May 12: "Covid," Mother's Day, "Mother's Day Shopping"

Pandemic Billy Collins . . . 

Covid

by: Billy Collins

Another long day

at home.

I set my phone

on Airplane Mode.

I know this is a strange poem to include in a Mother's Day post.  (For my international disciples, the United States sets aside the second Sunday of May as a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood.)  Yet, there's something in this poem that makes me think of my mom.

Even before the pandemic forced us all into isolation, my mother wasn't doing well.  If memory serves, she fell at home some months into COVID and ended up in the hospital.  From there, she was transferred to a long-term care facility.  So, I didn't see much of her near the end of her life.

It's hard for me to believe that she's been gone for almost three years.  In temperament and personality, I think I take after my mother more than my father.  She was open-minded and loving.  I rarely saw her get angry.  And she was quick to spot the ridiculous in life.  I once read her an Anne Sexton poem when I was an undergraduate, and she laughed her ass off.  (My mom was the first person who taught me that poetry can be funny.)

Every Mother's Day, I share a poem I wrote many years ago for my mom.  It ended up being the poem I read at her funeral:

Heart to Heart

by: Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

I know most kids say this, but my mom was a hero, raising nine kids, helping my dad run his plumbing business, volunteering at church, advocating for parents with special needs children.  She did it all with grace and compassion.

Saint Marty wishes all the hero mothers reading this post a Happy Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Shopping

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in front

of the Mother's Day cards

the day before, feeling

like a hyena sniffing

a zebra carcass, knowing

all the good parts have

already been scavenged

by vulture sons for their moms.

June 25: "North Country," Greatest Gifts, Mother's 92nd Birthday

Mary Oliver celebrates gifts . . . 

North Country

by:  Mary Oliver

In the north country now it is spring and there

     is a certain celebration.  The thrush

has come home.  He is shy and likes the 

     evening best, also the hour just before

morning, in that blue and gritty light he

     climbs to his branch, or smoothly

sails there.  It is okay to know only

     one song if it is this one.  Hear it

rise and fall, the very elements of your soul

     shiver nicely.  What would spring be

without it?  Mostly frogs.  But don't worry, he

arrives, year after year, humble and obedient

     and gorgeous.  You listen and you know

you could live a better life than you do, be

     softer, kinder.  And maybe this year you will

be able to do it.  Hear how his voice

     rises and falls.  There is no way to be

sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are

     given, no way to speak the Lord's name

often enough, though we do try, and

especially now, as that dappled breast

     breathes in the pines and heaven's

windows in the north country, now spring has come,

     are opened wide.

Most people believe all good things in life must be earned.  My father taught me the only way to get ahead in life was through hard work.  There was no such thing as a free handout.

Oliver knows this maxim is complete bullshit.  The greatest gifts are just that:  gifts.  Spring follows winter every year, whether or not you've busted your ass during the long cold months of January, February, March, and April.  The thrush returns every year to sing his song, humble and obedient and gorgeous.  Last night, after a long period of heat and humidity, it rained.  A deluge.  And now, the world looks scrubbed clean and new.  Everything has taken a deep green breath.

I didn't pay for spring.  Didn't bribe the birds to return to sing me into summer.  And I certainly didn't seed the sky with silver iodide to make it rain.  These things just happen of their own accord, and all I can do is sit back and try to remember to give thanks, as Oliver does.

That doesn't mean that everyone should quit their jobs, sit back, and wait for the great Jeff Bezos of Creation to deliver happiness to their front doorsteps.  It doesn't work that way.  What I'm saying is that every one of us--myself included--takes for granted the great gifts that surround us all the time.

Go outside and take a deep breath.  If you can do this without burning your trachea and lungs, offer up thanks.

Go to your kitchen sink, turn on the faucet and collect a cool glass of water,  Drink it.  If you can do this, offer up thanks.

Go to the banks of a river or shores of a lake or ocean.  Listen to the music of the water and waves.  Watch the sunlight swim in the tides and currents.  If you can do that, offer up thanks.

Go to your fridge and find a fresh apple or piece of leftover pizza.  Eat it.  Slowly.  Savor each mouthful.  If you can do that, offer up thanks.

You get the idea.  We don't appreciate things like clean air or clean water or rivers or apples until they are gone.  We forget to give thanks for these daily gifts.

