Tuesday, July 8, 2025

July 8, 2025: “Wonder,” Reality, “Good Humor”

Sometimes, the mind tricks you.

If you’ve been reading this blog in the last few days, you know that I’m dealing with many mixed emotions regarding my daughter’s imminent departure for medical school.  I’ve known this was her plan for quite some time.  Children grow up.  They move out and away.  And, hopefully, they find happiness and love.

Yet, my mind was playing a trick on me.  I didn’t really accept that my daughter was leaving until I stopped by her apartment tonight and saw her living room floor filled with packed boxes.  Shit got real for me then.  The best analogy I can come up with is reading about Pearl Harbor your whole life and then visiting the Arizona Memorial in Honolulu.  Gazing down into the water at the Arizona, which still contains the bodies of over 900 sailors and Marines, changes you.  You walk away with the weight of that moment in history sitting on your shoulders.

With wonder last night, I realized that my little girl (while she was always be my little girl) is a young woman now, independent, smart, and full of hope.  She knows what she wants, and she’s chasing it like a kid chasing an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.

Sharon Olds writes about wonder . . . 

Wonder

by: Sharon Olds

When she calls to tell me my father is dying
today or tomorrow, I walk down the hall
and feel that my mouth has fallen open
and my eyes are staring.  The planet of his head
swam above my crib, I did not understand it.
His body came toward me in the lake over the agates,
the hair of his chest lifting like root-hairs—
I saw it and I did not understand it.
He lay behind beveled-glass doors, beside
the cut-crystal decanter, its future
shards in upright bound sheaves.
He sat by his pool, not meeting our eyes,
his irises made of some boiled-down, viscous
satiny matter, undiscovered.
When he sickened, he began to turn to us,
when he sank down, he shined.  I lowered my
mouth to the glistening tureen of his face
and he titled himself toward me, a dazzling 
meteor dropping down into the crib,
and now he is going to die.  I walk down the
hall, face to face with it,
as if it were a great heat.
I feel like one of the shepherd children
when the star came down onto the roof.
But I am used to it, I stand in familiar
astonishment.  If I had dared to imagine
trading, I might have wished to trade
places with anyone raised on love,
but how would anyone raised on love
bear this death?



It’s a sobering little poem.  A grown child confronting the imminent death of a parent.  Most every person alive on this planet has faced or will face this experience.  It’s inevitable.  The only thing more inevitable than death is Republican stupidity.  

These kinds of huge, life-altering events fill me with wonder.  No poem or novel or prayer or essay or blog post can prepare you for it.  When my sister Sally died, I walked around in a state of wonder and sadness for weeks.  The cacophony of emotions was deafening in my head—each one beautiful and terrible at the same time.

I’m probably not explaining myself all that well.  You see, grief can be ugly and debilitating.  However, the experience of deep grief also means that you’ve experienced deep love.  That’s something to celebrate, and it uplifts and carries you through the darkness.  And that is wonder.

I’m on the cusp of grief right now.  I’m also on the cusp of joy for my daughter.  Those two emotions are not mutually exclusive.  They can coexist.  At the moment, grief is in the driver’s seat for me.  Ask me in a couple weeks, and I may have a different answer for you.

That’s my current reality, and like all realities, it’s complicated.  Nobody promised me sunshine and roses every day.  In fact, nobody promised that I’d be around today or tomorrow or next week.  It’s about embracing life fully, in all its beautiful ugliness, with every breath you take.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about a memory from his daughter’s childhood.  It’s based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Good Humor Ice Cream Truck:  Freewrite on this topic for five minutes.  In your freewrite, try to describe your childhood memories of summer evenings using all five of your senses.  What did the cooling asphalt smell like?  How did it feel on your tongue to lick the wooden Strawberry Shortcake stick?  Write a poem that allows the reader to experience your youthful memories,

Good Humor

by: Martin Achatz

My young daughter, body tan, sleek
as an otter, chased that sound
through our neighborhood on steamy
July days, dollar bills wadded
like used Kleenexes in her fist,
the music box chimes cutting
the stagnant air, windless trees,
as if a flock of arctic terns was
blown off course into our summer
and was now singing laments for
missing glaciers and ice and sea.
I see her now, disappearing around
the corner, auburn hair flashing
like a fox tail in the sun, and I know
she won’t slow down until she finds
that penguin nesting ground where
night never ends and a vanilla
moon rides in her hand, waning
under the shadow of her hungry tongue.



Monday, July 7, 2025

July 7, 2025: “The Race,” Rushing, “Feeding the Hungry”

There are times when we all rush.  Sometimes, it’s for doctor’s appointments.  Job interviews.  Classes.  Airplane flights.  Movies that started five minutes ago.  Or simply to escape a world that’s too fast or cruel or Republican.

Sharon Olds writes about racing to see her dying father . . . 

The Race

by: Sharon Olds

When I got to the airport I rushed up to the desk,
bought a ticket, ten minutes later
they told me the flight was cancelled, the doctors
had said my father would not live through the night
and the flight was cancelled. A young man
with a dark brown moustache told me
another airline had a nonstop
leaving in seven minutes. See that
elevator over there, well go
down to the first floor, make a right, you'll
see a yellow bus, get off at the
second Pan Am terminal, I
ran, I who have no sense of direction
raced exactly where he'd told me, a fish
slipping upstream deftly against
the flow of the river. I jumped off that bus with those
bags I had thrown everything into
in five minutes, and ran, the bags
wagged me from side to side as if
to prove I was under the claims of the material,
I ran up to a man with a flower on his breast,
I who always go to the end of the line, I said
Help me. He looked at my ticket, he said
Make a left and then a right, go up the moving stairs and then
run. I lumbered up the moving stairs,
at the top I saw the corridor,
and then I took a deep breath, I said
goodbye to my body, goodbye to comfort,
I used my legs and heart as if I would
gladly use them up for this,
to touch him again in this life. I ran, and the
bags banged against me, wheeled and coursed
in skewed orbits, I have seen pictures of
women running, their belongings tied
in scarves grasped in their fists, I blessed my
long legs he gave me, my strong
heart I abandoned to its own purpose,
I ran to Gate 17 and they were
just lifting the thick white
lozenge of the door to fit it into
the socket of the plane. Like the one who is not
too rich, I turned sideways and
slipped through the needle's eye, and then
I walked down the aisle toward my father. The jet
was full, and people's hair was shining, they were
smiling, the interior of the plane was filled with a
mist of gold endorphin light,
I wept as people weep when they enter heaven,
in massive relief. We lifted up
gently from one tip of the continent
and did not stop until we set down lightly on the
other edge, I walked into his room
and watched his chest rise slowly
and sink again, all night
I watched him breathe.



Rushing to a dying parent’s bedside is understandable.  I would have run like Olds to catch that flight, without a doubt.  I don’t like being late for anything.  My parents taught me that, if I’m five minutes early, I’m already ten minutes late.  Thus, I always arrive about a half hour early for important events/obligations.  It’s just the way I’m wired.

