March 21, 2026: “Jack and the Moon,” Daughter’s Visit, “Playing Fetch with a Ghost”

Well, it has been about one week since the blizzard hit.  We’ve had a couple sunny days to melt some of the snow.  The banks are definitely not as tall as they were on Tuesday.  My driveway is down to bare concrete in places.

My daughter and her significant other drove up from Mount Pleasant for a visit this past Wednesday.  They just left for their return trip about a half hour ago.  Of course there were tears (on my and my son’s part).  Of course our puppy is going to miss them terribly; my daughter has had a special connection with her since we brought her home.  Sometimes I’m not sure who my daughter is more excited to see during visits—us or our mini Australian shepherd.

Marie Howe writes about her puppy . . . 

Jack and the Moon

by: Marie Howe

After driving home through the forest,

I curled into bed to sleep, but Jack wouldn’t let me.

He whined and barked—high-pitched barks I’d not heard before.

No, I said, from under the blanket.  No.

Still , he barked and paced and paced and barked.  No Jack!

Then yelped strange high yelps, followed by low growls, as if he might,

by the mere scope and scale of his pleading, persuade me, 

until I did finally throw off the covers and open the front door

through which he hurried, not to sniff or pee, but to sit on the lawn,

his back to me, a small white dog facing the moon

lit by light so bright I could have read these words within it.

And when I went to fetch him, he scooted farther away to sit

tucked into himself, gazing into the flooded distance.

A very cold night—I stood a while at the open door—calling Jack!

Jack come, come now! (willful, stubborn dog!)

And when he didn’t come, I curled on the couch,

wrapped in a shawl and dozed for I don’t know how long . . . 

then woke, went again to the door and said quietly, Jack.

It was then he turned and came in, cold and calm, soaked with the moon.

For most of my kids’ childhoods, we did not have a dog.  Up until the time my daughter was a one-year-old, we did have a crazy cocker spaniel named Nick.  I use the crazy “crazy” with intention.  Nick was highly protective.  He didn’t like strangers, and, I think, when we brought our newborn home from the hospital, he saw her as a stranger. I could almost see what he was thinking as he sniffed and nosed our daughter:  What is this strange-smelling thing?  Why is dad holding her instead of playing ball with me?  

When our daughter began to walk, my wife and I made the difficult decision to re-home Nick.  It’s not that we didn’t love him anymore.  I just had a vision of our daughter toddling after him and him not liking it too much.  (My hands still bear scars from Nick biting me when I took shoes or food out of his jaws.). We didn’t want to chance our little girl becoming a chew toy for Nick.

I was the most attached to our cocker spaniel.  When I was living downstate by myself, attending graduate school, Nick was my companion.  He sat in my lap while I studied, slept at the foot of my bed.  We went for walks and runs.  I was lonely, and he made me less lonely.  

He would also steal pizza from my plate.  Chew up new shoes.  Bark at the sounds my neighbor made in the apartment next door.  Once, a lady from the Methodist church I attended stopped by with a homemade apple pie as a welcome gift.  Nick barked and snarled so loudly that she wouldn’t come into the house.

So, you can see why we had to re-home our little cocker spaniel.  It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.  For weeks after, I had nightmares of Nick sitting in an empty cage, whining and moaning for me to come save him.  I felt that guilt for years.

That’s why I refused to get another dog, even when my daughter and son begged me for one.  Only when my daughter was in college and son in middle school did I relent, and it was one of the best decisions of my life.  Our current canine is the most loving dog I’ve ever met.  Docile.  Submissive.  Sweet.  She quickly became everyone’s favorite family member.

Tonight, as I’m sitting on the couch writing or watching TV, our puppy will jump up next to me.  I will scratch her ears and belly, and I know I’ll still be able to smell my daughter’s shampoo or perfume on her.  She’ll carry my daughter’s scent around all next week.  When it starts to wear off, our puppy will go into the bedroom where our daughter slept and roll around on the bed to drive the smell into her hair and pores again.

Our dog is young; she’s going to be with us for many years to come, and that fills me with hope and happiness.  She’s not going to graduate from college and move out.  Or get a job in another city or state or country.  She won’t fall in love with her high school sweetheart and get married.  She’s our baby, and she’s going to remain our baby.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about his crazy cocker spaniel for today . . . 

Playing Fetch with a Ghost

by: Martin Achatz

Most people don’t believe me:  I

am haunted by a cocker spaniel, a

revenant that runs his ghostly

tongue over my fingers at night as

I sleep, presses his ectoplasmic 

nose in my crotch, inhaling

all my smells, as if my salt and sweat

called him back from whatever canine

heaven he found himself in

after he chased that final stick I 

threw on his final walk, watched him

zoom away through the hungry pines.

September 17, 2025: “Full Summer,” Road Trip, “Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me”

Yes, it has been quite a while since I’ve posted.  

