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

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

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

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

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

Answer:  I don’t know.

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

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

The Forest

by: Marie Howe

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

we’re afraid of falling.  I walk sideways

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

wearing her orange knit cap.

The broken trees lean on the unbroken trees

which will one day be broken.

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

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

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

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

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

When My Sister Died

by: Martin Achatz

she left as sunlight

unzipped night, let the creamy

breast of morning breathe

March 8, 2026: “The Letter, 1968,” Daylight Savings Time, “Poem in which I Take Myself Too Seriously”

I do think that our world is too fast.  Human beings are addicted to speed.  We want the fastest cars, fastest phones, fastest way to make money.  Emails have given way to text messaging to Twitter to Snapchat to Instagram to whatever the nextest, fastest app will be.  Pretty soon, time is going to seem arbitrary, if not outmoded.

I say this on the first day of Daylight Savings Time in the United States.  The clocks moved ahead one hour at two this morning, and now I have to try somehow to conclude today an hour ahead of the time I concluded yesterday.

I tend to indulge in pastimes and activities that force me to slow down:  writing this blog posts and poems, watching Ken Burns documentaries, reading long books.  watching the entire Godfather series (including the third one).  And writing letters. 

Marie Howe waits for some correspondence . . . 

The Letter, 1968

by: Marie Howe

That he wrote it with his hand and folded the paper

and slipped it into the envelope and sealed it with his tongue

and pressed it closed so I might open it with my fingers.

That he brought it to the box and slipped it through the slot

so that it might be carried through time and weather to where

I waited on the front porch step.

                              (We knew how to wait then—it was what life was,

much of it.)  So, when the mailman came up the walk and didn’t have it

he might have it the next day or the next when it bore the mark

of his hand who had written my name, so I might open it and read

and read it again, and then again, and look at the envelope he’d sealed 

and press my mouth to where his mouth had been.

Yes, as Howe demonstrates, writing or receiving letters is a sacred experience.  It takes time to sit with paper and pen, recording your thoughts.  And it takes time for the letter to be delivered to its intended audience.  There’s something incredibly intimate in this whole process.

Every week, I write a letter to my daughter.  I start composing it on Monday, finish it on Friday.  One page a day.  This practice helps me to feel connected, even though she lives about six hours away.  And I revel in the time it takes to put my thoughts down on paper.  It slows me down, if only for a half hour or so.  And my days seem less frantic.

The whole world would be a better place if everyone wrote letters, I think.  Think about it.  Say a world leader wants to start a war.  If that world leader were forced to sit down and articulate the reasons behind said war, with pen and paper, perhaps the conflict would be resolved peacefully instead.  (I’m not referring to any world leader in particular.  I swear I’m not.)

For me, writing allows me to meditate.  For however long it takes, I’m living solely in the present moment.  Noticing birds singing outside my window.  The sunrise turning a window into fire.  Icicles drip, drip, dripping.  A rainbow of oil in a puddle.  All these tiny, daily miracles.

I tend to be too serious sometimes, focused on the brokenness of humankind.  Let’s face it:  people can be assholes.  And assholes simply fuck up the world.  They start wars.  Destroy the environment.  Hurt innocent people.  Propagate hatred and cruelty.  It’s hard not to wallow in this cesspool.

Yet, for every asshole out there, there are 20 or 30 really cool people, too.  I tend to forget this fact.  My life has been blessed by cool people, and I hope those cool people think of me as a blessing, as well.  That’s my goal.  

I write my daughter letters to remind her she’s loved.  And that she’s cool.  I write these blog posts to remind my readers that they are loved.  And are pretty cool, too.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight to prove that he has a sense of humor . . .

 

Poem in which I Take Myself Too Seriously

by: Martin Achatz

I sit with pen in hand for 20

minutes, search for something

serious to write about:  war, poverty,

maybe fascism or immigration.

The biggies.  But, as I eat my

hardboiled eggs, sip my blueberry

smoothie after this soul and conscience

inventory, all I want to say is that

I added too much salt to my eggs

and my tongue feels like an open

wound, a little raw, hot.  Maybe 

this is how every morning should

begin:  with a reminder that too much

of anything (love, righteous anger,

hope, hunger, salt) can hurt.  Or

maybe I just need more coffee.

February 28, 2026: “What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020,” Endings/Beginnings, “Mother’s Dementia”

Greetings on this last day of February.

