the eggplant parmigiana, as did I.  She ordered an apple sangria, and I ordered the berry sangria.  At one point, she held my hand as we talked to each other.  It was perfect (and I don’t use that word very often, because nothing is perfect).

I’m now back at my hotel with my wife and son.  We’re all kind of whipped because of the day’s happenings.  My wife is sleeping, and my son is on his way.  The other thing about rites of passage:  they are emotionally and physically draining.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Think of a favorite cartoon character.  Write a poem where that character gives you some smart (or not so smart) advice.  For example, maybe Homer Simpson wants to discuss healthy eating.  Or Elmer Fudd wants to talk with you about gun safety.  It can be a cartoon character from your childhood, a movie, or a currently-airing show.

SpongeBob Gives My Daughter Advice

When She Starts Medical School

by: Martin Achatz

Now that you’re wearing that white

coat, I will impart to you

my secret sponge wisdom,

passed down from the Sponge Oracle

of Bikini Bottom:

First, if you can’t fall asleep,

eat a Krabby Patty.  If you still

can’t fall asleep, eat a Krabby Patty

with cheese.

Second, if you feel depressed,

eat a Krabby Patty.  If you’re still

sad afterward, eat a double Krabby Patty,

cheese optional.

Third, if you need to lose weight,

eat a low-carb Krabby Patty,

then go jellyfishing.  Or

skip the jellyfishing and just

eat a Krabby Patty with extra cheese.

Fourth, if you catch fin rot, anchor

worms, or hole-in-the-head,

take two Krabby Patties and call

me in the morning, if you’re still

alive.

Fifth, if you think you’re dying,

eat as many Krabby Patties as you

want.  It doesn’t matter.

Sixth, a list of other things

a Krabby Patty can cure:  stonefish

syndrome, athlete’s tentacle, scale loss,

paranoia, panic attacks, pica,

pectorile dysfunction, guilt, killer comets,

hook-in-mouth disease, and

stiff pinky complex,

Seventh, remember the motto

of all med students: I’m ready,

I’m ready.

NOTE:  This message was sponsored 

by Eugene Harold Krabs.

August 7, 2025: “First,” Road Trip, “7 Reasons Why We Need Superman Right Now”

It has been a long week, and it’s only Thursday.  

However, my weekend started yesterday evening when I clocked out.  You see, my daughter has her “Class of 2029 White Coat Ceremony” for medical school tomorrow.  So, my wife, son, and I are on a little road trip right now.  We spent the day driving, checking into the hotel, having dinner with my daughter and her significant other, and soaking in the hot tub for a little while.  

It is a weekend of firsts—first stay at this hotel, first step on the road to becoming a doctor for my daughter, and first family orientation at a university for my family.  (My daughter did her undergraduate work at the university where I’ve been teaching for 30-plus years.  I figured we didn’t need any parent orientation that time because I already knew all the ins and outs of the place.). 

Sometimes, firsts are great and affirming.  They can also be overwhelming and scary.

Sharon Olds writes about one of her firsts . . . 

First

by: Sharon Olds

He stood in the sulphur baths, his calves

against the stone rim of the pool

where his half-full glass of scotch stood, his

shins wavering in the water, his torso

looming over me, huge, in the night,

a grown-up man’s body, softer and

warmer with the clothes off—I was a sophomore

at college, in the baths with a naked man,

a writer, married, a father, widowed,

remarried, separated, unreadable, and when I

said No, I was sorry, I couldn’t,

he’d invented this, rising and dripping

in the heavy sodium water, giving me

his body to suck.  I had not heard

of this, I was moved by his innocence and daring,

I went to him like a baby who’s been crying

for hours for milk.  He stood and moaned

and rocked his knees, I felt I knew 

what his body wanted me to do, like rubbing

my mother’s back, receiving directions

from her want into the nerves of my hands.

In the smell of the trees of seaweed rooted in

ocean trenches just offshore,

and the mineral liquid from inside the mountain,

I gave over to flesh like church music

until he drew out and held himself and

something flew past me like a fresh ghost.

