February 21, 2026: “Persephone, in the Meadow,” Misery and Snow, “Hold”

So, it is Saturday.  Laundry day.  After a week of shoveling and pushing snow heavy as wet cement, I’m so excited to be sitting at a table in the laundromat, watching towels and underwear have an orgy in the washer.  (Read that with sarcasm, please.)

It’s been a really busy seven days.  I had a production of the play Misery at the library on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday (yes, THAT Misery by Stephen King).  That pretty much gobbled up most of my energy and time from last Friday to now.  On top of that, there’s been snow and snow.  So much snow that I don’t think I’m going to have a driveway if another blizzard hits my little portion of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I’m a Yooper (I’ve lived the majority of my life north of the Mackinac Bridge), but I’m getting a little tired of this shit.

I’ve also been struggling with a bout of sadness these last few days.  It’s partially weather-related; I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen blue sky and direct sunlight.  But there’s something else going on, too—a feeling of loneliness and loss that seems to be humming beneath the surface of my life like bees in a dormant hive.

Marie Howe writes about Persephone’s face , , , 

Persephone, in the Meadow

by: Marie Howe

When I looked at the meadow flowers,

many of them looked back

offering their faces:  sometimes crawling with ants or a bee.

And that was that.

But after I’d spent several hours with my mother

I often felt her face on my face—as if my face were her face.

After leaving my mother I’d go to the mirror and look and look.

And it was my face I saw.

But from the inside it felt like hers,

and it was hours before I felt her likeness fade.

I get what Howe is describing in this poem.  After I visit my daughter downstate (or she drives home to visit us), I’m haunted by her presence for a while afterward.  I look in the mirror, and I see her face reflected in mine.  She has my chin and smile and eyes.  It makes the separation more acute for three or four days.

I also see my mother’s face mirrored in my face.  My sister Sally’s face, as well.  We have Hainley features.  (“Hainley” was my mother’s maiden name.). Family has been central to my entire life.  Before Sally died of lymphoma of the brain, Sundays were reserved for big dinners at my parents’ house.  My sisters would cook.  I would bring dessert.  For a few hours, we ate and visited and laughed and loved.  It was a way to stay connected despite our busy schedules.

I’m glad my daughter is old enough to remember those good times.  My son was pretty young when Sally died, so his memories are fuzzier, although when he says her name or mentions her, it’s with the kind of reverence reserved for prayer.  And my kids still get big get-togethers with my wife’s side of the family—birthdays and holidays and homecomings.  It’s always joyful chaos, loud and laugh-filled.

It’s not uncommon for family members to live far and wide.  One of my brothers lives in Pennsylvania.  Before that, he lived in California.  I have a niece who’s a resident of Germany.  One of my sisters and her kids live in Washington state.  My closest blood relatives (two sisters and a brother) live a good hour’s drive away.  Like I said, far and wide.

My wife and I have been together for 35 years now.  Her family is my family just as much as my remaining siblings are.  At our Christmas gathering in December, I thanked my brother-in-law for always treating me like a real brother.  His reply:  “You’re family.  Always will be.”

I’ve been holding onto that moment.  It reminds me that I’m not Oliver Twist, if that makes sense.

Saint Marty has a new poem about holding onto love . . . 

Hold

by: Martin Achatz

I hold this pen in my hand, try

to conjure images of love to hold

this poem together, hold it like

a cupped palm holds water to thirsty

lips or the bowl of a spoon holds

sugar to sweeten coffee.  I hold

my mother and sister:  Mom holding

my sister’s hand, my sister’s breath held,

let go, held, let go, held, let go, held, 

Mom holding tighter and tighter 

because she knows to release her hold 

would be like releasing a balloon held 

in a child’s sticky fist, watching it float 

up, up into the gold and blue circus 

tent of heaven.

February 14, 2026: “Persephone,” Valentine’s Day, “Why?”

Yes, I find myself still struggling with my writing.  It’s not that I’m not doing it.  I’m doing it every day.  It’s just that everything I write is crap.  Or, at least, it’s crap to me.  I’ve lost my ability to judge whether what I compose is good or bad.  My inner editor is broken or on an extended vacation or in some ICE detention facility somewhere in Texas.  I’m not sure.