I know that this month is the shortest of the year, but these 28 days have felt like 28 years (or centuries—take your pick).  Winter storms.  Iced-up roofs and windows.  Sick puppy.  And, yesterday, I had a tooth pulled.  The hits just kept on coming.

You may think I’m crazy, but I kind of miss the forced isolation of the pandemic.  That time was slower, less hectic.  The world even did better—air pollution dissipated; carbon footprints became carbon shadows; countries came together to fight for global health; and (with the exception of MAGA morons) people were just nicer, willing to help each other out.

Marie Howe reflects on the pandemic . . . 

What the Earth Seemed to Say, 2020

by: Marie Howe

Do you still believe in borders?

Birds soar over your maps and walls, and always have.

You might have watched how the smoke from your own fires

travelled on wind you couldn’t see

                                                   wafting over the valley

and up and over the hills and over the next valley and the next hill.

Did you not hear the animals how and sing?

Or hear the silence of the animals no longer howling?

Now you know what it is to be afraid.

You think this is a dream?  It is not

a dream.  You think this is a theoretical question?

What do you love more than what you imagine is your singular life?

The water grows clearer.  The swans settle and float there.

Are you willing to take your place in the forest again?

To become loam and bark, to be a leaf falling from a great height,

to be the worm who eats the leaf,

and the bird who eats the worm?  Look at the sky—are you

willing to be the sky again?

You think this lesson is too hard for you.

You want the time-out to end.  You want

to go to the movies as before, to sit and eat with your friends.

It can end now, but not in the way you imagine.  You know

the mind that has been talking to you for so long, the mind that

can explain everything?  Don’t listen.

You were once a citizen of the country called:  I Don’t Know,

Remember the boat that brought you there?  It was your body.  Climb in.

I love the idea of living in a land called I Don’t Know.  It conjures up the Keats and his concept of negative capability—the idea of suspending judgement about something in order to understand it.  Basically, it’s about accepting uncertainty without obsessively searching for an answer.  The pandemic was a time of great uncertainty.  Nobody had the answers. People who really can’t live with uncertainty turned to conspiracy theories instead—about COVID’s origins and mask protocols and vaccines.

WARNING;  This post is about to become political.

And now we are entering another time of great uncertainty, thanks to President #47’s war of choice against Iran.  One day after President Bill Clinton and Secretary Hillary Clinton were deposed about Jeffery Epstein by the House Oversight Committee (and the Clintons’ calls for #47 to be deposed, too), suddenly the United States and Israel are bombing Iran.  Coincidence?

I’ve been struggling not to get supremely pissed.  I guess I just want the simpler day-to-day that the pandemic offered.  Everyone was too wrapped up in not getting sick.  Sure, there was political division (unavoidable, considering the United States was being led by President Narcissist), but what I remember most is being really close (physically and emotionally) with the people I love most.

It wasn’t all sunshine and hand sanitizer, though.  During the pandemic, I lost my mother and one of my sisters.  Like so many others in the world, I was grieving.  My mom spent the entire pandemic in a nursing home.  She was already suffering from Alzheimer’s and macular degeneration prior to 2020, so there was a year where none of my family was able to be with her.  I still experience quite a bit of guilt about how little I saw her in her last years.

Human beings, as a whole, don’t deal well with endings/beginnings.  We don’t want to say “goodbye,” and we don’t want our comfortable lives to be disturbed, either.  Pandemics and wars do both of those things—they disrupt and cause loss.  

However, times of difficulty can also bring people closer together.  I think, in the days and weeks to come, this new war is going to unite citizens of the U. S. and the world, but not in the way that #47 is anticipating.  There WILL be marches and parades and headlines.  I’m positive about that.  But I’m not so sure that President #47 and his stooges are going to enjoy those events.  In fact, I’m positive they won’t.

People are going to come together.  Count on it.  They did during the Boston Tea Party.  And Women’s Suffrage.  And the Civil Rights Movement.  And the Vietnam War.  And Watergate.  And Black Lives Matter.  And REAL change happened.

That gives me hope.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about his mother . . . 

Mother’s Dementia

by: Martin Achatz

She slowly became a Picasso painting.

February 24, 2026: “Advent,” Taking Myself Too Seriously, “Life of the Party: A Limerick”

I take myself too seriously sometimes, in case you haven’t noticed.  My last few posts bear this out.  I get inside my head and stay there, just rattling around.  So, I’m not going to get all dark and pissy this evening, despite the fact that the Cheeto in Chief is currently delivering his State of the Disunion address to Congress as I’m typing these words.  I am making the choice to . . . keep it light.