It doesn’t help that I’m the youngest in my family of nine siblings.  If I sat down late for dinner when I was a kid, chances are the best food would be gone.  I’d get stuck with peas instead of mac and cheese.  Not a good tradeoff.  

That’s right.  Food insecurity fueled my perpetual promptness. Also, my diabetes kind of makes it imperative that I adhere to meal times pretty strictly.  Extreme low blood sugars tend to make me feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.  It takes about five or so hours for me to fully recover.

It’s Monday, after a three-day weekend.  Sliding back into my work schedule was challenging.  Zero motivation.  Zero energy.  Yet, I plugged along and got lots of things accomplished.  I don’t want this week to really rush by.  On Saturday, we have to drive downstate to help our daughter relocate for medical school.  The faster this week goes, the sooner I have to say goodbye to her.  Therefore, I’m hoping this week goes by s . . . l . . . o . . . w . . . l . . . y . . .

But time is so relative.  Today has felt like a wild ride on the back of a tortoise.  As the week progresses, I’m sure things will speed up.  Summer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan always seems like a fever dream.  It’s over before you even have a chance to hit the beach.  Now that it’s past July 4th, there’s a lull—no big events to anticipate in the coming months.  Pretty soon, classes will resume at the university, and, from there on, it’s a quick sprint to winter.

And the older I get, the quicker life seems to be fly by.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about the power of food to slow things down, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this date in 1908, food writer MFK Fisher was born.  In honor of her birthday, write a poem in which a specific food or foods, or a recipe, figures.  Scan a cookbook and make a list of verbs that have to do with cooking/baking:  truss, whip, broil, braise, beat.  Aim to include some of these verbs in your poem.

Feeding the Hungry

by: Martin Achatz

I’ve seen friends do it—rummage
around in fridge, freezer, pantry,
collect improbable pairings of ingredients:
quinoa and Cheerios, leftover hotdogs,
kumquats, cheese slices and kale,
always kale because nobody likes it.
They combine, marinate, broil,
sautée these morsels into repast,
and we gather, sometimes around dinner
tables, often in kitchens where
pans simmer and skillets sweat,
use Fritos to scoop something
that resembles guacamole into our mouths,
wash it down with glasses of boxed red wine.
It’s almost Biblical to witness:  Jesus
feeding the five thousand with Ritz
crackers and a tin of sardines.
Nobody goes away hungry.  In fact,
most of us bring home plates piled
with leftovers of the leftovers, starters
for our next impromptu feast, sort of
the way I gather words, lines, images
from journal scraps, dump them all
into a pot with hardy chicken
stock, make a roux that could end
up as the base for a good meal, us
with arms around each other’s shoulders,
feeling as if the tops of our heads have
been taken off by each savory stanza.

Sunday, July 6, 2025

July 6, 2025: “The Lifting,” Quiet Day, “Christmas Anthropology”

People are pretty unknowable.  I’ve lived on this planet for many, many decades, and I’m surrounded by individuals who love me dearly, but even they don’t know everything about me.  Citizen Kane gets it right—nobody knows what my Rosebud is.

Sometimes, we keep secrets that are too embarrassing or too personal to share with others.  Other times, those secrets are gifts that carry only private significance.  (Nobody in Charles Foster Kane’s life knew that a sled was his most prized possession.)

Poets, in their enigmatic ways, share secrets.  We tell the truth, but, as Emily Dickinson said, we tell it slant.

Sharon Olds shares a secret . . . 

The Lifting

by: Sharon Olds

Suddenly my father lifted up his nightie, I
turned my head away but he cried out
Shar!, my nickname, so I turned and looked.
He was sitting in the high cranked-up bed with the
gown up, around his neck,
to show me the weight he had lost. I looked
where his solid ruddy stomach had been
and I saw the skin fallen into loose
soft hairy rippled folds
lying in a pool of folds
down at the base of his abdomen,
the gaunt torso of a big man
who will die soon. Right away
I saw how much his hips are like mine,
the lengthened, white angles, and then
how much his pelvis is shaped like my daughter's,
a chambered whelk-shell hollowed out,
I saw the folds of skin like something
poured, a thick batter, I saw
his rueful smile, the cast-up eyes as he
shows me his old body, he knows
I will be interested, he knows I will find him
appealing. If anyone had ever told me
I would sit by him and he would pull up his nightie
and I’d look at his naked body, at the thick 
bud of his glans in all that
sparse hair, look at him
in affection and uneasy wonder
I would not have believed it. But now I can still
see the tiny snowflakes, white and
night-blue, on the cotton of the gown as it
rises the way we were promised at death it would rise,
the veils would fall from our eyes, we would know everything.



Family members share intimate secrets.  Near the end of his life, my father suffered from dementia.  Always a very proud, independent man, he struggled with the diminishments he had to endure, including losing control of his bladder and bowels.  One of the only times I ever saw him naked was when I helped my sister clean him up after he soiled himself just a few weeks before he ended up in a nursing home.  

That’s what Olds is talking about in today’s poem—those kinds of naked truths we carry around.

It was a quiet day after a pretty busy holiday weekend.  It was around 20 degrees cooler than yesterday, which made me tired.  After a couple days of near 90-degree weather, it was welcome relief.  I napped, read, went for a couple walks, and grocery shopped.

My secret tonight is that I’m not looking forward to the upcoming week.  On Saturday, as I’ve said, my daughter and her significant other are moving downstate.  While I’m excited for her, my father heart is breaking a little bit.  I know, this time next week, I’m going to be an emotional mess.  Letting go is a part of parenting.  I’m well aware of this fact.  That doesn’t make it any easier.

I don’t want to make this separation any harder on my daughter, so I’m going to put on a happy face.  Try not to cry too much.  For close to a quarter century, I’ve been her protector and provider and advisor.  That’s all going to be gone, and I’m going to have to figure out my new role as a father.  It’s a tale as old as time, as Angela Lansbury sang.

If you are so inclined, say a few prayers for my daughter this week.  It’s a big change in her life.  Maybe she’s feeling doubts right now.  Having some misgivings.  Those are the kinds of things we all keep secret.  But, this father knows that she’s going to change the world.

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

Open up a box of stored holiday decorations or visit a holiday website (Oriental Trading has an extensive online catalog), and study the nativity tablecloths, candles, snowman mugs, and menorahs.  If you don’t want to think about the holidays in July, open a catch-all drawer and take out a few odd items.  Write a poem in the voice of a future anthropologist attempting to make sense of these “artifacts.”

Christmas Anthropology

by: Martin Achatz

I want to surround myself with Christmas
cards when I die, the way those old
pharaohs packed food and slaves and gold
cats in their tombs after they exited
the fleshy miracles of their bodies.  When
anthropologists unearth my grave, 
they’ll find glittery stars, Charlie Brown,
Jimmy Stewart hugging Donna Reed,
the Grinch grinning like Osiris when the Nile
overflowed.  Perhaps the anthropologists
will use some Rosetta Stone to decipher
why that figure is half-boy/half pink rabbit.
Why that caribou’s snout glows red
as Sekhmet’s thirsty tongue.  Or why
that snowman’s eyes remind them
of the burnished black face of Anubis.
Maybe it will take centuries to decode
the mystery of my burial site, new
software to unscramble the Hallmark
complexities of my artifacts.  Then, one day,
when some eager researcher unbinds
the Gordian knot of me, they will install
a plaque above the entrance to my
exhibit in the British Museum of Natural History:
You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!