Today would have been my mother's 92nd birthday.  She was part of my life, every day, for over half a century.  For me, she was like oxygen or water or the spring.  I thought she would always be there.  Took her presence for granted.  Until she was gone.

I didn't earn my mother's love.  She just loved me.  Period.  Even when I fucked up, which I did frequently.  She was one of the greatest gifts in my life, and I didn't do anything to deserve her except be her son.

Today, Saint Marty offers up thanks for his mother, and a poem . . .

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 8: Long White Spine, Mother's Day, "Heart to Heart"

Santiago's fish gets admired . . . 

That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbour.

Mother's Day.  We went to church in the morning.  Our son went with us.  Then, we drove to a couple cemeteries to place flowers on the graves of my wife's mother and grandmother, my mother, and my sister.  First Mother's Day since my mother died at the end of October.  It was tougher than I thought it would be.

Had lunch with our kids.  KFC.  Played some games.  I made loaded baked potatoes for dinner.  Then I led a poetry workshop.  My wife loved every minute of her day.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  never judge a day by the size of a fish's skeleton.

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 10: Mother's Day 2020, Grace and Joy, "Heart to Heart"

So, I don't write too many uplifting, joyful poems.  In case you haven't noticed, I'll just put that out there.

However, today, Mother's Day 2020, I am going to post a poem I wrote several years ago for a Mother's Day celebration at my wife's church.  It has sort of become a tradition for me to share this poem every year.  I'm not sure if anyone notices or not.

This year, I dedicate this poem to all the mothers out there.  For all the small things you do, every day, to make the world a better place.

Saint Marty wishes you all kinds of grace and joy today.


Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 12: Mother's Day Bonfire, S'mores, "Heart to Heart"

It's late.  We've just finished up our Mother's Day bonfire, stuffed ourselves with s'mores.  My son is in bed, and I will be in bed soon, as well. 

And now, it's time to wish all the mothers in Saint Marty's life a Happy Mother's Day!

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 13: Something Special, Mother's Day, "Heart to Heart"

Three years ago, I wrote the poem below for a Mother's Day church service.  I wrote it, read it that Sunday, and then forgot about it.  A couple weeks ago, I was hunting around for a poem to read at an Open Mic.  Since Mother's Day was approaching, I was looking for anything that had to do with motherhood.  I found this poem.

We are having a barbecue this afternoon with my mother.  Hamburgers, corn on the cob, watermelon.  I don't think she really knows that it's Mother's Day.  I gave her a card and flowers.  My brother brought her a Whitman sampler.  She knows there's something special happening today, and that she's a part of it.

Perhaps that's enough.  She is a woman who raised nine children.  She's outlived two of those children and her husband of over 60 years.  I remember the night when I read from my MFA thesis.  It was late April, and the Upper Peninsula was in the grips of a late spring snowstorm.  Even though she'd had two knee replacements and ankle fusion, she braved the wind and ice and snow.  Sat in the front row and smiled the entire time.  My success was her success.

She has always been Saint Marty's biggest fan.

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

June 25: Mother's Birthday, Classic Saint Marty, "Heart to Heart"

Today is my mother's 86th birthday.  We will be celebrating in a few minutes with barbecued hamburgers and bratwurst, with an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen for dessert. 

My mother doesn't have a great memory any more.  Some days, she knows who I am.  Some days, I'm that nice man who stops by for a visit.  Same goes for my kids.  It's difficult for me to think that my mother doesn't know who I am, that I've become one face in a parade of faces. 

Let me tell you a few things about her:

She is a reader.  I can't remember a time when I didn't see her sitting with a book in her hands.  She raised nine kids, cooked dinner for them every night, breakfast every morning.  This year, she will have been married to my father for 64 years.  When I was in high school, she marched into the principal's office on the first day and told him (over his objections), "You will enroll my son in Algebra and Geometry this year."  Afterward, when she got me in the car, she looked at me and said, "You will get A's in both of those classes all year."  I did.

That gives you an idea of who my mother is.  She's one of the strongest people I know.  And she likes ice cream cake.

Five years ago, I had a few questions on my mind . . .

June 25, 2012:  Have You Ever Noticed . . .

Have you ever noticed that I rarely ask questions in my posts?