We sank into the water and lay there, napes

on the rim.  I’ve never done that before,

I said.  He eyes not visible

to me, his voice muffled, he said, You’ve been

sucking cock since you were fourteen,

and fell asleep.  I stayed beside him

so he wouldn’t go under, he snored like my father, I

tried not to think about what he had said,

but then I saw, in it, the unmeant

gift—that I was good at this

raw mystery I liked.  I sat

and rocked, by myself, in the fog, in the smell

of kelp, night steam like animals’ breath,

there where the harsh granite and quartz dropped down

into and under the start of the western sea.

There is something powerful about experiencing something for the first time.  (Don’t worry.  This blog post is not going to be about my first blowjob.)  In Olds’ poem, the speaker’s encounter with this older married writer would never fly in current society.  The man holds a certain amount of power over the young, inexperienced sophomore, and, after she says “No,” he still seems to force her to perform oral sex.  It’s not clear whether the act is consensual, but Olds, the poet, does invest a certain amount of pride in the fact that she “was good at this raw / mystery [she] liked.”

As I said in my introduction to this post, I am currently sitting in a hotel room in downstate Michigan.  Had dinner and some quality time with my daughter and her boyfriend this evening—went out to eat (Pad Thai for me), watched some TV (Impractical Jokers—one of my son’s favorite shows), and laughed a lot.

I’m new at this visiting college parent thing, so this whole experience is a first for me (and my wife).  But, I will say that my daughter looked exhausted but happy tonight.  She told me stories about her orientation week so far and then said, “It’s overwhelming but exciting, too.”  She’s with peers who have similar educational trajectories.  They know what she’s gone through, and they all have similar goals.  (While I’ve been a college professor for a long time, I can’t claim to understand fully my daughter’s situation right now.  I wrote stories and poems in grad school; she’s saving lives.)

I will say this—my daughter is my hero.  She’s chasing her dream, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.  (By the way, that’s not the first time I’ve said that, but it IS the first time I’ve said it since my daughter started medical school.  That counts as a first.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem about a first, based on a prompt from The Daily Poet for August 6 . . . 

From the New York Times:  “On Aug. 6, 1945, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, that instantly killed an estimated 66,000 people in the first use of a nuclear weapon in warfare.”  Write a poem in memory of an event.  The event can either be a celebration or a tragedy.

7 Reasons Why We Need Superman Right Now

by: Martin Achatz

1.  Because most aliens on this planet are not criminals, just want to go to McDonald’s to get an M&M McFlurry.

2.  Because capes are back in style.

3.  Because truth and justice are endangered species, almost extinct in the continental United States, and the Smithsonian doesn’t have room for 185,000 migrants.

4.  Because if he catches a cold and sneezes, he could reverse global warming.

5.  Because eggs are too expensive, and we need to use his DNA to create a super chicken.

6.  Because all of our other heroes have been deported.

7.  Because we all need a Fortress of Solitude to hide our neighbors when the white vans roll down the street.

August 4, 2025: “Mrs. Krikorkian,” First Day, “Courage”

I got a text from my daughter’s significant other this morning.  It contained a picture of my daughter standing against a white wall, backpack on her shoulders, smiling nervously, with the message “first day of school picture!”  Even though she’s about 24 years past Head Start, I could still see my five-year-old little girl in her face, and it broke my heart a little bit.

Sharon Olds is helped by a teacher . . . 