Saturday, July 5, 2025

July 5, 2025: “His Stillness,” Family Members, “Pizza Party”

I have a confession:  my family (parents and siblings) never really went all out for Independence Day.  Generally, we didn’t go to parades.  I’m pretty sure my brothers blew up things with firecrackers, and I have memories of my sisters taking me to see some fireworks displays.  That’s about it.

But we did do barbecues.  Food was a thing that my family always did well.  Hotdogs.  Bratwurst.  Chicken.  Supplemented by watermelon and corn on the cob.  Some of my fondest memories are family meals, especially around holidays.

Sharon Olds writes about her father’s dignity . . . 

His Stillness

by: Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.



We always swear we will be different than our parents.  Raise our kids differently.  Be more successful.  Retire earlier.  Travel more.  Some people don’t even want to look like their mothers or fathers.

Yet, when I look in the mirror these days, I see my mother’s and father’s faces.  No getting around heredity.  I think I look a lot more like my mom than my dad, and I inherited her calmer disposition, as well.  My dad could be a hothead.  My mom, on the other hand, was always cool and thoughtful.  (When she lost her temper, you really didn’t want to be around her.  I think I take after her in that respect, as well.)

Around holidays, I think a lot about family members who are no longer around to celebrate with us.  My faithful disciples know that, in the last ten years or so, I’ve lost quite a few people in my life—a best friend, brother, two sisters, and both my parents.  The kind of nostalgia I’m experiencing today is pretty normal, I would guess.  Big holidays conjure up big feelings.

I did attend a parade this morning with my wife and kids.  There was even an Elvis impersonator on a float.  Now, I know we were supposed to boycott parades this July 4th in protest of the Republican apocalypse happening in Washington, D.C.  Nothing about the United States at the moment makes me proud to be a citizen of this country.  Yet, I do celebrate the freedom I have today.  (This time next year, I may have a different opinion.  Check back in 2026.)

I know that our country is incredibly flawed.  We live on stolen land in a society built on the backs of African American slaves.  Not really a great way to start this grand experiment in democracy.  However, I’ve also believed that we can be better.  Do better.  And I’m holding onto that hope right now.  I celebrated today what we CAN be as a nation, not what we currently are.  

The fireworks scheduled for tonight were rained out, so, instead, I went to the laundromat to wash some clothes and work on a new poem.  It’s about nine o’clock at night right now and still raining intermittently, but that’s not stopping our neighbors from disturbing the peace with some bottle rockets, firecrackers, and mortars.  That doesn’t bother me, though.  They’re out there having a good time.  Celebrating the freedom that still exists in the United States.  For now.

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

It’s the birthday of Jean Cocteau, surrealist poet and playwright.  In honor of his birthday, write a surrealist poem today.  One way to do this is to begin with a 5-minute automatic writing session.  Write as fast as you can without thinking logically or worrying about making sense.  When you are finished with your timed writing, read it over and highlight passages that interest you.  Using these passages as triggers, continue writing fast.  Once you’ve done this, shape this raw and strange material into a poem.

Pizza Party

by: Martin Achatz

What do ghosts like on their pizzas?
Does my friend, Helen, want just
cheese, unadorned, plain as yoga?
My brother, Kevin, he loves ham,
even though he claimed to be vegan
when he was alive.  Sally is always 
particular, doesn’t want anything 
besides pepperoni to surprise
her tongue with too much heat or salt.
Rose, my other sister, eats everything with
the abandon of a flock of seagulls.  Dad
is meat and potatoes, wants as much
pork and beef and bacon as possible
on his slices, as if he grew up in a Russian
gulag with only one bowl of cabbage
broth to fuel his daily labors in the fields.
Mom?  She always eats after everyone
else, cobbling together her dinner
from turkey necks and sweet potato
skins.  Her pizza will be whatever
is left in the greasy boxes after the rest
of us are read to nap or go for
a long, long walk.  That’s her now,
gliding around the table, asking
if everybody has had enough 
to eat, her ghostly stomach glowing
like a stove burner that’s just been 
used to fry up a skillet of scrambled eggs.



Friday, July 4, 2025

July 4, 2025: "The Glass," Independence Day, "July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump"

It is Independence Day in the United States.  Again, for my non-U.S. disciples, I will explain that, on July 4, we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in which we declared our freedom from British rule.  So, pretty much we rejected royal governance.  Translation:  no kings for this country.

This year, July 4th has a different vibe for me.  It feels as if the country that I know and love (for all its flaws, and there are many) is dying right before my eyes, every minute of every day.

Sharon Olds writes about her dying father . . . 

The Glass

by: Sharon Olds

I think of it with wonder now,
the glass of mucus that stood on the table
in front of my father all weekend. The tumor
is growing fast in his throat these days,
and as it grows it sends out pus
like the sun sending out flares, those pouring
tongues. So my father has to gargle, cough,
spit a mouth full of thick stuff
into the glass every ten minutes or so,
scraping the rim up his lower lip
to get the last bit off his skin, then he
sets the glass down, on the table, and it
sits there, like a glass of beer foam,
shiny and faintly golden, he gargles and
coughs and reaches for it again,
and gets the heavy sputum out,
full of bubbles and moving around like yeast–
he is like a god producing food from his own mouth.
He himself can eat nothing, anymore,
just a swallow of milk, sometimes,
cut with water, and even then
it cannot, always, get past the tumor,
and the next time the saliva comes up
it is ropey, he has to roll it in his throat
a minute to form it and get it up and dis-
gorge the oval globule into the 
glass of phlegm, which stood there all day and
filled slowly with the compound globes and I would
empty it, and it would fill again, 
and shimmer there on the table until 
the room seemed to turn around it
in an orderly way, a model of the solar system
turning around the sun,
my father the dark earth that used to
lie at the center of the universe, now 
turning with the rest of us
around his death, luminous glass of 
spit on the table, these last mouthfuls of his life.




Yes, death brings people together.  Doesn't matter what or who is dying.  I've been in a few rooms when members of my family were breathing their last breaths.  It's a difficult and sacred moment--full of sadness and gratitude, saying goodbye and thankyou at the same time.

Will this be the last time the United States will commemorate independence and freedom on July 4th?  I'm not sure.  Next year, will we all be forced to attend goose-stepping, book-burning parades and rallies?  I don't know.  At least to me, I don't feel quite as independent and free as I did last year on this day.  Perhaps I am witnessing the death of democracy in the United States.

Typically, I would attend at least two parades and a fireworks display on Independence Day.  Not this year.  Instead, I hosted a barbecue this evening for friends and family as a kind of send-off for my daughter and her significant other (they will be moving downstate in about a week for my daughter to attend medical school).  So, we served up standard July 4th cuisine--hotdogs and bratwurst and watermelon and pasta salad and delicious, chocolaty desserts.  We told family stories.  Played croquet.  Loved each other.