It is Valentine’s Day, and my wife and I did go out to lunch to celebrate this afternoon.  I had a French dip sandwich, and the love of my life had a messy plate of nachos that she loved.  We have been through quite a bit in the 35+ years we have been a couple.  Breakups.  A wedding.  Two kids.  Separation.  Marriage counseling.  And here we are—still in love with each other.  Still best friends.  

I often wonder, if Orpheus and Eurydice or Romeo and Juliet had had chances to grow old together, would they have endured similar challenges?

Marie Howe writes about another ancient love story . . . 

Persephone

by: Marie Howe

People forget he was a king, a god,

and that down there deep

everything gleamed.

So tight did he hold me I was swaddled hard

so bound I couldn’t move,

and inside that grip he moved          and moved

                                     and it was a monstrosity

an ecstasy     I forgot myself.        I became

an animal again          I screamed.     It didn’t matter how long.

No one put a hand over my mouth.

                      And when it was over

I lay across his knees, on my back, entirely open,

nobody, no one

an animal on the altar of a king—a god.

Okay, so perhaps the myth of Persephone is NOT the most heartwarming or romantic.  I mean, it does begin with a kidnapping and grieving mother (who happens to be a goddess and almost destroys the world in her sorrow).  And Howe doesn’t really portray Persephone as a moony-eyed lover.  She’s more like an animal sacrifice meant to appease the king/god of the Underworld.  That beginning doesn’t bode well for a “happily ever after.”  But, maybe it’s a more realistic picture of the trials and tribulations of romantic love.  

I have loved my wife since the first day I laid eyes on her.  We had a lot of things stacked against us from the start.  There was an age difference that made both of our families a little suspicious.  At the time, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be in a serious relationship; I was a few years into my college education and thinking about graduate school.  She was raised Methodist, and I was a cradle Catholic.  (This may not sound like that big of a deal, but it certainly was for my father, in particular.)  Like I said, a lot of obstacles.

Yet, where love exists, anything is possible.  

As I said earlier, my wife and I have had our share of challenges.  Loss.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  But, to paraphrase Sir Elton John, we’re still standing.  For that, I credit stubbornness, luck, prayer, and quite a lot of grace.

My wife’s family has become my family.  When my sister died of lymphoma of the brain, they were there for me, holding me up, providing love and support (and food for the funeral lunch).  They did the same for the deaths of my brother, parents, and another sister.  I never had to ask or beg for help.  They just stepped in and lightened my burdens.

When I fell in love with my wife, I gained not just a partner, but an entire village of brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles.  I have been truly blessed with love in my life.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about his sister, whom he loved deeply.  She was taken way too soon , , , 

Why?

by: Martin Achatz

I am older now than my sister

will ever be.  She will never fire

up the Keurig to make morning 

coffee again, never sit under

a lonely star and wonder why

her legs won’t help her rise

from her chair, never wrap

a birthday or Christmas present

again.  I wonder, in her last 

breaths, if she still felt longing,

the ache to be held like an infant

in our mother’s arms one more time.

When that comet appeared in the Milky

Way of her brain, and when

that comet became a shower

of August Perseids, did she know

she would be leaving us so

soon?  Were her bags packed,

plenty of socks and underwear

for the long journey?  I can still

see her standing on the deck

of Charon’s boat that last morning, 

waving to me as if she’s just going 

to Walmart to pick up a few things—

toilet paper, toothpaste, a dozen eggs.

February 6, 2026: ‘Another Theory of Time,” Long Week, “Winter Zen”

When I was a kid, summers seemed to last forever.  On the last day of school, when that final bell rang at the end of the day, it felt like a whole life spread out before me.  Sun, swims, movies, books, friends.  Later, in high school, parties, road trips, concerts.  Those three months were a wonderful eternity.

These days, a work week seems like an eternity, and the weekend is a melting snowflake, practically gone before it hits the ground.  As we gain in years, we seem to lose in time.  As Einstein thought, time is relative—the more time we have under our belts, the less time we have left.