Mrs. Kirkorian

by: Sharon Olds

She saved me. When I arrived in 6th grade,
a known criminal, the new teacher
asked me to stay after school the first day, she said
I’ve heard about you. She was a tall woman,
with a deep crevice between her breasts,
and a large, calm nose. She said,
This is a special library pass.
As soon as you finish your hour’s work—
that hour’s work that took ten minutes
and then the devil glanced into the room
and found me empty, a house standing open—
you can go to the library. Every hour
I’d zip through the work in a dash and slip out of my
seat as if out of God’s side and sail
down to the library, solo through the empty
powerful halls, flash my pass
and stroll over to the dictionary
to look up the most interesting word
I knew, spank, dipping two fingers
into the jar of library paste to
suck that tart mucilage as I
came to the page with the cocker spaniel’s
silks curling up like the fine steam of the body.
After spank, and breast, I’d move on
to Abe Lincoln and Helen Keller,
safe in their goodness till the bell, thanks
to Mrs. Krikorian, amiable giantess
with the kind eyes. When she asked me to write
a play, and direct it, and it was a flop, and I
hid in the coat-closet, she brought me a candy-cane
as you lay a peppermint on the tongue, and the worm
will come up out of the bowel to get it.
And so I was emptied of Lucifer
and filled with school glue and eros and
Amelia Earhart, saved by Mrs. Krikorian.
And who had saved Mrs. Krikorian?
When the Turks came across Armenia, who
slid her into the belly of a quilt, who
locked her in a chest, who mailed her to America?
And that one, who saved her, and that one—
who saved her, to save the one
who saved Mrs. Krikorian, who was
standing there on the sill of 6th grade, a
wide-hipped angel, smokey hair
standing up weightless all around her head?
I end up owing my soul to so many,
to the Armenian nation, one more soul someone
jammed behind a stove, drove
deep into a crack in a wall,
shoved under a bed. I would wake
up, in the morning, under my bed—not
knowing how I had got there—and lie
in the dusk, the dustballs beside my face
round and ashen, shining slightly
with the eerie comfort of what is neither good nor evil.

I’ve been a college professor for going on 30 years now.  Doing the math, that means I have taught well over 3,000 students.  That’s a lot of young minds for me to warp and confuse.  I’m not sure I made a difference in any student’s life, but I did my damndest.  

I believe in public education.  In fact, I believe every person deserves to go to school for free, including colleges and universities.  Having educated citizens benefits any country, unless the politicians want to take advantage of their constituents’ ignorance and fear.  (I’m not referring to any specific country, I swear.)  Education saved me from being a plumber—a fate that would have made me completely miserable.

Today was my daughter’s first day of med school classes.  When I spoke to her last night on the phone, she was incredibly nervous.  I did my Fathers Knows Best best to reassure her and calm her down.  I’m not sure I succeeded all that much.

My daughter has wanted to be a doctor almost her whole life.  She’s never wavered, from middle school to undergraduate college.  Me?  I became an English major after four years of math and computer programming classes.  I worked close to 25 years in the healthcare industry. Then COVID came along, and I decided on a change of career:  library programming.  Long story short, my daughter is smarter than me in a lot of ways.  She is going to make the world a better place, one patient at a time.  

I try to make the world a better place one blog post and poem at a time.  It’s up to you, faithful disciple, to decide whether I make any difference at all.  (By the way, my daughter just texted me.  She’s exhausted but had a great day.)

Saint Marty wrote a first-day-of-school poem for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about a drug that doesn’t exist.  Give it an abstract name like “Violence” or something unique like that”Milk Money.”  What does this drug do?  Is it more lexi in al or something more like LSD?  Is it sold legally or illegally?  Can this drug save the world or ruin it?  Begin the poem, That August . . .

Courage

by: Martin Achatz

This August morning, my daughter texts

me a picture of herself, smiling, backpack

slung over her shoulders, hair wavy

as lake sand.  First day of medical school

her caption reads.  I stare at my phone

screen a long time, at that face I know

better than the scars on my knuckles.

I scroll through my camera roll, find

her first-day-of-kindergarten picture.

I toggle back and forth between the two

images, watch her grow and shrink,

become older and younger with swipes

of my thumb, as if I’m flipping through

a picture book, animating my daughter

from age five to age 24, time-lapsed

like a seed stretching into a marigold.

I remember I made her take a Flintstones

vitamin, watched her chew and swallow

its bitter chalk, the morning she toddled into

Mrs. Edwards’ classroom the first time.