I’d like to say that I’ve been busy or sick or traveling or protesting.  Of course, I’ve been swamped with teaching and library events.  I’m just trying to settle into my fall schedule.  No colds or flus, and no roadtrips.  And every day of my life is an act of protest—because I try to be kind and understanding and compassionate to everyone.  (I know that’s a revolutionary in this country at this time.)  My excuse (whether legitimate or not):  I’ve been exhausted every night I’ve gotten home.

Summer is definitely coming to an end.  The maple trees on my property have already begin changing color.  We’ve already had a few nights when the furnace kicked in.  But no frost warnings, yet.  Schools are back in session, and the sun is setting before 8:30 p.m. these days.  Yet, I’m not ready to surrender to autumn and winter just yet.  I am a summer holdout.

Sharon Olds writes about the good ol’ summertime . . . 

Full Summer

by: Sharon Olds

I paused, and paused, over your body,

to feel the current of desire pull

and pull through me.  Our hair was still wet,

mine like a knotted wrack, it fell

across you as I paused, a soaked coil

around your glans.  When one of your hairs

dried, it lifted a bare nerve.

On the beach, above us, a cloud had appeared in

the clear air, a clockwise loop coming

in out of nothing, now the skin of your scrotum

moved like a live being, an animal,

I began to lick you, the foreskin lightly

stuck in one spot, like a petal, I love

to free it—just so—in joy,

and to sip from the little crying lips

at the tip.  Then there was no more pausing,

nor was this the taker,

some new one came

and sucked, and up from where I had been hiding I was

drawn in a heavy spiral out of matter

over into another world

I had thought I would have to die to reach.

This is prime Sharon Olds material:  sex, summer, sun.  It’s like an Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon beach blanket blowjob movie.  There’s something sexily nostalgic in her poem.  Even though she’s an adult, married woman in the poem, her words bring me back to my teenage summers.  That coming-of-age time.

 Well, it has been really warm these last five days, and today was no different.  It has been hitting the 80s since about last Saturday.  Tomorrow, my son and I care going on a road trip.  It was supposed to be my whole family going, but my wife tested positive for COVID on Monday, and then she had a little fender-bender with a UPS truck (no damage that I’m willing to claim with insurance).  Today, when my wife was taking our puppy for a walk around the block, a neighbor’s German shepherd attacked her.  The good news is that, thanks to my wife’s quick actions, the neighbor’s dog wasn’t able to do as much damage as the last time our puppy was attacked.  We did file a police report and took our dog to the vet.  The vet examined her and found a deep puncture on her right back leg.  

The itinerary for this weekend’s trip has changed drastically.  My wife and puppy are staying home.  My son and I are driving downstate.  We are staying in Mount Pleasant where my daughter is attending medical school, but we aren’t going to meet up with her because she’s got a final exam next Monday and doesn’t want to take the chance of catching COVID.

So, basically, my son and I are going to stay at an Airbnb by ourselves and try to find a way to amuse ourselves.  I actually planned an extra day in Mount Pleasant to have more time with my daughter, but fate had other plans.  It’s feels like a summer vacation gone terribly wrong—I’m Clark Griswold from the U.P. of Michigan.

A couple days ago, Saint Marty wrote a poem in a writing workshop led by a good friend of his.  (His friend called it a flash lyric essay.). Whether essay or poem, it has nothing to do with COVID or dog attacks.  Or summer, for that matter.

Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me

by: Martin Achatz

I should have enjoyed the mist making my child face drip like an apple in the IGA produce section.

Fish.  I smelled fish, tasted fish in my mouth.  Waves applauded with foam hands, the thug-thug-thug of the ferry’s engine slapping the day awake.

I never liked fish sticks as a kid, begged my mom for grilled cheese when she brought a pan of Mrs. Paul’s to the dinner table.

Maybe I choked on amniotic fluid as I emerged from my mother or swallowed soapy liquid while being bathed as a baby or found a drowned mouse in a toilet bowl.

Yes, I’ve always associated water with death, so I avoid wading or floating or swimming, hold myself to the riverbank or shoreline, afraid I’ll untether and just drift away.

When rain baptizes the world, I think I hear the pine trees sob.

July 12, 2025: “The Feelings,” Dropping Off Daughter, “Phobophobia”

It’s been a pretty emotional day for me and my family.

We spent most of it traveling.  My daughter and her significant other moved downstate for her to attend medical school, so we caravanned to Mount Pleasant and helped them unload belongings into their new home.  Then we went out for dinner after returning the U-haul truck.  

Now, I’m sitting in a hotel room.  My son is swimming, and my wife is snoring (loudly) in bed.  I’ve been trying to process my current state of mind, sorting and cataloging my feelings.

Sharon Olds deals with some strong emotions . . .

The Feelings

by: Sharon Olds

When the intern listened to the stopped heart

I stared at him, as if he or I

were wild, were from some other world, I had

lost the language of features, I could not

know what it meant for a stranger to push

the gown up along the body of my father.