Marie Howe meditates on time . . . 

Another Theory of Time

by: Marie Howe

So, I tell my daughter

—we are eating dinner, reading through the book of stories—

I’m worried about Jason.  If I seem distracted, that’s what’s on my mind.

And she says, Take it out of your mind,

then dips and eats a dumpling, and says, But don’t take out Jason.

And this morning at the deli I say, I’m grumpy because

it’s the first day of school, and I’m thinking of so many things,

and she says, Take them out, and I say, How do I do that?

and she says, Think about Now.

I bite into my egg and cheese on a sesame bagel, and it is good.  It is

Although it does bother me—

how she always wants to sit at the tiny deli counter

so near the garbage bins—eating meatballs for breakfast.

Then she says, I can’t remember the future or the past.

The local high school girls order iced coffee and whole wheat bagels

with nothing on them.  My girl eats her meatballs,

and I stare past the cutouts of ham and turkey taped to the window

and think about the moment I want so much to leave

—how small it is sometimes, this Now==

how constricting, me with my bad teeth and aging elbows,

as person after person tosses their trash inches behind my back

before walking out the open door.

The daughter in the poem is wise.  Truly, we can’t do anything about the past, and the future hasn’t even happened yet.  So, that leaves the present, in all of its messy glory.  Human beings spend way too much time lamenting past mistakes, old lovers, the “might have beens”  Or we worry about upcoming final exams, deadlines at work, or doctor’s appointments.  

I wish I could say I was as Zen as the daughter in Howe’s poem.  I’m not.  In fact, I’m already thinking about the coming summer months—my son’s high school graduation and subsequent party, future vacation, unedited poetry manuscript.  And, in the last few weeks, I’ve also been haunted with thoughts of my sister Rose, who passed on January 20 four years ago.  Future and past.  I almost never focus on what’s in front of me.

I’m not proud of that admission.  I think I’d be a lot happier if I could simply enjoy what I’m doing right now:  sitting on my couch on a Friday night, watching the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Italy, and petting my puppy.  It’s sort of a perfect moments, surrounded by all the things and people I love, doing the things I love to do.

I think that’s what writing poetry is all about.  A poet captures moments, preserving the emotion and essence of them.  When I sit down with my journal to work on a poem, one of the first things I do is just look around, see what’s in front of me.  Often, the sound of the car driving by outside will cruise right onto the blank page.  Or the snowstorm shaking the windows.  Or the smell of brownies baking in the oven.  All of those Now things.  

And, when I sit down to tap out a blog post on my iPad, those Now things creep in, as well.  Because, really, that’s all I’ve got.  Even at the end of a long week (and this week was L-O-N-G), I only have this: the plate of poutine in front of me, and the smell of my puppy farting on her pillow beside me.  That’s my moment.  (By the way, all the pictures on your phone’s camera roll, those are captured Now moments.  Visual poems, so to speak.)

I am going to try to be a little more Zen this weekend.  Instead of worrying about the movie I’m showing at the library on Monday evening, or my lesson plans for next week’s classes, I’m going to try to take it moment by moment,  song by TV show by poem by nap by walk by movie by meal.  And I’ll probably be a lot happier for the effort.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for this evening about a poet friend enjoying a winter moment , , ,

Winter Zen

by: Martin Achatz

They’re skating on Lake Superior

these days, the water smooth,

hard as unanswered prayer.

Last night, my best friend

rushed to the ice after work,

spun and raced from the shore

to the edge of the world, as if

somewhere beyond the razors 

on her feet were the fresh-shaved

cheeks of May and June, ready

to be smudged with lipstick

at junior prom.

February 1, 2026: “Reincarnation,” Someone Else, “In Response to a Stanza from ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ by William Butler Yeats”

When I was in middle and high school, I wanted to be the reincarnation of Flannery O’Connor.  As an undergrad, I switched to Robert Frost and Walt Whitman.  In grad school, I branched out a little—I wanted to be Mozart 2.0 or van Gogh 2.0.  