Today, I wish I could give her a Courage

vitamin, something made out of natural 

ingredients like cactus thorn or octopus

ink, to straighten her spine, melt away

layers of insomnia.  I’d flavor it

with butterscotch, to remind her

of the cookies I always made for

first days, so she had something

sweet to look forward to when she

got home.  I’m scared she told me

last night from six hours away, and 

I fought the urge to pick out her outfit,

braid her hair, and read her a bedtime story,

the one about the caterpillar that eats

the whole damn book, because it

isn’t afraid to taste anything,

anything at all.

August 3, 2025: “Killing My Sister’s Fish,” Regrets, “”My Dad Haunts a House Where Nobody Knows Him Now”

We all do things we regret, especially when we’re youngsters.  (Just typing the word “youngsters” makes me feel like I’m a fugitive from the cast of Cocoon.)  When you’re a kid, you don’t have common sense, and you do things that seem like a really good idea at the time.  Hence, the seemingly inevitable stories of high schoolers getting drunk and then trying to drive home with disastrous results.  

Sharon Olds writes about a bad decision she made as a young girl . . . 

Killing My Sister’s Fish

by: Sharon Olds

I picked up the bottle with its gladiator shoulders—

inside its shirred grayish plastic

the ammonia, more muscular than water, pungent—

I poured one dollop, gleaming genie,

into the bowl with my sister’s goldfish

just because they were alive, and she liked them.

It was in the basement, near the zinc-lined sinks

and the ironing board, next to the boiler,

beside the door to the cellar from which

I could get into the crawl space

under the corner of the house, and lie

on the dirt on my back, as if passed out.

I may have been on my way there

when I saw the bowl, and the ammonia curled

for a moment in the air like a spirit.  Then I crawled up

under the floor-joists, into the tangent

where the soiled curved up, and I lay there,

at the ends of the earth, as if without

regret, as if something set in motion

long before I had been conceived

had been accomplished.

I try not to dwell on regrets.  In fact, unlike Olds, I can’t think of much from my younger days that I look back on with shame.  (There are a few things, but I’m not going to go full-blown therapy session with this post.)  But I didn’t kill any fish intentionally.  (Notice the word “intentionally.”  I have had my fair share of accidental fish murders.)

Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about my daughter and son.  Tomorrow, my daughter has her first day of medical school.  This September, my son starts his senior year of high school.  Both of those facts make me feel a little outmoded, as if I’m an old iPhone and everyone wants the newest model.  

I’ve made tons of mistakes as a parent.  Any person who has raised a child (and is being completely honest) will admit to fucking up.  A lot.  It goes with the territory.  In case you haven’t noticed, children don’t come with user manuals or warranties.  You get one shot.  If you’re successful, your child will still talk to you as an adult.  If you’re a failure, your child will be talking to a licensed therapist as an adult.

On the whole, though, regrets are useless.  All they do is make you feel bad about something that you can’t change.  Yes, I’ve made mistakes with my kids.  I own those fuckups and have learned from them.  The sad thing is, just when I think I’m getting the hang of this father gig, my kids are growing up, and my wife and I will be empty nesters soon.

I’ve had arguments with my kids.  Yelled at them.  Cussed them out.  Guilted them.  I regret each of those moments.  But I’ve also cheered my kids on, comforted and celebrated them.  In the end, the celebrations outnumber the degradations.  That’s what matters.  More happiness than sadness.  More joy than sorrow.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about regrets today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Close your eyes and imagine yourself holding five things in your hand:  a person, a building, a weapon, and two other items of your choosing.  Write a poem that incorporates all five items.  For extra credit, use one item three times throughout the poem.

My Dad Haunts a House

     Where Nobody Knows Him Now

by: Martin Achatz

Dad used to plant tomatoes every spring,

lined the sidewalk to the front door

with them so that, come August,

visitors were greeted by orange and red

fireworks as they knocked or rang the bell.

There are no tomatoes at the old house

now, the new family who lives there

more interested in remodeling, tearing

out, installing, while Dad’s ghost watches

dandelions overtake the lawn and shakes

his spectral head.  He wishes he still had

his cane, the one he almost used on my skull

near the end of his life, him frustrated, 

diminished by the vacation his body was taking.