Am I the only blogger who avoids questions?  Am I the only person who read a criticism in a print magazine (Time?  Newsweek?  The New Yorker?) of how bloggers tend to ask tons of questions in their blogs?  Why is that a bad thing?  Does it make the writing weak?  Trite?  Precious?  Is it some kind of pathetic ploy to get readers to respond to posts?  Are all bloggers that desperate for attention?  Are we all kids who got picked last for teams in gym class?  Did we all go through high school yearning to be the popular basketball player or class president or star of the school's production of Our Town?

Can we ever overcome adolescent need for acceptance and validation?  Am I still just a pathetic teenager inside, still too insecure to ask the girl in chemistry class to go to prom?  Isn't that the question all writers want answered:  "Will you go to the dance with me?"  Don't we write our poems or stories or blog posts or novels to get the thrill of having the pretty cheerleader or handsome cross country runner talk to us, laugh with us, make us feel cool?  (Is there any way to make that last sentence parallel in grammatical structure?  Does anyone care if it's in parallel grammatical structure?)

Am I just a blogger in search of recognition?  Will I just keep asking questions until somebody, anybody actually responds to my pathetic pleas for human connection?  Am I being too open?  Too honest?  Should I conceal this nervous, monkey-side of my personality?  Or should I continue to eat my bananas, scratch my balls, fling my shit into the cyberspace zoo for all to see?  Am I just Bobo, the well-hung chimpanzee blogger, wagging my hairy goods in the faces of all my readers?

Will Saint Marty ever be able to answer any of these questions?  Is anybody out there?

Is this cartoon funny or what?

And a poem in honor of my mother's birthday  . . .

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz



Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 14: Mother's Day, Classic Saint Marty, "Heart to Heart"

Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there--mothers and aunts and sisters and neighbors and friends.  All the women who nurture and care for people.

My daughter danced this morning.  Pretty soon, we will be heading to Olive Garden for lunch--my wife's choice.  I have to say that she is the most patient and loving and understanding mother.  When I am ready to go medieval on my kids for something, she is the person who takes the chains and whips out of my hands.  Every day, she demonstrates how much she loves our children through small sacrifices.  She is amazing.

On this Mother's Day, I have an episode of Classic Saint Marty that aired about two years ago, when I was dealing with my daughter's first step toward independence . . .

May 14, 2015:  Vague Depression, Daughter's Trip, Little Princess

Although he had confided in his father about his decision regarding the seminary and it was hardly a secret in their household, Robert could not bring himself to tell his mother about his doubts, for the young man truly believed that one of his jobs in life was to seem independent.  So even though he suffered through many a bad day, even after talking it over with his father, when a vague depression came over him, as if he already knew about his true future, and wanted to rest his head upon his mother's lap, to feel her reassuring hand on his head, he kept his feeling bottled up inside--at least around her.

Robert Ives is a young man struggling with very adult issues for the first time in his life.  He is not going to college.  Or getting married.  Or starting a new job.  Robert has decided to devote his life to God.  He's terrified and confused, and, even though he craves his mother's attention, he can't bring himself to admit it.  He's growing up.

My daughter is going on a class trip tomorrow morning.  In sixth grade, it was a day trip to Mackinac Island.  Seventh grade, a couple of days at a survival camp.  This year, it's Great America.  Tomorrow, I will drop her off at 4:45 a.m., and she will climb on a bus and head off to Chicago.  Without me or my wife.  Wearing a tee-shirt that says "Class of '19."

Yes, I know I'm being melodramatic.  My daughter will be back in the bosom of her family around 3 a.m. on Saturday.  She will be crabby and tired, and she won't want to tell me about what she did over the past 24 hours.  She will get home, climb into bed, and proceed to sleep for the next 12 hours.  Maybe she'll get up to go to the bathroom.  I may slide a pizza under her bedroom door about noon.

My daughter is a good kid.  She studies hard, gets straight A's, and reads all the time.  On weekends, she goes to church on Saturday and Sunday (sometimes with a little grumbling, if not outright hostility).  And she's going to be a high school freshman next fall.  She's already talking about getting her driver's license.

Yes, I'm feeling a little nostalgic for the times my daughter would lean against my chest and let me be her daddy.  These days, when I wake her up in the morning, I have to announce to my wife, "I have released the Kraken." 

Saint Marty isn't ready for his little princess to turn into a prom queen.

Not this kind of prom queen

And a poem for Mother's Day . . . 

 Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.