I hail from a family of plumbers, and I always wanted to know from whom my artistic abilities came.  I love writing, drawing, acting, singing, playing music.  My father was a great plumber; that was his art.  My mother loved singing and reading and, occasionally, doodling, but she was a pretty common sense lady.  No flights of fancy for her.  My siblings were/are pretty brilliant, as well.  My sister Sally had a photographic memory; she was one of the smartest people I will ever know.  My sister, Rose, who had Down Syndrome, was a genius of love; she could make anyone feel like the most important person in the world.  My brothers (all three of them) have/had innate skills with plumbing and electricity.  I could go on, but you get the idea.

Marie Howe contemplates past lives . . . 

Reincarnation

by: Marie Howe

Sometimes when I look at our dog Jack I think

he might be my radical American History professor come back

to make amends—he gazes at me so sorrowfully.

What is it Jack, I say, why do you look like that?  But Jack

doesn’t answer; he lies down and rests his head on his paws.

Black hair covered nearly all of that man’s body, thick 

under his blue oxford shirt when I put my hand there.

Perhaps that accounted for the bow tie,

the pipe, the tweed cap.

This time I can teach him to sit and to stay.

Stay, I say to Jack who looks at the treat in my hand

and then at me, and at the treat and then at me, and he stays.

Come, I say to Jack, but Jack does not always come.

Sometimes he waits and looks at me a long time,

as when my professor would lean back in his chair

draw on his pipe and gaze at me.

But when I hold a treat Jack comes, and I remember how

the professor would lick dripping honey from the jar

lick peanut butter from the knife.

A little stubborn, our dog Jack,

shy we thought,

until the morning my daughter jumped on my bed

and Jack sprang at her growling,

and the next morning when he rushed towards her growling

and bit her skirt and tore it, and bit her and broke her skin,

and when I went to collar him, bit me, snarling and bit and bit.

That’s when I was pretty sure he was my history professor.

The vet said this happens more often than you’d imagine.

He must always be tethered, she said, until he can be trusted.

He must learn that you and your daughter come first.

And no more couch and no more sleeping in the bed with you Mama,

not ever.

I finally left him so late at night it was nearly dawn—

picking up my boots by the door,

stepping down the two flights, then running towards the car.

What can I say?  Jack may be my American History professor come back.

After all these years to make amends,

or Jack may be actually himself—a dog.

It’s a funny poem, but it sort of touches upon the same question that I started this post with:  from where do talents, gifts, and personalities come?  Howe attributes Jack’s aggression to her former American History professor.  Jack has the same stubbornness, same hunger for food and attention.

I don’t think I carry the spiritual or artistic DNA of Flannery O’Connor or Walt Whitman.  I will never reach the elevated status of Robert Frost or William Butler Years.   Most readers of this blog will agree that those writers were head and shoulders above.  They had gifts that the world will never see again.

I think all artists stand on the shoulders of the greats, from poets to painters to composers to actors.  I know I do.  If I get stuck when I’m writing a poem, I immediately turn to writers who inspire me.  When I go anywhere, I always carry books by favorite poets.  Currently, in my shoulder bag, I have collections by Jonathan Johnson and Ross Gay (plus Marie Howe, of course).  Before I started writing this little reflection, I sat and read some poems from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude.  Doing that cleared my head, emptied it of noise, and I was able to start writing.

Each time I scribble in my journal or tap away on my laptop, I always feel like I’m a conduit.  I can even tell when it happens—the world suddenly fades away, and I’m can feel someone/something else take over.  Images and words and language flow easily, and, when I’m done, I’ve got a new poem or essay or blog post.  I guess you could call it inspiration, but who knows the true origins of inspiration?  It might God or luck.  Or it might be Flannery O’Connor’s ghost.

I have learned it’s not wise to question the divine spark when it appears.  You just simply accept it and say “thanks.”

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today, inspired by the ghost of William Butler Yeats . . . 

In Response to a Stanza from ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ by William Butler Yeats

by: Martin Achatz

Grant me, God, snow on my tongue

Impossible to ignore;

They who winter the air with words

Cool the July of war.

January 25, 2026: “The Saw, The Drill,” Another Shooting, “Laundry Day”

WARNING;  I am going to be writing about yesterday’s shooting in Minneapolis.  