I'm trying not to get all maudlin about my daughter moving away.  It's difficult, though.  My job as a father these last 24 years has been to protect her, keep her out of harm's way as much as possible.  Now, I'm not sure what my job duties will be, and she's inheriting a country that seems less kind, less loving, less free.

So, you'll excuse me if I don't stand up with my hand over my heart this evening.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight based on the following prompt from July 2 of The Daily Poet:

Happy birthday to Nobel Prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska!  Szymborska, born in Western Poland and lifelong resident of Krakow, was known not only for her fiercely political poems but for revealing the profound truths in the everyday experience of living.  In her honor, today's assignment is to write a poem of apology.  Don't apologize for minor things, like forgetting to close the windows during a rainstorm; apologize to abstractions such as hope, necessity, chance, and loyalty.  For further inspiration, read Syzmborska's poem "Under a Certain Little Star," which can be found through an Internet search.

July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump

by: Martin Achatz

I'm sorry to compassion for not having
          an extra bologna sandwich and pillow.
I'm also sorry to justice for taking
          a nap this afternoon.
Freedom, please don't hold it against me
          if I forget your name.
And, common sense, you and I both know
          that throwing salt over your shoulder
          won't change anybody's mind.  
Laughter, I've known you a long time, but
          I've blocked your texts
          until you come up with new jokes.
Independence, I'm sorry I mowed my lawn
          so the rabbits have to visit
          my neighbor's yard when they get hungry.
My condolences, pride, for leaving my shoes
          in the middle of the living room
          floor to trip over.
But I can't say I'm sorry, patriotism, 
          for not inviting you to tonight's barbecue.
You see, I prefer to hang with
          poets who don't mind sharing
          the last hotdog on the grill
          with the migrant worker next door.
Because everyone should know
          what liberty tastes like. 



Tuesday, July 1, 2025

July 1, 2025: “Looking at Them Asleep,” Approaching Independence Day, “Doing Laundry”

Greetings, faithful disciples!

Yes, it is the first day of July, and that means that the United States will be celebrating Independence Day shortly.  (For my international readers, July 4th is when United States’ citizens honor our declaration of independence from British rule.  Ostensibly, we gather and honor the fact that we live in a free, democratic society.  I know, I know.  Don’t get me started.).  

This year, it’s a little difficult for me to get on board that red, white, and blue train.  So much of what is happening right now in the United States doesn’t resemble independence at all.  The National Guard and Marines patrolling the streets of Los Angeles.  Immigrants and citizens being kidnapped, imprisoned, and tortured.  Congress passing bills that gut some of our most important social programs (Medicare, Medicaid, and food assistance).  And a president hell-bent on transforming the country into the Fourth Reich and starting a war in the Middle East.

Therefore, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not being all Yankee Doodle in this post.

In my personal life, there’s lots of upheaval and change headed in my direction, as well.  My family home where I grew up has been sold, and my sisters are moving to another town about 60 or so miles away.  My son is going to be a high school senior this September.  And my daughter is relocating downstate with her significant other to attend medical school.

Longtime disciples of this blog (and longtime friends) know that I don’t deal well with change.  I’m the kind of guy that always eats the same things for breakfast and lunch.  One way to ruin my day is abruptly changing plans.  However, I am a realist, and I accept that time and circumstances alter life.  U.S. Presidents lose elections.  Countries go to war.  Parents die.  Kids grow up.  

Sharon Olds contemplates her daughter and son . . . 

Looking at Them Asleep

by: Sharon Olds

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content—and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.



When I read this poem today, I was struck by that question love asks:  What do you know?  

I’m not sure how to answer that query.  I know that I don’t like broccoli or MAGA Republicans.  Given a choice, I know I wouldn’t watch an Adam Sandler movie or read a James Patterson novel.  These are indisputable facts about me.  I also know my daughter and son, or, in the words of Olds, this girl and this boy.  

Yet, even with what I know, change steps in and fucks things up.  This girl and this boy will eventually have lives of their own, shared with people I may (or may not) like.  My family home will soon belong to a different family, and they will make their own memories there.  President 47 will eventually leave office, be impeached, or die.  These are certainties.

In a little over a week, I will be caravanning across the Upper Peninsula and the Mackinac Bridge with my immediate family—wife, daughter, son, daughter’s significant other and his parents.  It’s not a road trip that I’m particularly looking forward to because, at the end of it, I will be turning around and driving home, leaving my daughter behind to chase her dreams.  I know tears will be shed all ‘round.

A good change that will break my heart a little.  My kids are amazing, and I know that the future is in good hands because of them.  I just wish that love didn’t hurt so much sometimes.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about taking a road trip, based on the following prompt from June 18 of The Daily Poet:

For this poem, take a drive down a specific road, turnpike, throughway, or highway.  Stop at a cafe or restaurant and take notes about what you see, the conversations you overhear, the bumper stickers and the logos on semis and mobile homes.  Fashion a poem from your road trip notes.

Doing Laundry

by: Martin Achatz

The day is fresh as clean sheets,
grass and trees green, full of summer.
Everyone in the laundromat looks
like Russian peasants in a David
Lean film, grim, focused only on
detergent and spin cycles.  Trucks
line the parking lot, windows opaque
with sunlight, we proletarians shackled
to our agitating towels, underwear, socks,
dreaming of sliding behind our steering
wheels, turning keys in ignitions, and
cruising, baby, windows down, radio
cranked with John Prine or The Boss,
power lines scooping the sky up
and down as we hurtle toward Enchanted
Highway or Carhenge or Spotted Lake,
places where we don’t worry about
hots, colds, delicates, heavily soiled,
where we gather our collective lint, sculpt
it into the Statue of Liberty, stand
before it, immigrants on the deck 
of a ship steaming into New York Harbor,
waiting to be welcomed like long-lost
cousins from the old country.

Sunday, June 22, 2025

June 22, 2025: "The Month of June: 13 1/2," Daughter, "Poem for My Daughter Who Is Moving Away"

It's normal for kids to grow up, move out, move away.  I mean, that's a parents do--they raise these creatures, teach them to talk, walk, ride bikes, do arithmetic, spell, drive cars.  Then, one day those creatures spread their arms and fly off.

Sharon Olds writes about her growing daughter . . . 

The Month of June: 13 1/2

by: Sharon Olds

As our daughter approaches graduation and
puberty at the same time, at her
own, calm, deliberate, serious rate,
she begins to kick up her heels, jazz out her
hands, thrust out her hipbones, chant
I’m great! I’m great! She feels 8th grade coming
open around her, a chrysalis cracking and
letting her out, it falls behind her and
joins the other husks on the ground,
7th grade, 6th grade, the
magenta rind of 5th grade, the
hard jacket of 4th when she had so much pain,
3rd grade, 2nd, the dim cocoon of
1st grade back there somewhere on the path, and
kindergarten like a strip of thumb-suck blanket
taken from the actual blanket they wrapped her in at birth.
The whole school is coming off her shoulders like a
cloak unclasped, and she dances forth in her
jerky sexy child’s joke dance of
self, self, her throat tight and a
hard new song coming out of it, while her
two dark eyes shine
above her body like a good mother and a
good father who look down and
love everything their baby does, the way she
lives their love.



