October 26, 2025: “After Punishment Was Done with Me,” Painting Class, “A Perfect Place to Find Hope”

My wife and I have experienced an empty nest this weekend.  

As most of my faithful disciples know, my daughter now lives downstate to attend medical school.  My son left on Friday with two friends to drive to Detroit to see a J.I.D concert.  As I type these words, he is currently at the venue and is probably out of his mind with excitement.  (On a side note, he’s been inflicting J.I.D songs on my wife and me for about a month now as we drive him to and from school.  I expect it to get worse when he returns.)

Therefore, my wife and I have been alone in our house for three days now.  It has been eerily quiet, and, even though we didn’t express it aloud, I know that we’ve both missed my son screaming at his computer gaming friends all weekend.  Or coming downstairs from his bedroom to antagonize our puppy for a little while.

Sharon Olds writes about being abused as a child . . . 

After Punishment Was Done with Me

by: Sharon Olds

After punishment was done with me,
after I would put my clothes back on, I’d go
back to my room, close the door,
and wander around, ending up
on the floor sometimes, always, near the baseboard,
where the vertical fall of the wall meets
the level rule of the floor—I would put
my face near that angle, and look at the dust
and anything caught in the dust. I would see
the wedding swags of old-lady-hair—
pelmets carved on cenotaph granite—and
cocoons of slough like tiny Kotexes
wound and wound in toilet paper,
I would see the anonymous crowds of grit, as if
looking down into Piazza Navona
from a mile above Il Duce, I would see
a larval casing waisted in gold
thin as the poorest gold wedding band,
and a wasp’s dried thorax and legs wound love-ring
with a pubic hair of my mother’s, I would see
the coral-maroon of the ladybug’s back
marked with its two, night genes,
I would see a fly curled up, dried,
its wings like the rabbit’s ears, or the deer’s.
I would lie quiet and look at them,
it was so peaceful there with them,
I was not at all afraid of them,
and my sadness for them didn’t matter.
I would look at each piece of lint
and half imagine being it,
I would feel that I was looking at
the universe from a great distance.

Sometimes I’d pick up a Dresden fly
and gaze at it closely, sometimes I’d idly play
house with the miniature world, weddings and
funerals with barbed body parts,
awful births, but I did not want
to disarrange that unerring deadness
like a kind of goodness, corner of wetless
grey waste, nothing the human
would go for. Without desire or rage
I would watch that dust celestium as the pain
on my matter died and turned to spirit
and wandered the cloud world of home,
the ashes of the earth.

I don’t believe in corporal punishment.  Never have.  Hitting children to make them behave doesn’t work.  It just scares the shit out of them, or, as in Olds' case, turns them into a poet.

As parents, I have pretty much always been the disciplinarian.  When a bad guy was needed, I was the bad guy.  It wasn't a role I relished.  It's a lot easier simply to give into children's demands than to say "no" and endure temper tantrums.  Our kids quickly learned that Mommy was a soft touch.  (Mommy is also the one who can talk Dad out of throwing children off cliffs.)

So, what did the disciplinarian and the soft touch do on their first empty nest weekend?  We attended a painting class at a local Lutheran church.  An entire hall full of wannabe Bob Rosses spent a couple hours painting scenes of the northern lights.  I didn't think I was going to enjoy myself that much, but my wife really wanted to do it.

Confession:  I really had a good time.  I've been a Bob Ross fan since my high school days, so painting happy little trees and making happy little accidents was something I've been training for my whole life.  

Now, I'm not going to turn into Grandpa Moses when I retire.  The painting I created today may be the only one I ever do.  One of a kind--step right up and make me an offer!  However, I loved getting out of my comfort zone and trying something new.  

When my son returns tomorrow, he's probably going to make fun of my painting.  That's okay.  Teenagers are supposed to be embarrassed by their parents.  It's in the owner's manual.  And perhaps I've found a new, non-violent way to punish my son:  make him paint with me.

Saint Marty wrote a poem based on a painter, based on a poetry prompt from October 25 in The Daily Poet:

Today is the birthday of Pablo Picasso, born in 1881.  To celebrate Picasso's abstract artwork, write a poem about something abstract (love, kindness, hared, soul, afterlife, etc.) using very concrete images, visual elements, and colors.  Or ask yourself:  If your poem were a Picasso painting, what would it look like?

A Perfect Place to Find Hope

by: Martin Achatz

It's difficult to find hope these days,

you have to look hard, be poet-

attentive all the time for those tiny

miracles that make the heart melt

like cotton candy on your tongue.

I will tell you I found hope

on a walk with my dog today

in the snorts she make as she mined

a pile of gold maple leaves with 

her snout.  And I should mention

the blue of the sky--it took me back

to a bay on Oahu where I couldn't 

tell where ocean ended and heaven

began.  Oh, and that autumn smell

of everything returning to soil,

a funk of leaf rot and wood smoke 

and sweet exhaust from a neighbor's

dryer vent.  I was there, this thing

precious as clean water.  I stood

there, let myself become a part

of it, because hope isn't just a thing

with feathers.  It is a fulcrum

that can lever the world toward joy.