Another day, another shooting.

Some things are impossible to ignore, and I’m not sure that ignorance is bliss in this situation.  To ignore is to be complicit, and I simply can’t pretend that everything is sunshine and chocolates in the United States at the moment.

A little over two weeks ago, Renee Good was murdered on the streets of Minneapolis by a masked ICE agent whose only response after shooting here in the face was to call her a “fucking bitch.” Yesterday (Saturday, January 24, 2026) a group of ICE agents murdered another innocent protestor in Minneapolis.  His name was Alex Pretti, a 37-year-old intensive care nurse who worked for a Veterans Administration hospital in the city.  Trying to protect a woman, Pretti was pepper-sprayed, forced to the sidewalk, brutally beaten, and then shot multiple times.  (I’ve watched the video of the killing.  The ICE agents fire at least ten shots into Pretti’s prostrate body in the space of about five or seven seconds.)  After they shot him, one ICE agent can be seen clapping while the others turn Pretti’s body to count bullet holes.

I know I said I was going to try to remain positive in my posts, but I just can’t tonight.  I . . . just . . . can’t.

Marie Howe writes about how humans break things . . . 

The Saw, The Drill

by: Marie Howe

There’s always a chain saw somewhere,

the high whine of a drill, somebody building something or

tearing it down—fastening metal to metal.

When did wood give way to iron?

Then to plastic?

Almost everywhere the sound of the human will:

the bluster of engine, the grind of a blade, the wheel:

hammering, construction, repair.

Someone nailed to a cross, someone leashed, lashed.

Someone hung from a scaffold:  listen:  the squeak of the rope

the hammering.

Kill him with his own gun, a woman shouted,

Kill him with his own gun.

What have we made?  What are we making?

And who or what made us that we should make

such things as we do and did?  We grow smaller.  We break things.

Then turn to each other and beg for what no human can give.

This is a difficult poem for me to read tonight.  It’s all about humankind’s inherent need to break things.  We create, we destroy.  The line that sticks with me:  Kill him with his own gun.  I’m tired of ruthless mercenaries patrolling our streets, tear-gassing and detaining legal protestors, and un-aliving mothers and poets and nurses.  Yesterday, after seeing the video of Pretti’s assassination, I said to my wife, “I don’t recognize the country I live in anymore.”  

As I’m typing these words, I’m trying to formulate a message that isn’t all anger and retribution.  I’m failing miserably because I want these federal thugs to be arrested, convicted, and punished.  The Winter Olympics will be starting in Italy very soon, and, if I were an athlete, I’d be ashamed to represent the United States.  (Keep in mind that the fear and righteous anger we all feel right now is the same fear and righteous anger that African and Indigenous Americans have been experiencing for hundreds of years.)

I haven’t lost hope completely, though.  As Ann Frank said, 

In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.

Ann Frank was right.  The cruelty did end, but not before she was killed in a Nazi concentration camp.  Renee Good and Alex Pretti are martyrs for democracy, freedom, kindness, and compassion.  One day, plaques and statues should be erected in their honor.  They should never be forgotten.  

That is Saint Marty’s hope.  

A poem for tonight . . . 

Laundry Day

for Alex Pretti

by: Martin Achatz

I sit with the normal Saturday-morning crew, watch underwear, socks tumble and agitate as if I’m binging some Netflix series.  Martin and Malcolm have loads going, too, built up after a week of marching and teargas in the Twin Cities.  They huddle in a corner, drink hot coffee, compare notes, bruises, scars from the good old days, wonder when the good old days will end.  Alex comes in, fills a washer with towels and sheets, finds a seat, asks no one in particular, Is this a dream?  Martin and Malcolm laugh, offer him a stick of Juicy Fruit.  All three watch the machines cycle and spin, cycle and spin, trying to remove stains that just won’t come out, even after hundreds of years of scrubbing.

January 23, 2026: “Practicing,” Being Gone, “Exes”

It was a good day to stay inside.  In fact, it was a good day just to stay in bed.