Parents basically work themselves out of a job.  That's the name of the game.  That's what Olds is getting at.  She's watching her daughter move from pupa to butterfly, ready to fly off.  It's a heartbreak that's inevitable for most mothers and fathers.

My son is 16.  He's going into his senior year of high school in September.  He's already taking college classes.  My daughter graduated from college about a year-and-a-half ago.  At the beginning of July, she and her significant other will be moving downstate so she can attend medical school.  

Now that President 47 has, in essence, started a war with Iran, I worry for my kids' futures.  Last night, when I heard about the bombing carried out by the United States, my first thought was about my children and the fucking mess they're going to inherit from my generation.

I've been preparing my son and daughter for bright futures, full of hope and possibility.  I've told them they can be anything they want to be.  I'm the son of a plumber, and I teach college, work for a library, and hold two post-graduate degrees.  That's kind of the American dream, isn't it?

My daughter is worried, too.  She wants to be a doctor.  She knows she's going to have to depend on student loans in order to attain her dream.  Now, Republicans are messing around with the funding of higher education.  (President 47 put the dumbest woman on the planet in charge of the Department of Education.)  At a time when she should be focused on moving and classes, she's losing sleep over a feckless President of the United States and a sycophantic Congress.  (If you're a MAGA supporter, go ahead and look up those big words, I'll wait for you.)

All my life I've tried to protect my children from harm (another of a parent's primary responsibilities).  Now, the leaders of my own country have become the enemies, sabotaging the hopes and dreams of millions of young people.  Aside from the Cuban Missile Crisis, I don't think we've ever been this close to nuclear war.

My  daughter will move downstate in a couple weeks, and I'm expecting to be a little heartbroken.  She's always lived close enough for me to help her out if she gets into any trouble.  Even though she moved out a few years ago, I've still been able to wear the overprotective father badge.  I'm still her daddy.  For a little while longer.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for his daughter tonight.

Poem for My Daughter Who Is Moving Away

by: Martin Achatz

In two weeks you will be gone,
not within walking distance,
not a 20-minute drive away.
I won't be able to send you a text,
meet you for ice cream on hot
July days or a cup of winter coffee
when November turns from orange to ice.
Little girl (yes, I'm still going
to call you that, even though
you're 24 now and heading 
to medical school, because I
was the first person to hold you
after you emerged from your
mother, held you so close
to my chest you became my
heartbeat, then my heart),
so, little girl, I will let you go,
get in my car, drive away from
you, until you get smaller and
smaller in my rearview mirror.
I will probably hug you first, slip
some cash into your palm,
like all fathers do, remind you
to get your oil changed on your car,
like all fathers do.  And I'll probably
say something like I'm so proud
of you! because that's what's
expected.  But, tonight, as I write
these words, I don't know who
I am right now.  I'm waiting
to hear my heart start beating again.



Wednesday, June 18, 2025

June 18: "Little Things," Sister's Interment, "Fairy Tale"

Yes, I am still alive and kicking, as the Simple Minds sing.  

I haven't given up writing.  Or moved to a remote cabin in the Canadian wilderness.  Or been arrested and flown to an El Salvadorian concentration camp.  I'm still working at the library.  Teaching for the university (one summer class).  Attending protest rallies.  Watching with increasing horror as democracy is dismantled Executive Order by Executive Order.  It's hard to find things to love in this world right now.

Sharon Olds writes about things she loves . . . 

Little Things

by: Sharon Olds

After she’s gone to camp, in the early
evening I clear our girl’s breakfast dishes
from the rosewood table, and find a dinky
crystallized pool of maple syrup, the
grains standing there, round, in the night, I
rub it with my fingertip
as if I could read it, this raised dot of
amber sugar, and this time,
when I think of my father, I wonder why
I think of my father, of the Vulcan blood-red
glass in his hand, or his black hair gleaming like a
broken-open coal. I think I learned
to love the little things about him
because of all the big things
I could not love, no one could, it would be wrong to.
So when I fix on this image of resin,
or sweep together with the heel of my hand a
pile of my son’s sunburn peels like
insect wings, where I peeled his back the night before camp,
I am doing something I learned early to do, I am
paying attention to small beauties,
whatever I have–as if it were our duty to
find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.



It's important to practice loving daily.  I truly believe that.  However, putting that belief into practice can be quite challenging, especially with President 47 pushing us closer and closer to nuclear war with Iran.  Granted, the United States of America was built on stolen land out of the blood, bodies, and tears of enslaved African Americans, so there's a lot about this country that isn't all that inspiring.  

However, I'm constantly looking for things to love in this universe.  That's kind of what poets do.  Some days are easier than other days in this pursuit.  Strangely, today was one of the easier days.

I say "strangely" because, at 2 p.m. this afternoon, at Holy Cross Cemetery, my sister Rose's cremains were interred.  It's been about a year and a half since Rose died, so this ceremony was long overdue.  My family and three of my siblings were present as our parish priest prayed and led the liturgy.  Father Larry got to know Rose about ten years ago when our sister Sally was dying.  

I didn't think I was going to get emotional during the service.  Since it's been so long since Rose's passing, I thought I'd developed a thicker skin.  I haven't.  As I drove back to work afterward, I found myself crying a little uncontrollably.  

The rest of the day is sort of a blur.  I got a lot of work done, but nothing that really sticks in my head.  This evening, I hosted a concert by one of my favorite local bands--the Make Believe Spurs.  Not only are they great musicians, but they're also three of the nicest people you will ever know.

As I listened to them sing Joni Mitchell's "Paved Paradise," I suddenly had this image of Rose dancing.  Rose had Down syndrome, so she was all love and excitement about everything.  And she loved to move her shoulders and hips.  She would have been grooving the entire concert.

I found things to love this evening:  my friends Brian, Molly, and Mavis singing and playing on the library steps; my sister Rose's ghost boogying in front of them; a seagull sitting on a tower across the street, watching the entire show.  

I'm so grateful for my friends who brought music and joy into my life tonight.  And for my sister Rose, who was literally music and joy every day she was alive.

Saint Marty finished a new poem today, based on the June 7th prompt from The Daily Poet:  

Nikki Giovanni, whose birthday is today, states in her poem "Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day":

It seems no matter how I try I become more difficult 
                         to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want

Write a poem that defines who you are:  are you becoming more difficult to hold?  Are you an easy woman/man or a difficult one?  Share details about yourself using concrete imagery and forthright language in an open/free-verse poem that describes and defines you.