Marie Howe time travels . . . 

Advent

by: Marie Howe

Not that we knew or could imagine

what some mild blue evenings made us homesick for.

Call it forethought but not thought of,

not conceived exactly.

When it happened, we said we saw it coming

approaching a horizon we hadn’t

known was there.  It occurred to us

at once—which altered time thereafter.

By then we could not remember the before

before it had the after in it.

Before I sat down to write this post, I was outside in the dark in my pajamas, knocking ice and snow off my roof.  After I did that, I came inside, my boots and pants packed with chunks of winter, and changed into sweats.  Before and after.

Not exactly earth shattering, I know.  I’m tired and cranky, and my feet are icicles.  I’m ready for this day to be over.

But, before Saint  Marty signs off, he has a new poem to share.  And after that, he’s going to brush his teeth, find a cold pillow, and pray that sleep is his friend tonight.

Life of the Party:  A Limerick

by: Martin Achatz

There once was a poet named Marty

who was always the life of the party

reciting sonnets and odes

lightening everyone’s loads

‘til even Frost laughed and let out a farty.

February 22, 2026: “Persephone and Demeter,” Sick Puppy, “Winter Nocturne”

Do not have a heart attack.  Yes, I am posting again.  Two days in a row.  

It has been quite a day.  The original plan was for my wife and I to spend the morning singing at Faith Lutheran Church (where I used to be an accompanist).  Before the service started, our son texted me:  “You guys need to take her today to the vet, she is still shitting blood.”

My son is referring to our little Australian shepherd.  On Friday, she started having bloody stools.  When we called the vet two days ago, we were instructed to switch her to a bland diet and monitor her until Monday.  She had diarrhea and threw up twice this morning when my wife took her out.  

So, we called the emergency vet number, and, by 11 a.m., we were on our way to the clinic, with the worst-case scenarios running through our heads.  Intestinal blockage.  Swallowed needle.  Advanced leukemia.  I was literally preparing myself for euthanizing her.

Marie Howe writes about death . . . 

Persephone and Demeter

by: Marie Howe

My mother needn’t have pretended to be appalled,

she knows all about the under dark.

The seed must break open to rise.

My mother is a god; she wanted to spare me.

But my nature is nature.

Like everything alive   I was meant to be split open,

to blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,

to lean, to bend, to wither,

to die and die and die until I died.

Marie Howe understands that death and life go hand-in-hand.  Autumn always follows spring and summer.  The world leans, bends, and withers.  Pretty soon, snow starts flying, and winter arrives, burying us all until everything starts over again.

Our puppy is fine.  The vet weighed her, palpated her belly, listened to her lungs.  Then he gave her a shot and some pills to help with the nausea and runny poop.  He thinks she’s dealing with some gastrointestinal bug.  So, it’s bland food for another couple days.  If she’s not better by Tuesday, we have to bring her back in for further testing.  No emergency surgery.  No grim diagnosis.

The rest of the day was all about grocery shopping, preparing for a poetry workshop, and watching the closing ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Italy.  Not a bad way to while away the hours as the snow kept piling and piling and piling up.  We’ve gotten close to two feet since Wednesday.  (In case you’re wondering, I’m officially tired of winter.)

I did lead that Zoom poetry workshop this evening, and it was wonderful.  Not surprisingly, a few of my prompts had to do with death and loss and grief.  Marie Howe would probably have enjoyed it a lot.

Now, I’m getting ready for bed.  There’s no ice skating or skiing or luging to watch.  I have a busy week ahead of me with teaching and programming.  Plus, I have a puppy to worry about now, and the sky’s supposed to dump another six inches of that white shit on us overnight.  But no death in the near future as far as I know.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for this evening about snow . . . 

Winter Nocturne

by: Martin Achatz

No moon.  Sky just a bruise,

gray and blue, like a palm

held to a flashlight so

you can almost see vein and bone.

Snow falling up with wind, my

neighbor’s Great Dane Martha

chewing the air with barks, bays,

I stand in this ice cube, think

about the 7 and 7s my dad

drank after supper until bed

every night, the cubes in 

his cup rattling like loose 

teeth in a boxer’s mouth.

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.