The windchills were between -35 ad -40 degrees Fahrenheit.  I’m pretty sure all the schools and colleges and universities in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan were shut down.  I took the day off work.  (I planned this a while ago, independent of the weather forecasts.)

So, I sat on my couch most of today, watching dumb Hallmark Christmas movies, practicing being gone.

Marie Howe on being a ghost . . . 

Practicing

by: Marie Howe

Today I’m going to practice being dead for a few hours.

No one can expect anything from me.

No emails.  No groceries.

Our little dog Jack watches me walk

from room to room, but,

for a few hours, he is the only one who can,

and he returns contentedly to his bone.

I say bone—it’s what the pet store calls

a bully stick, which is in fact a bull’s penis—

dried out and hard.

That a small dog should chew on a bull’s penis!

Well, we eat swordfish, don’t we?

And the shy octopus whose brains

are in her arms?

The sunlight enters the small kitchen

spilling across the white enamel table

and the chipped blue wooden chair

whether anyone is there to see it, or not.

Meister Elkhart says, There never was a man who forsook himself so much

that he would not still fund more in himself to forsake.

Nevertheless, it’s good to have a dog with you when you are practicing

not being there:  you don’t feel so all alone.

Especially nowadays, it’s pretty easy to feel all alone.  I’ve written about this isolation in my previous two posts.  With so much division and cruelty happening in the streets of the United States, it’s really easy to contemplate just not being here, as Howe says.

Today, I absented myself from almost everything that I normally do.  I didn’t speak with anybody.  Didn’t work at the library,  Didn’t teach.  I even managed to look at my cell phone only once or twice all day long.I guess you could say I was practicing being dead.

It’s not a bad thing contemplating your absence from this mortal coil.  It’s a way to remind yourself of your place in the grand scheme of things.  I often wonder if what I do for a living/as a person makes any difference,  Poetry doesn’t put food in the mouths of starving kids.  Teaching doesn’t assist a homeless person with finding a place to live.  Blogging doesn’t stop a war.  Yet, I’m always reminded what Clarence the angel says to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life:  “Strange, isn’t it?  Each man’s life touches so many other lives,  When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

I like to think I’d leave an awful hole if I wasn’t here.  Whenever I do something, my goal is always the same:  leave the world a better place.  I want to be remembered as someone who loved and cared deeply for everyone and everything.  I’m sure I don’t always succeed.  However, I try each and every day.  That’s all any of us can do.

It’s getting late.  I’m tired.  Once I publish this post, I will more than likely go to sleep.  That’s one thing Howe doesn’t say:  being gone is exhausting.  I’m not sure if that means being dead is exhausting, too.  Hopefully, I won’t find out for a while.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about people being gone . . . 

Exes

by: Martin Achatz

How do you become an ex-anything?

Am I an ex-student because I no longer

take classes?  Am I an ex-son because

both my parents are in Holy Cross

Cemetery?  If I don’t write a poem

for a year, am I then an ex-poet?

How about the best man at my wedding?

He lives in New Zealand, flies helicopters,

finds sheep in his yard every morning.

I haven’t spoken with him in two 

years.  Does that make him an ex-

friend?  Ex-best man?  Years from now,

will my daughter find an old wedding

picture, point at him standing next

to me, say, “Who’s this guy?”  Will

I struggle to remember his name?

Bobby something or other?  Maybe Brian?

I imagine he named one of those sheep 

after me, calls to it as he sips his coffee

at sunrise:  Good boy, Donald!

January 21, 2026: "Postscript," Cold, "There Are No Flowers in Minneapolis"

I truly appreciate all the people who responded to my last post.  It's easy to feel isolated right now.  You're never sure where people are politically or what subject is "safe."  It's exhausting.  So all the messages I received (both on this blog and privately) have made me feel less alone.

I am going to try to balance the good and the bad in my posts this year.  Believe it or not, there's still a lot of beauty in the world.  (It's just difficult to see it through all the teargas.  Sorry, not sorry.)  For example, I'm currently sitting in my new office at the library, looking out at Lake Superior from my window.  The lake is gray and cold-looking, the shoreline fringed with ice and snow.  It's austere and lovely, like a stern grandfather who always has a butterscotch in his pocket for you.  The world is full of wonder.