July 29: "The Centrifuge," Wonder, Wow Poems

Billy Collins writes a poem for physicists . . .

The Centrifuge

by: Billy Collins

It is difficult to describe what we felt

after we paid the admission,

entered the aluminum dome,

and stood there with out mouths open

before the machine itself,

what we had only read about in the papers.

Huge and glistening it was

but bolted down and giving nothing away.

What did it mean?

we all openly wondered,

and did another machine exist somewhere else--

an even mightier one--

that was designed to be its exact opposite?

These were not new questions,

but we asked them earnestly and repeatedly.

Later, when we were home again--

a family of six having tea--

we raised these questions once more,

knowing that this made us part

of a great historical discussion

that included science

as well as literature and the weather

not to mention the lodger downstairs,

who, someone said,

had been seen earlier leaving the house

with a suitcase and a tightly furled umbrella.

Wonder comes in many shapes and sizes.  Collins' poem is about visiting a humanmade wonder--a centrifuge housed in a huge aluminum dome.  Of course, anything created by humankind can be distorted and abused in the name of progress.  Splitting the atom was an amazing feat, unlocking all kinds of scientific possibilities.  Unfortunately, it also led to the Cold War and nuclear arms race.  See what I mean?

Today, I went for a hike with some artists and writers.  My good friend, poet Cindy Hunter Morgan, is in town to do a poetry reading and lead writing workshop at the library.  So, we decided to head out to Dead River Falls for a little exercise and sightseeing.  Basically, we were on the hunt for some natural wonders.

It was in the low 90s for temperatures, and the forest was so green it almost hurt to look at it.  The Dead River was running strong, and insects were chewing the air with buzzing.  The path we followed was a little challenging at times, but nobody in our hiking party fell or got injured, including an 85-year-old poet friend who put us all to shame, climbing the rocks and roots like Edmund Hillary on the slopes of Everest.  

And we encountered wonders--beautiful vistas of churning waters and lush evergreens, huge knuckles of tree roots, striated stones slick with mist and foam.  It took my breath away and made me want to sit down and write some poetry.  I could imagine Bob Ross setting up his easel on the banks of the Dead River and painting some happy little accidents.

That is the reason I'm a poet.  I'm addicted to wonder.  Yes, I know the science behind ecosystems, how tannins turn water brown and hematite mottles rocks and boulders.  But, first and foremost, it's all about looking at things wide-eyed, not searching for explanations all the time.  Poems express a lot of emotions and ideas, but the poems I love the most are "wow" poems--ones that capture amazement, awe, and wonder.

Saint Marty had a lot of "wow" moments today.

January 7: "The Mohawk Diner, 3 AM," Carrot Cake, Time of Retreat

Billy Collins being (un)observant . . . 

The Mohawk Diner, 3 AM

by:  Billy Collins

Has that revolving cake stand

always been there

or did some men install it

while you and I sat here

at the counter not saying anything?

It is pretty damn easy to be completely oblivious to the world.  Most people go through life with tunnel vision:  focused only on what personally affects them.  The revolving cake stand didn't really interest Collins when he got to the Mohawk Diner, so he ignored it.  For some reason, he suddenly became aware of the stand, perhaps because it held a piece of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting (his favorite).  Presto!  A revolving cake stand materializes before his eyes.

On this, the last day of my vacation and hermithood, I already feel the squeeze of tomorrow.  I will no longer be able to ignore completely the world, as much as I'd like to.  And today seemed like a prelude for what I'm going to encounter this coming week.  I played two church services, shopped for groceries, cleaned and straightened the house, cooked a spinach/artichoke bomb, hosted my book club's monthly meeting/dinner, and then led an online poetry workshop.

Now, I thoroughly enjoyed my time of retreat.  My mind needed the rest.  So did my body.  Today reminded me of how busy my hour-to-hour (sometimes minute-to-minute) existence really is.  I just sat down on my couch after the poetry workshop.  All the lights in the house, save the Christmas tree, are turned off.  As I stare at the ceiling, I'm slipping slowly into madness,  (That's an allusion to Jim Carrey as The Grinch, in case you didn't catch it.)

I'm going to need to conserve my peopling energy this week because I don't even want to be around myself.  Sometimes, I think authors like J. D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon got it right.  Become successful, then disappear from the world, leaving everyone puzzled and hungry for more.  If, or when, another J. D. Salinger book appears, it will be an literary event akin to Harper Lee publishing another novel.  (Of course, Lee's Go Set a Watchman was terrible and sort of soiled her reputation.  She should have stopped at To Kill a Mockingbird.)  