Fairy Tale

by: Martin Achatz

Once     upon     a     time      I was hope     was
sperm and egg      chance for breath     was
girl     boy     unsung Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da     unpainted
water lily     unwritten Call me Ishmael     waiting      waiting

Then I was     pain     pant pant pant     scream
blue skin to pink     perfect thumb
snail tongue     hunger     frost fragile

Now     husband     father     empty-nester
bald      passport-less      unable to stand
under The Creation of Adam     now voter     protestor
insomniac      lover of chicken pizza     old
Dracula movies      van Gogh nights      now quick
to anger     now patient      guilty     ABBA fan
Milky Way eating     diabetic     now poet     now failed
plumber     grower of hair in odd places      God
lover      God doubter     in debt     rich     church organist
now grief-drenched     yesterday’s tears     yesterday’s laugh
sweating like a July toilet tank     now pierced ear
occasional joint smoker     unbalanced checkbook

Tomorrow     I’ll sit on a beach     drink sunrise     fly with gulls
recite a poem     loaded     with iron ore     launch it across Superior
watch it     sail happily     sail ever     sail after     distant     Thunder     Bay



Saturday, May 31, 2025

May 31, 2025: "The Month of June: 13 1/2," Grad, "Graduation Party"

It is that time of year when young people march in caps and gowns, high school orchestras struggle through "Pomp and Circumstance," and parents feel old.

Sharon Olds' daughter matriculates . . . 

The Month of June: 13 1/2

by: Sharon Olds

As our daughter approaches graduation and
puberty at the same time, at her
own, calm, deliberate, serious rate,
she begins to kick up her heels, jazz out her
hands, thrust out her hipbones, chant
I’m great! I’m great! She feels 8th grade coming
open around her, a chrysalis cracking and
letting her out, it falls behind her and
joins the other husks on the ground,
7th grade, 6th grade, the
magenta rind of 5th grade, the
hard jacket of 4th when she had so much pain,
3rd grade, 2nd, the dim cocoon of
1st grade back there somewhere on the path, and
kindergarten like a strip of thumb-suck blanket
taken from the actual blanket they wrapped her in at birth.
The whole school is coming off her shoulders like a
cloak unclasped, and she dances forth in her
jerky sexy child’s joke dance of
self, self, her throat tight and a
hard new song coming out of it, while her
two dark eyes shine
above her body like a good mother and a
good father who look down and
love everything their baby does, the way she
lives their love.



It's difficult for parents to see their children grow, mature into thinking, autonomous creatures.  We always want our kids to stay small, dependent.  Each passing year makes us more and more obsolete.  Pretty soon, you're sitting in bleachers, watching your offspring stride across a stage to collect a piece of paper that pretty much says, "Congratulations!  It's up to you now!"

I went to a graduation party this morning for the son of one of my best friends.  I've watched this young man grow from a quiet kid to a smart, outgoing high school senior.  I used to tower over him.  He now towers over me.  

He's an amazing, empathetic kid.  (I say "kid" because that's what he'll always be to me.)  When I think about the future, I worry a little less because I know young people like him exist.  My generation (and the generation before) has fucked up the world pretty bad and still continues to do so.  It's up to my friend's son and his generation to somehow rescue it.  And I think they will.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about this grad time of year, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:  

On this day in 1859, Big Ben became a working clock in London, England.  For a long time, hearing the bells throughout the city was how Londoners knew what time it was.  Write a poem where the reader knows what time it is and what season it is through the details of your poem.  Do not use words like morning, evening, winter, summer, but let the poem reflect the time of day or season by what is happening in the poem and by the images you use.  For extra credit, have someone in the poem running late of showing up early.

Graduation Party

for E. F.

by: Martin Achatz

I observe the evolution of this boy
from just born to just graduated,
the table jammed with photos,
crayon drawings, poems about pizza
and dogs, ribbons for spelling,
finally a diploma and tassel.

It's like those charts in biology
class:  Dryopithecus to Homo
habalis, erectus, neanderthalensis,
sapien--crawling to knuckling to 
walking.  Now, he sits at a table
with friends, plate piled with
donuts, muffins, bacon and cheese
quiche, his first meal on this day 
after when all he can think about
is tomorrow and tomorrow, his spine
straightening, thick fur melting away,
brain expanding to make room
for the invention of fire.



Friday, May 30, 2025

May 30, 2025: "The Moment the Two Worlds Meet," Vacations, "Honeymoon at Seashell City"

I took today off work, and then I pretty much worked all day long--on poems and cover letters and resumés and church music.  My life rarely is without tasks that need to be completed, for the library or university or churches or home.  

I also spent a lot of time thinking about my kids--my daughter who's 24 and heading off to med school in a couple months, and my son who's 16 and will be a senior next school year.  It seems like yesterday they were just tadpoles swimming in my wife's belly.

Sharon Olds reflects on the birth of a child . . . 

The Moment the Two Worlds Meet

by: Sharon Olds

That's the moment I always think of--when the
slick, whole body comes out of me,
when they pull it out, not pull it but steady it
as it pushes forth, not catch it but keep their
hands under it as it pulses out,
they are the first to touch it,
and it shines, it glistens with the thick liquid on it.
That's the moment, while it's sliding, the limbs
compressed close to the body, the arms
bent like a crab's cloud-muscle legs, the
thighs packed plums in heavy syrup, the
legs folded like the wings of a chicken--
that is the center of life, that moment when the
juiced, bluish sphere of the baby is
sliding between the two worlds,
wet, like sex, it is sex,
it is my life opening back and back
as you'd strip the reed from the bud, not strip it but
watch it thrust so it peels itself and the
flower is there, severely folded, and
then it begins to open and dry
but by then the moment is over,
they wipe off the grease and wrap the child in a blanket and
hand it to you entirely in this world.



Sharon Olds pretty much captures the experience of childbirth for women in this poem.  For nine months, the fetus swims in its own little liquid world of heartbeat.  Then the woman's body opens, and a new body appears, becomes a part of this world we all know.  That previous world of ocean and warmth and music becomes ancestral.

It always feels to me like I'm shuttling back and forth between different worlds.  Library world to university world to poetry world to church world to blog world.  I've juggled this whole solar system of worlds most of my life.  Occasionally (not often in the last couple years), I'm able to take a break, visit an uncharted world to just relax and forget about life on my other planets.

I haven't taken a true traveling vacation for quite a while.  No lounging on the beaches of Cancun.  No climbing the Swiss Alps.  No tours of the Louvre.  Instead, when I take time off, I stay home with my dog, sleep a lot, write a lot, read a lot, and binge TV a lot.  

It is the cusp of full summer now.  As I said, my daughter is moving away in a little over a month, and, in a week or so, my son will finish up his junior year of high school.  My worlds are going to shift and expand again.  I'll probably be on the road a lot more in the coming years.  I have no idea what birthdays and holidays are going to be like.  To paraphrase the book of Exodus, I will be a stranger in a strange world again.

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

Write two ten-line pomes about two places you've visited--one that you loved and one you disliked or didn't like as well.  Now, intersperse the lines of the place-you-loved poem with the lines of the place-you-didn't-like-so-much poem until you have one twenty-line poem.