Marie Howe reflects on how we've treated the world . . . 

Postscript

by: Marie Howe

What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters

one after the other.

What we did to the trees we did to our elders

stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.

What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons

calling out for their mothers.

What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth

we did to our sons, to our daughters.

What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,

we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.

Few of us knew what the bird calls meant

or what the fires were saying.

We took of earth and took and took, and the earth

seemed not to mind,

until one of our daughters shouted:  It was right

in front of you, right in front of your eyes

and you didn't see.

The air turned red.  The ocean grew teeth.

Yes, humankind has fucked up this planet greatly.  Howe is right about that.  We have taken and taken and taken, without considering the cost of each taken.  Hence, Deepwater Horizon and Exxon Valdez and Chernobyl.  The air is turning red, and the oceans do bite.

At the moment, my little corner of the Upper Peninsula is cold, and it's going to get colder and colder.  By Friday, windchills will hit -30 and -40 degrees Fahrenheit.  Those kinds of temperatures seem vindictive, like the earth is getting even with us for being such terrible stewards of its resources.  

But there was warmth and joy in my life this evening.  I hosted a concert at the library featuring two lovely musicians—the Seth Brown Duo.  The music lifted my spirits and reminded me that there are still good people in the world, despite the violence and outright cruelty occurring in the streets and neighborhoods of Minneapolis and St. Paul.  It’s very easy to lose sight of beauty and joy these days.

Tonight, I am grateful for music and friends.  Yes, the United States is a big ol’ dumpster fire at the moment, but change is coming.  It’s inevitable.  And, for 60 minutes tonight, I forgot to be frightened or pissed off.  Instead, I sang “Don’t Worry Be Happy” and “Imagine.”

Maybe John Lennon got it right—no heaven, no hell, just a world living as one.  We all need to be dreamers.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about happiness.

There Are No Flowers in Minneapolis

by:  Martin Achatz

No fresh daisies push through

cracks in sidewalks, no plumes

of lilac dust the air.  Geraniums

stay hidden behind locked

doors, refuse to open, bloom.

Even florists hide their silken

arrays in basements, secret back

rooms, Anne Frank orchids that dream

of riding on young girls’ wrists

and sparrow chests for junior prom.

Even the morning glory avoids

the rising sun, hides its face

from anyone who wants to pluck

it before smiles start to blossom.

January 19, 2026: “Prologue,” Marie Howe, MLK Day, “Broken Snow Shovel”

I have a confession:  I’m having difficulty writing.  

No, it’s not writer’s block.  I’m still scribbling in my journal, and every once in a while a poem appears.  Yet, on a day-to-day basis, I’m overwhelmed by the state of the world, or, more specifically, my country.  I find very little that’s uplifting and beautiful right now.  There are ruthless thugs brutalizing, kidnapping, and disappearing people across the United States.  Our unhinged pathological narcissist “leader” is invading sovereign nations; un-aliving innocents; and covering up child sex trafficking.  People are starving, losing jobs, and getting sick because our elected officials are more concerned with playing political games than actually doing what they’re paid to do:  taking care of their constituents.  It feels as if the great experiment of the United States of America is collapsing before my eyes.

That’s my struggle.

I’ve chosen Marie Howe as 2026’s poet of the year for this blog.  I’ve loved her writing for a very long time because she’s fearless.  She embraces joy and grief.  Hopefulness and hopelessness.  Light and dark.  

Prologue

by: Marie Howe

In the middle of my life—just past the middle—

walking along the street with our little dog Jack on a leash

—OK—just past the late-middle—

in what some might call early old age,

on a street crowded with children and tourists

my father dead, my mother dead,

my young husband gone from me and grown older (a father

a husband now to someone else),

Jason dead, John dead, Jane and Stanley and Lucy and Lucie

and Billy and Tony and now Richard dead,

I came to the edge

and I did not know that way.

Like Howe, I don’t know the way, either.  Should I just go about writing my pretty poems and turn a blind eye to all the violence and hatred around me?  Or take to the streets, march, raise my voice, stand in the line of fire?  I don’t know what my role is here, except to bear witness, speak the truth.  And I’m not sure that’s enough.