I will be back, full-time, at life tomorrow morning.  If you run into me, tread lightly.  I may just grunt or nod at you.  Possibly smile, depending on how things are going.  Above all else, know that, if I'm acting stand-offish and/or antisocial, it's not you.  It's me.  Give me time and space while I get in touch with my inner extrovert.  (Yes, that's a thing.)

In the mean time, enjoy this pine tree that materialized in front of Saint Marty this morning.  Tall.  Dusted with winter.  Alone under a blue, blue sky.  A happy, little tree, as Bob Ross said.

August 29: "Water Snake," Book of Genesis, Bob Ross

Mary Oliver encounters a serpent . . .

Water Snake

by:  Mary Oliver

I saw him

in a dry place

on a hot day,

a traveler

making his way

from one pond

to another,

and he lifted up

his chary face

and looked at me

with his gravel eyes,

and the feather of his tongue

shot in and out

of his otherwise clamped mouth,

and I stopped on the path

to give him room,

and he went past me

with his head high,

loathing me, I think,

for my long legs,

my poor body, like a post,

my many fingers,

for he didn't linger

but, touching the other side of the path,

he headed, in long lunges and quick heaves,

straight to the nearest basin

of sweet black water and weeds,

and solitude--

like an old sword

that suddenly picked itself up and went off,

swinging, swinging

through the green leaves.

Oliver doesn't seem to be afraid of the snake.  She gives it wide berth, but there is also a certain admiration in the way she describes its gravel eyes and feather tongue.  There's beauty in its lunges and heaves as it searches for black water.  It makes me think of the serpent in the Biblical book of Genesis, cunning and charismatic enough to convince Eve and Adam to eat the fruit.

Think about it.  If the serpent in Genesis was frightening or repulsive in any way, Eve probably wouldn't have listened to it, and we would all be skinny dipping in the Garden of Eden right now.  Instead, Eve lets the forked feather of its tongue lead her astray, and the rest, as they say, is history, if you're literal-minded, or myth, if you're a poet.

Of course, I'm a poet.  I'm supposed to spend my days looking for moments of beauty and peace and grace.  However, it doesn't always work that way for me.  Most days, I'm too busy or tired to go hunting for wonder.  Today, for instance, I taught at the university and hosted a blues concert at the library in the evening.  The musicians were friends of mine, and their music, a wonderful gift.  

On my way home, I stopped at a grocery store to purchase some Diet Coke and snacks for my son.

As I was walking into the store with my wife, I looked up into the sky.  Most of the day had been dreary and cold, with lots of gray clouds and mist.  Tonight, the clouds were dusted pink, as if the ghost of Bob Ross had brushed them with a little Alizarin Crimson and Titanium White to make them happier.  More than likely, it was simply the setting sun causing the effect, but I like to imagine Bob Ross as God with an afro, making the whole universe and everything in it just a little happier.

That was my Mary moment today.  A sky gilded with color.

Anything can be beautiful, as long as you have the right paints and attitude.

Saint Marty gives thanks for snakes and Bob Ross tonight.

April 24: Lose a Minute, Bob Ross, Chapbook

You could tell he wasn't tired at all, though.  He was pretty oiled up, for one thing.  "I think that one of these days," he said, "you're going to have to find out where you want to go.  And then you've got to start going there.  But immediately.  You can't afford to lose a minute.  Not you."

Mr. Antolini is the speaker; Holden is the listener.  Well, actually, Holden is too tired to listen, and Mr. Antolini is too drunk to notice this fact.  But Antolini's advice is very sound.  If you know where you want to go, don't waste any time.  Get on the road.

I have been worrying, complaining, rhapsodizing about the chapbook of poems I recently compiled.  I gave it to a poet friend of mine last week to get his opinion and advice.  I have until May 1 to get the book in the mail to the chapbook contest I'm entering.  Last night, I received my friend's feedback, and it was really positive.  Surprisingly positive, because I didn't think the manuscript held together that well.  Now I have to do a little rewriting, which is happy work for me.  I love this part of the writing process.  I picture myself as Bob Ross taking my brush and adding a few trees to my painting.

I haven't been really good about submitting my work for publication.  That has to change if I ever hope to get a full-time job at the university.  I have to make myself so attractive as a writer and instructor that they simply won't want to lose me.  I need to publish a new book of poems.  Better yet, I need to publish a couple new books of poems.  If I don't, I'm consigning myself to permanent part-timehood.

I know where I want to go.  Now I have to pick up a pen and start writing my way there.  I want to publish a new book.  I want to win this chapbook contest.  (The $1000 prize would come in handy, as well.)  I want to be a full-time professor.  With the changes coming in the not-too-distant future with my hospital job, I don't have much time to get these things accomplished.  The clock is ticking.

Saint Marty has some revising to do.  He has to make some happy little clouds in his sky.

or some happy little waves...