Honeymoon at Seashell City

by: Martin Achatz

we stand at the edge of that igneous
moonscape in the dark, watch

a man-eating clam under glass, mouth
propped open, a mousetrap waiting for

the lava roar off the cliff into the Pacific,
a sound like the beginning of the world

a curious toddler to wander by,
boxes of dried starfish, polished conchs

in our ears, so loud I have to press
my lips to my wife's ear for her

displayed like produce in a grocery store,
tomato snail shells, sea cucumbers

to hear my words even though I really
have nothing to say about Hadean

carved wooden gull glued onto a piece
of driftwood bleached almost white

oceans under her body's volcanic pull and
my hunger for the magma of her skin

by waves and sun and time while
the Beach Boys croon about Kokomo and surf



Thursday, May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025: "I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror," Quiet, "Poem for an Ordinary Day on which I Wasn't Exposed to Measles and Lilacs Are Beginning to Bloom"

Some days are just . . . quiet.  

Nothing special happens.  No catastrophes or Nobel Prizes.  You just get up, go about your normal, daily business, have dinner, maybe watch a little television, and then go to bed.

Most people don't realize that quiet days like today are gifts.  Blessings.  Full of common, everyday miracles.

Sharon Olds writes about living her true life . . . 

I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror

by: Sharon Olds

Backwards and upside down in the twilight, that
woman on all fours, her head
dangling, and suffused, her lean
haunches, the area of darkness, the flanks and
ass narrow and pale as a deer's and those
breasts hanging down toward the center of the earth like 
               plummets, when I
swayed from side to side they swayed, it was
so near night I couldn’t tell if they were yellow or
violet or rose. I cannot get over her
moving toward him upside down in the mirror like a
fly on the ceiling, her head hanging down and her
tongue long and purple as an anteater's
going toward his body, she was so clearly a human
animal, she was an Iroquois scout creeping
naked and noiseless, and when I looked at her
she looked at me so directly, her eyes all
pupil, her stare said to me I
belong here, this is mine, I am living out my
true life on this earth.



Olds isn't describing anything earthshattering in this poem.  It's simply a sexual encounter in front of a mirror, her watching her mirror self "living out" her "true life on this earth."  

Most of people aren't really cognizant of their true lives.  They go through their daily routines with blinders on, moving from one mundane thing to another.  That pretty much describes almost every one of my days.  I never really stop to smell the lilacs.  Instead, I rush everywhere, trying to milk as much productivity as I can out of each second that passes.

I literally have to remind myself to pause, look around, and give thanks for all the quotidian miracles around me.  Staples.  A good fountain pen.  Sunlight.  A bad joke.  A good joke.  A nickel in my pocket.  Trillium blossoming in the backyard.  Because I'm a poet, I do this kind of thing all the time.  If you look for moments of grace, you'll find they.  Or they will find you.

Now, not all grace is beautiful or transcendent.  The writer Flannery O'Connor said this about grace:  "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful . . . The reader wants his grace warm and binding, not dark and disruptive."  Ultimately, all grace is good, even if it causes discomfort or pain.  

Yes, it's difficult to see grace in all situations.  Yet, if you look around right now, I'd bet you could list at least five things for which you're grateful.  Gratitude is an acknowledgement of grace.

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

On this day in 1903, comedian Bob Hope was born.  Bob Hope was known for his own rendition of the song "Thanks For The Memories."  Write a poem where you give thanks, but make sure it includes humor as well as gratitude.

Poem for an Ordinary Day
     on which I Wasn't Exposed to Measles
     and Lilacs Are Beginning to Bloom

by: Martin Achatz

Nothing happened today.

The sun rose.  I ate breakfast.
My son went to school.  I went
to work, as did my wife.

Had a spinach salad for lunch,
topped with chicken breast and flax seeds.
Ate two Hershey bars for dessert.

Read about a measles case reported
in my county.  Immediately checked
my body for welts and rubeola.

Two birds shit on my freshly washed
car.  Found a joint in the backseat.
Probably my son's.  Smoked it.

Ate a hotdog for dinner, then took
my dog for a walk.  Ended up at a local
ice cream shop.  Ordered a vanilla malt.

Stood in my backyard for 20 minutes
surrounded by lungs of lilacs
inhaling, exhaling the dusky light.

Jesus, I wish every day could be like this.

Monday, May 26, 2025

May 26, 2025: "Topography," Memorial Day, "Taps"

Yes, it is Memorial Day in the United States.  Every year, on the last Monday of the month of May, we celebrate and honor members of the U.S. armed forces who sacrificed their lives to defend our nation.  This year, more than any other, it's even more important to remember the true meaning of this day--the preservation of freedom and democracy against tyranny, hatred, and authoritarianism.

Sharon Olds writes about the United States . . . 

Topography

by: Sharon Olds

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
intricately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly from the left my
moon rising slowly from the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.



Okay, Olds' poem is about sex.  It's not very subtle in that regard.  However, it's also about the freedom of speech (that's the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution for all those MAGA readers who've never read the document upon which our entire country is based).  Olds can write a sex poem using the United States metaphorically and parodying the Pledge of Allegiance simply because it's her Constitutional right.

In other countries ruled by fascist dictators, poets have been thrown in jail for criticizing political leaders.  Stalin did it.  Putin is still doing it.  Fortunately, the Constitution prevents President 47 from doing it in the United States (for now).  All those brave members of the U.S. military who fought and died in armed conflicts did so in order to bear "true faith and allegiance to the Constitution" (that's in the oath all enlisted personnel take--check it out if you don't believe me).  They sacrificed their lives so Olds could exercise her Constitutional rights as a U.S. citizen.

I was raised to respect and honor all military veterans.  From a very young age, I knew that Memorial Day wasn't just about a three-day weekend and hotdogs and corn on the cob.  It's about who we are and what ideals we should all hold dear, regardless of political affiliation.  

I went to a Memorial Day parade with my family today.  Then, we attended a Veterans of Foreign Wars service at a local cemetery.  We placed flowers at the graves of relatives, including my father, who was a military veteran.

I am not a hater or war-monger or xenophobe.  I believe in the worth of everyone, no matter where you come from, what you believe, or who you love.  As a Christian, I was taught that all human beings are children of God.  Kindness and compassion should be the guiding force of everything we do.

If you don't agree with these ideals, you are NOT a true patriot and you are NOT a true Christian.  Sorry, not sorry.  Read the Constitution and the Bible.  It's pretty straightforward.

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

Write a poem where the first word starts with "A" and the last word of the poem ends with "Z."  Somewhere in the poem mention the alphabet or alphabetical order.  Have the poem be about something that has nothing to do with the alphabet.  For extra credit, try to use a word that begins with each letter of the alphabet.

Taps

by: Martin Achatz

At my father's grave today,
a flag licks the bright
air as if whispering 
his name, mustering  him
to attention, him standing
straight as a cornstalk
as my mother's ashes
sigh beside him, tell
him to settle down,
relax until the angels
blow "Reveille" and all
the war dead fall in,
waiting to be counted
one last time before marching
off to that final reckoning, 
from Private Second Class
Achatz to Staff Sergeant Zamora.