Today was Martin Luther King Day in the United States (regardless of any of #47’s Executive Orders).  We honor the memory of this brave man who did march, raise his voice, stand in the line of fire.  Martin dreamed of a better world, and he did everything in his power to make that dream a reality.  I’m sure, at times, Dr. King lost hope, got pissed.  How could he not, living in a country where racism is as much a part of our history as the Boston Tea Party?  Yet, he never gave up.

One person can make a difference.  Ask Martin.  Or Gandhi.  Or Malcom.  Or Nelson.  Or Mother Teresa.  Or Malala.  Or Dorothy Day.  

That’s my prologue for 2026.  We all need to stand up.  March.  Speak out.  Not lose hope.  If we do all that, we shall overcome.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about shoveling snow , , , 

Broken Snow Shovel

by: Martin Achatz

Ten winters, it battled

snow, ice, boulders of earth

hard as iron, storm after flurry

after blizzard after squall.

This morning, a wooden snap,

like a moose crashing through 

deadfall and brush, and its yellow

scoop head lodged in a ridge

of heavy slush, stayed there,

the way mammoths laid down

to nap eons ago, stayed buried

until some farmer plowed up 

their ribs and curled tusks.

January has just begun, several

shoveling months ahead.  I consider

gluing the handle back into

the scoop, taking the chance

it will last until the final flakes

of March or April or sometimes May.

Instead, I leave the scoop stuck,

push more snow over it, erase it

from the white landscape.  When

the waters of spring come, it will

emerge from its grave, remind me 

of this frozen day when I swear 

I see something immense and wooly 

lumbering down my street toward summer.

January 10, 2026: New Year, Renee Nicole Good, “They Shoot Poets, Don’t They?”

Greetings, disciples!

Welcome to a new year of Saint Marty.  I have not dropped off the face of the earth.  I have been recuperating from a lengthy holiday illness, and, to be honest, overwhelmed by the state of my country and the world in, general.

Now that the year of Sharon Olds is over for the blog, I will be announcing 2026’s featured poet in the next post.  She is a writer whom I’ve admired for years, and I’m sure you’ll fall in love with her, as well.

Speaking of poets, I, of course, have been so sad and angry and outraged by the murder of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis.  I never thought I’d live to see the day that a masked, armed federal agent would be able to shoot an innocent citizen in the face and walk away free.  A poet friend of mine sent me a text yesterday:

Jesus, Marty, Renee Good was one of us.  Poet, parent, liberal.  She could have been me or you . . . and some son of a bitch given a license to kill by [47] shot her three fucking times because she was fleeing his violent little children’s game.  I’m really pissed off.

Yes, Renee Good was a poet, mother, and wife.  She loved her family and neighbors.  And, like most poets I know, she was trying to make the world a better, safer, more loving place.  Like my friend, I am truly pissed off.  I’ve been drowning in a whirlpool of emotions these past few days.

And, like most poets I know, when I am overcome by tragedy or anger, I turn to words to try to sort out my emotions.

Her name was Renee Nicole Good, and Saint Marty honors her tonight , , , 

They Shoot Poets, Don’t They?

by: Martin Achatz

for Renee Nicole Good

Stop.  Just stop.

Stop being angry or outraged.

Stop jamming fingers or guns in faces.

Look into those faces instead, white or brown,

into those eyes, blue or brown, see

what you can’t see when whistles

scream in your ears, when tear gas

makes your eyes and noses weep.

See a mother who drives

her six-year-old son to school,

shoves his stuffed T-Rex into 

the glovebox so it’s there to greet

him at the end of the day.  See

a wife who needs to pick up

toilet paper and cheese and ketchup

from Kroger.  See a neighbor

who drops off a pan of lasagna

when the man next door loses

his 55-year-old spouse in the middle

of the night to a heart attack.  And

see a poet who sends words out 

into the universe, watches them dip, 

swirl, circle, away and away, 

pollinating, spreading, wildflowering 

until everyone is honeyed in beauty.