March 22, 2026: “Before,” Sundays, “Lost on an Island”

Most faithful disciples of this blog know that I dislike Sundays intensely.  

This animosity has nothing to do with God or religion or faith.  I’m a cradle Catholic; play keyboard/pipe organ at several different denominational churches every weekend; and say prayers every morning and night (and at various times during the day).  The reason I dislike Sundays:  they come before Mondays and the start of another work week.  

Monday through Friday, I feel like Sisyphus—pushing that boulder uphill until I reach the summit on Friday.  On Sunday, that fucker rolls back to the bottom of the hill, and I start trudging down to start the whole process all over again.  

Marie Howe writes about a boulder . . . 

Before

by: Marie Howe

The boulder once dust, will be dust again,

but today, so filled with its own heaviness,

it can’t hear the grunts of the men who push and roll it

                                                                        to the mouth of the tomb,

and it can’t yet conceive how else it might be moved.

Howe is talking about mortality here, echoing the blessing that’s repeated every Ash Wednesday:  Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Howe’s boulder has consciousness.  It knows its own weight, but it doesn’t know all the back-breaking effort it took to get it to that tomb entrance.

I’m feeling the weight of that boulder tonight as I prepare to head into another week of teaching and library work, and I’m not excited.  It always feels as though I’m just starting to relax as the weekend comes to an end.  I even took a little nap this afternoon, which is a luxury I rarely allow myself.  Now it’s almost 10 p.m., and the boulder is starting its downward descent.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love working at the library, and there are aspects of teaching that really energize me.  However, the heaviness of the next five days is overwhelming.  Plus (and most church musicians can back me up on this fact), the Lenten/Easter season adds extra stress and weight to life. Palm Sunday is in seven days, and then Holy Week, with all the bells, whistles, smoke, and chants.  In two weeks, I will look like a refugee from a George Romero flick.

I guess the takeaway from tonight’s post is that I’m tired.  Tired of the daily grind.  And politics.  And President 47.  And Republicans.  And war.  And divisiveness.  47 has ruined basically the last ten years of life in the United States (and the world).  If I could just stay home, write poems, and take my puppy for walks, I would.  (With the price of oil and gas rising every day, that’s pretty much all I’ll be able to afford to do.)

This weekend, I watched a movie starring Michael Caine as a dying Thomas Pynchon-esque writer.  It was titled Best Sellers.  One of Michael Caine’s catchphrases in the film is “bullshite.”  (I don’t think I need to translate that for you.)

Allow me to say this:  I’m tired of all the bullshite going on in my country and around the globe.

The only bright spot this Sunday was the Zoom poetry workshop I led this evening, with some of my best friends participating.

Saint Marty wrote the following poem in workshop tonight.  It’s about being lost and found  . . . 

Lost on an Island

by: Martin Achatz

Some people think it’s impossible

to get lost on an island, with all

its coast to guide you home to

where you began.  I’m here to tell you

you it’s easy to get lost on a piece

of land surrounded on all sides

by water, fresh or salt, that water

isn’t a street sign or highway

marker telling you how far to

the next McDonald’s or gas station

or rest area.  Water encourages

lostness with its waves and currents

and horizons.  If anything, water

wants to turn us all into Odysseus

sailing 20 years before he crawls

onto Ithaca’s shores, driven

by a yearn for the arms of Penelope

or wet nose, rough tongue of Argos

waiting by the palace door those two

decades.  Even on an island, yes, 

it’s easy to get lost, be lost, stay lost.

See that beach there?  I bet it’s named

after somebody who got lost and built

a shack on the sands and called it

home.

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.

March 17, 2026: “The Maples,” Saint Patrick’s Day Storm, “I Believe in Ghosts”

Greetings, faithful disciples!

This past weekend has been pretty wild.  In the past seven days, my little piece of the Upper Peninsula endured three winter storms.  The last was the worst—a two-day blizzard that dumped almost four feet of snow in about 36 hours.  If you do the math, that’s a little less than two inches per hour.  Couple that with almost 70 mile an hour wind gusts, six- and seven-foot-tall snowdrifts, and (in some places) thunder, and you get an idea of what life has been like for a majority of Yoopers.

According to all the old timers, Saint Patrick’s Day always ushers in a really big snow event in the U.P.  This year, Pat outdid himself.  Most meteorologists are using the adjective “historic” to describe what we’ve just been through.  We haven’t had a storm approaching this strength since 1997.  That’s about 30 years ago.  This summer, I’m sure some innovative entrepreneur will be selling tee shirts with the slogan “I Survived the Winter of ‘26” all over the place.  I know I’m going to be haunted by the memory of this little storm for quite some time.

Marie Howe is haunted by Mother Nature . . . 

The Maples

by: Marie Howe

I asked the stand of maples behind the house,

How should I live my life?

They said, shhh shhh shhh . . . 

How should I live, I asked, and the leaves seemed to ripple and gleam.

A bird called from a branch in its own tongue,

And from a branch, across the yard, another bird answered.

A squirrel scrambled up a trunk

then along the length of a branch.

Stand still, I thought,

See how long you can bear that.

Try to stand still, if only for a few moments, 

drinking light     breathing.

It’s not easy—just standing perfectly still in a moment.  Paying attention.  Breathing.  There’s this human impulse to talk, move, act.  We all have it.  Think about an uncomfortable pause in a conversation.  If you’re anything like me, you want to jump in.  Fill the void.  Silence makes us antsy.  