Sunday, May 25, 2025

May 25, 2025: "Looking at Them Asleep," Nephew, "Last Advice to the High School Graduate"

It is the time of year for change.  The trees are greening, and the lawn mowers are droning.  The days a stretching out, and fewer and fewer nights involve frost.  Pretty soon, the last bells of the schoolyear will be ringing, and kids will be set free for a few months to work at McDonald's, try to score beer outside party stores, and start preparing for college.  And it's time for parents to let go.

Sharon Olds writes about her kids . . . 

Looking at Them Asleep

by: Sharon Olds

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content--and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.



Olds knows her kids, each and every hair on their heads and nail on their fingers.  That's what parents do.  They spend 17 or 18 or 19 years teaching their children how to fly, and then they open the window and watch them wing away.

My daughter will be leaving in July for medical school.  Haven't really wrapped my mind around that fast-approaching cleaving.  This weekend, my nephew graduated from high school.  I attended his ceremony on Friday, and this evening I went to his graduation party.  

It's an exciting time for young people--on the cusp of their first real tastes of adulthood.  I could see it in my nephew's eyes.  They were full of joy and excitement and hope.  That's the way it should be.  Same with my daughter.  Both of them are gazing into the future, while we parents are mourning the little boy who loved playing Angry Birds and the little girl who fell asleep to Frosty the Snowman every afternoon.  

I wish I had enough money to fund both my daughter's and nephew's educations.  I would at the drop of a hat.  (For my international disciples, I should explain that, in the United States, students have to pay to go to college.  I know, I know.  It's messed up.)  Unfortunately, poets don't make a whole lot of money, unless a Pulitzer Prize is involved, so the best I can do is offer love, support, and words.

I have no doubt my nephew and daughter are going to change the world.  They're kind and intelligent and funny.  As Olds says, I know this girl, this boy.  And I couldn't be prouder.

Saint Marty took a day off from The Daily Poet to rite this poem for his nephew . . . 

Last Advice to the
          High School Graduate


by: Martin Achatz

for Caden, May 23, 2025

I know you’re tired of all the advice:
live in the moment, choose kindness,
measure success by the number of people
who love you, follow the path that’s
overgrown and rocky. You’re weary
of all those clichés from us oldsters
who will gladly show you our scars,
name them like willful kids or
monuments on a Civil War battlefield.

Instead, I want to tell you this morning
I found a rabbit in my backyard. His black
eyes panicked, he dragged himself
over the grass, hind legs useless
as driftwood. Perhaps he was dropped
there by a hungry owl after biting
and clawing and screaming, his spine
splintered by the fist of the ground.
I wanted to help mend his broken body, 
watch him bound away into the lilac bushes.
Sometimes, though, beautiful things cannot
be fixed, and all we can do is give thanks
that we have hearts that can be broken
by suffering and tongues to sing something
sacred and tender about this fragile world
you now hold in the palm of your hand.



Monday, May 19, 2025

May 19, 2025: "Cambridge Elegy," Sal, "Opposites Attract"

Tonight, I screened the film Gladiator II at the library.  The entire time I watched it, I was thinking about my sister, Sally, who loved Gladiator, mainly because of Russell Crowe.  I'm not sure Sal would have enjoyed the sequel all that much, because of the serious lack of Russell Crowe in the movie.  But her spirit was certainly sitting right next to me the whole time, watching.

Sharon Olds writes an elegy for a lost young love . . . 

Cambridge Elegy

by: Sharon Olds

(for Henry Averell Gerry, 1941-60)

I scarcely know how to speak to you now,
you are so young now, closer to my daughter's age
than mine -- but I have been there and seen it, and must
tell you, as the seeing and hearing
spell the world into the deaf-mute's hand.
The dormer windows like the ears of a fox, like the
long row of teats on a pig, still
perk up over the Square, though they're digging up the
street now, as if digging a grave,
the shovels shrieking on stone like your car
sliding along on its roof after the crash.
How I wanted everyone to die I if you had to die,
how sealed into my own world I was,
deaf and blind. What can I tell you now,
now that I know so much and you are a
freshman, still, drinking a quart of orange juice and
playing three sets of tennis to cure a hangover, such an
ardent student of the grown-ups! I can tell you
we were right, our bodies were right, life was
really going to be that good, that
pleasurable in every cell.
Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but
better than the bright corners of your eyes, or the
light of your face, the rich Long Island
puppy-fat of your thighs, or the shined
chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I
remember your extraordinary act of courage in
loving me, something no one but the
blind and halt had done before. You were
fearless, you could drive after a sleepless night
just like a grown-up, and not be afraid, you could
fall asleep at the wheel easily and
never know it, each blond hair of your head--and they were
thickly laid--put out like a filament of light,
twenty years ago. The Charles still
slides by with that ease that made me bitter when I
wanted all things broken and rigid as the
bricks in the sidewalk or your love for me
stopped cell by cell in your young body.
Ave--I went ahead and had the children,
the life of ease and faithfulness, the
palm and the breast, every millimeter of delight in the body,
I took the road we stood on at the start together, I
took it all without you as if
in taking it after all 
I could most
honor you.



It's so difficult losing a person at a younger age.  It sounds as if Olds had made life plans with Henry Averell Gerry.  Those plans included marriage and children.  Olds saw those plans become reality, without Gerry's presence.  She writes the elegy to let him know she's done it--gone down "the road we stood on at the start together"--honoring his youth and potential.

My sister Sal was taken way too early by lymphoma of the brain.  I know she had plans.  She had retirement accounts, a nice camper, nieces and nephews she spoiled.  Always generous, Sal celebrated each Christmas and birthday as if it was going to be the last.  She gave of herself freely, without ever asking for repayment.  That's who she was.

But, of course, you can't have life without death.  Joy without grief.  Love without loss.  That's the way it works.  Everything is defined by its opposite.  You can't know if something tastes salty unless you taste sweet.  Summer can't really be enjoyed unless you know the ice of winter.  Abbott would have been nothing without Costello.  

I would never give up the time I had with Sal simply to avoid the pain of her loss.  Unfortunately, those two things go hand-in-hand.  There was always going to be grief, whether she died first or me.  The depth of love I felt for my sister is defined by sorrow I feel at her absence.  As I said, you can't have one without the other.

So, Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about attraction and opposition, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about a pair of something (of a pair of people) in couplet form (a couplet is a two-line stanza).  Make sure each line in the couplet compliments the other in sound and image; for example, if your first line is about a bride maybe include an image of a groom in the second line or perhaps a veil and bouquet.  Make a list of pairs--Bert and Ernie, apples and oranges, his and hers--then write in couplets inspired by the couple you choose.

Opposites Attract

by: Martin Achatz

Mary Oliver knew this, paired joy
with grief in the same poem,

the way my dad paired 7-Up
with Seven Crown every night

and the moon sometimes sits
in the sky with morning sun,

because it's a matter of negative
calling to positive, magnetically,

Romeo betraying his family name
by falling for Juliet at first sight,

or Robert Redford jumping off
that cliff with Paul Newman.

Salt defines sugar.  Satan defines
God.  You can't have one without

the other.  Just ask the fish swimming
with birds in the reflected clouds.