My face was wet, my father’s face

was faintly moist with the sweat of his life,

the last moments of hard work.

I was leaning against the wall, in the corner, and

he lay on the bed, we were both doing something

and everyone else in the room believed in the Christian God,

they called my father the shell on the bed, I was the

only one there who knew

he was entirely gone, the only one

there to say goodbye to his body

that was all he was, I held, hard,

to his foot, I thought of the Inuit elder

holding the stern of the death canoe, I

let him out slowly into the physical world.

I felt the dryness of his lips under

my lips, I felt how even my slight

kiss moved his head on the pillow

they way things move as if on their own in shallow water,

I felt his hair rush through my fingers

like a wolf’s, the walls shifted, the floor, the

ceiling wheeled as if I was not

walking out of the room but the room was

backing away around me.  I would have

liked to stay beside him, ride by his

shoulder while they drove him to the place where they would

               burn him, 

see him safely into the fire,

touch his ashes in their warmth, and bring my

finger to my tongue.  The next morning,

I felt my husband’s body on me

crushing me sweetly like a weight laid heavy on some

soft thing, some fruit, holding me

hard to this world.  Yes the tears came

out like juice and sugar from the fruit—

the skin thins, and breaks, and rips, there are

laws on this earth, and we live by them.

Yes, there are laws on this earth, and we all have to live by them.  Gravity.  Relativity.  Motion.  We don’t even think about most of these universal laws.  They just occur naturally.

There are other, unwritten laws, as well.  Don’t eat yellow snow.  Don’t shit where you eat.  (That was one of my dad’s favorites.).  Don’t vote for a convicted felon to be President of the United States and expect it to turn out well.  You get the idea.  It’s all common sense.

Kids are supposed to grow up, move out, and create lives for themselves.  That’s one of the laws of parenting, as I’ve been saying these last couple weeks.  Mothers and fathers eventually work themselves out of a job.  They become outmoded.

My daughter spread her wings today, and all I can do as her father is gaze up at the heavens and watch her fly.  And be happy.  Can’t say that I’ve reached the “happy” part of that formula yet.  I’m sort of stuck in the “where did all the time go?” phase.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m thrilled for my daughter and her significant other.  She’s had this doctor dream since she was a young girl, and seeing her dreams come true is thrilling.  I’m just struggling with the whole letting go.  (It seems like Olds is having a hard time with letting go of her father in today’s poem, as well.)  

Letting go has never been my strong suit.  I don’t like change.  Hate it when Walmart rearranges its merchandise.  I reread favorite novels because then I know what to expect, plot-wise.  I rewatch movies and TV shows for the same reason.  As the husband of one of my best friends once said, “There’s nothing wrong with sameness.”

But, today, sameness doesn’t cut it.  I have to let go.  My daughter has always been smarter than me and more together than me.  I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up, but she has known the answer to that question since she was about eight or nine years old.  That doesn’t make this process any easier.

I’m sure, when my wife, son, and I get in the car tomorrow morning to head home, there are going to be tears shed.  (I think that’s a law on this earth, as well.)  This parting will be a first for all of us.  I thought it was bad when she moved just a half mile away.  Now, she’s going to be almost six hours away.  I predict weeping for a good portion of the return trip.  (Another law.)  Lots of difficult feelings to sort through.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about feelings and fears for tonight, based on the following prompt from July 9 of The Daily Poet:

This exercise is inspired by the poetry of Aimee Nezhukumatathil, author of At the Drive-in Volcano (Tupelo Press, 2007).  Write a poem about one or more phobias.  Do you have alliumphobia, a fear of garlic?  Or how about enetophobia, a fear of pins?  You can access a complete list of phobias at:  www.phobialist.com.  For inspiration, take a peek at Aimee’s wonderful poem “Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia,” published at www.slate.com/articles/arts/poem/2004/01/hippopotomonstrosequippedaliophobia.html

Phobophobia

by: Martin Achatz

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

               — Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I discovered I am afraid of heights

on top of the Empire State Building

on a cold March afternoon, which is like

finding out you’re afraid of water

by booking passage on the Lusitania

or realizing clowns terrify you

when you enroll in Ringling Bros.

Clown College.  FDR tried to comfort

shanty towns and soup kitchens

by ranking fear as Public Enemy

Number One, before Pretty Boy Floyd

and John Dillinger.  This morning, 

I’m scheduled for a root canal.  When I say

those two words, friends wince,

look at me as if I’ve just announced

a terminal diagnosis.  I see it 

written on their faces—capital “F”

fear—even though I’m the one

facing shots and drilling.  Perhaps

it’s contagious, like whooping

cough or measles.  Soon we’ll be

in the middle of a global fear 

pandemic, everyone sheltering 

in place to avoid black cats, broken

mirrors, cracks in the sidewalk.  

We’ll sit at home, binge Tiger King

again, get all nostalgic for when

that fat spider in the bathtub was

the only thing we had to worry about.