At night, Dad hovers over the boulder

at the bottom of the driveway, waving 

his candle flame arms in the dark, as if

he’s some kind of lighthouse guiding

cars safely home, that place where

everyone knows you and says

your name like an amen at the end

of a prayer.

August 1, 2025: “Japanese-American Farmhouse, California, 1942,” Juxtaposing, “August 31, 1997”

Okay, so I have been inconsistent in blogging recently.

I find trying to write daily posts has been challenging since President 47 took office.  You see, he throws so much shit at us every day that it’s difficult to know where to focus.  I know that’s his political strategy:  overwhelming his detractors.  It’s difficult watching the country in which you live just crumble to morally bankrupt cowards.

Yet, I write every day in my journal.  Or, at least I try to.  That saves my sanity a little bit.  However, juxtaposing my daily life with the horrors being wrought by President 47 and his followers on the poor and working class . . . well, let’s just say that my preoccupations seem almost trivial.  Thus, I haven’t been posting a whole lot.  It seems too self-indulgent.

Sharon Olds juxtaposes her birthday and a picture of a sewing machine . . .

Japanese-American Farmhouse,

California, 1942

by: Sharon Olds

Everything has been stolen that anyone
thought worth stealing. The stairs into the grass
are scattered with sycamore leaves curled
like ammonites in inland rock.
Wood shows through the paint on the frame
and the door is open--an empty room,
sunlight on the floor. All that is left
on the porch is the hollow cylinder
of an Albert's Quick Oats cardboard box
and a sewing machine. Its extraterrestrial
head is bowed, its scrolled neck
glistens. I was born, that day, near there,
in wartime, of ignorant people.

That’s life, isn’t it?  While a tragedy occurs in one place, a baby is born not far away.  Grief and joy within miles of each other.  Or, as Mary Oliver says, housed in the same body.

This week has sort of been up and down for me.  A juxtaposition of struggle and happiness.  Of course, nothing in the news is good, so I’m not even going to go near that.  Smoke from Canadian wildfires has been clinging to the Upper Peninsula all week long, making the air smell like ash and turning sunrises/sunsets into glorious orange skyscapes.  But, I also hosted some great concerts and author readings, including Michigan Secretary of State Jocelyn Benson.

In the space of four days, I hosted a total of six programs.  In case you’re wondering, that’s a lot.  Therefore, I took today off work.  I did have a dental procedure done in the morning.  Did practice music at three separate churches.  Met my good writer friend/colleague Matt for a couple beers.  Then picked up my wife at 5 p.m..

I’m ready for a quiet weekend.  Unfortunately, that’s not what I’m going to get.  I have to play three church services, mow my lawn, meet with my book club, and lead a poetry workshop.  (If you’re wondering, that’s pretty much describes every weekend for me.). 

But, juxtapose that with sleeping in tomorrow morning.  Going to a birthday party for a neighbor who’s turning 100 years old.  Spending quality time with my family.  Maybe watching a few episodes of Schitt’s Creek with my wife.  It’s going to be a pretty good couple days.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about juxtaposition, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:  

On this day in 1960, Chubby Checker released “The Twist” while on the same day in 1936, Adolf Hitler opened the 11th Olympic Games in Berlin.  Write a poem that takes two completely different events and juxtaposes them.  Find the similarities in the events and connect them in your poem.

August 31, 1997

by: Martin Achatz

Both a little tipsy driving home

from Mike and Tracy’s wedding

reception, my wife and I held

hands, listened to the radio,

some oldies station that was playing

Janis Joplin, if I remember right.  

We didn’t talk, just basked

in the smell of sweat and joy,

my shirt still damp from the last

dance, “Paradise by the Dashboard

Lights,” and a world away she

was dying/was already dead

while our newlywed friends

unlocked each other’s bodies,

held each other the way

she probably tried to hold

onto each breath she took

that night in that tunnel, somehow

knowing they would be her last

and wanting them to go on and

on because the world was just too

beautiful to leave without saying

to someone, My God, what’s happening?