Tonight was the first time I’ve been out of my house (except to move snow) since Saturday evening.  My wife and I had dinner and drinks with two of our best friends.  In my last post, I wrote about the tension of waiting for the blizzard to begin; on Saturday, wherever I went, everyone I encountered seemed on edge, as if waiting for some kind of mass extinction event.  At the pub this evening, everyone was smiling, singing, laughing.  When I ordered my drink, the bartender said to me, “We all deserve this after what we’ve just been through.”

For three or so days, we’ve all been hunkered down in our homes, listening to the wind howl outside.  That’s a long time to be still for anyone.  But we had no choice.  Even the plows were getting stuck in ten-foot-high snowdrifts.  

What did I do during my hunkering down?  I watched Ken Burns’ three-part documentary on the life of Ernest Hemingway; I’ve kinda been on a Hemingway kick recently.  And I worked on some poems.  And I thought a lot about ghosts (my sisters, parents, brother, best friend).  I was so haunted by memories that I woke up in the middle of the night on Monday because I thought I heard my sister Sally call my name, and I found myself crying for no specific reason.  (I was watching a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert, and I started weeping when they sang “Puff, the Magic Dragon.”)

I think ghosts are around us all the time.  The dead find their voices through maple trees, birdcalls, blizzards, old songs.  They remind us to pay attention to everything.  Live in the moment and breathe.

That’s what I did during this extended weekend of snow and wind.  I listened to my ghosts.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight . . ,

I Believe in Ghosts

by: Martin Achatz

Not the kind that appear on the battlements 

of Elsinore seeking revenge.  Or the kind

that dance to “Sir Roger de Coverly” with

the Fezziwigs, or fill 124 Bluestone Road

with baby venom.  No.  My ghosts sit

with me as I write these words, guide

my nib across a white sheet of paper

until I hear their voices in my ear, 

like mosquitoes on a July night.  All ghosts

really want is recognition.  That’s why they

hide car keys or push books off shelves

or slam doors.  My 17-year-old son

does the same thing.  He just wants

to be seen, heard.  Here he is now,

haunting the final line of this poem.

March 14, 2026: “The Forest,” Calm Before, “When My Sister Died”

Well, here I sit at home, waiting for the Blizzard to begin.  NOTE:  the capital “B” is intentional.

I’ve seen several social media posts from meteorologists calling this storm “historic.”  You know when the National Weather Service’s watches and warnings are measuring snow in feet versus inches you’re pretty much fucked.  Since a day or so ago, everything I’ve read has said, “Expect one to three FEET.”  I’ve even seen some forecasts saying four feet isn’t out of the question.

So, my wife and I did everything we could to prepare today for what’s coming.  We went grocery shopping this morning.  I hit the laundromat this afternoon.  Pretty much all the churches in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan have already canceled Sunday services.  (Except the Catholics.  Go figure.)  Thus, I don’t have to play tomorrow morning.  (I was scheduled to play at a Lutheran church.)

Everywhere I went today, I could feel a kind of tension, as if everyone knows a war is going to start tomorrow and we’re all just enjoying our last day of peace before the bombs start falling.  (Now, if I worked in the White House, I’d be blaming this storm on the Democrats.)  Right now, it’s literally and proverbially the calm before the storm.  Up until about an hour ago, the sky was painfully blue, not a cloud in sight.  Will there be a power outage?  Is my dog going to crap in the house instead of going outside?  Are the trees in my backyard going to survive?  Is my roof strong enough to support three or four feet of snow?

Answer:  I don’t know.

It’s difficult living in this state of anticipation.  A friend just texted me:  “Fuck this shit,  Just bring it on.”

Marie Howe goes for a walk in the woods . . . 

The Forest

by: Marie Howe

A mast year for acorns, so like marbles and so many

we’re afraid of falling.  I walk sideways

down the hill, holding a long stick; Kate goes before me

wearing her orange knit cap.

The broken trees lean on the unbroken trees

which will one day be broken.

Howe is afraid of falling.  She’s also concerned about the unbroken trees, knowing full well they will eventually give way, either under the weight of the already broken trees or (maybe) because of a blizzard with 60 mile per hour winds.

I have lived through many tough winters in the U.P.  This particular blizzard is, I believe, the third one we’ve had this winter:  one right before Thanksgiving, one right after Christmas, and now one right before Saint Patrick’s Day.  And, at the moment, no single meteorologist (from television to the National Weather Service) will say whether it’s going to be one foot or four feet of snow.  Last time I checked, there’s a big difference between 12 inches and 48 inches.

I know I will be shoveling a lot tomorrow.  And the next day,  And the next.  Until about Tuesday evening, my snow scoop is going to be my best friend.  (If you don’t know what a snow scoop is, you are definitely NOT from the U.P.  Google it.)  That is about the only certainty I have tonight.  Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe we’ll get three feet of snow, or maybe we won’t.  Maybe trees will fall, or maybe they won’t.  Maybe the electricity will stay on, or maybe it won’t.  Maybe Michael B. Jordan will win an Oscar tomorrow night, or maybe he won’t.  That’s a lot of maybes.

Saint Marty wrote a haiku for this evening about something he never expected . . . 

When My Sister Died

by: Martin Achatz

she left as sunlight

unzipped night, let the creamy

breast of morning breathe