October 14: "The Roses," 28th Wedding Anniversary, My Wife

I give my wife roses on our anniversary . . . 

The Roses

by:  Mary Oliver

One day in summer

when everything

has already been more than enough

the wild beds start

exploding open along the berm

of the sea; day after day

you sit near them; day after day

the honey keeps on coming

in the red cups and the bees 

like amber drops roll

in the petals; there is no end,

believe me! to the inventions of summer,

to the happiness your body

is willing to bear.

I didn't give my wife much of a 28th anniversary.  I spent most of the day writing scripts and rehearsing for a show I did tonight at the Keweenaw Storytelling Center.  We did have breakfast together, and we did go for a short walk afterward, holding hands and marveling at our union.

Aside from that it was, "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."

So, I want to take this moment to say that I'm the luckiest person alive.  My spouse is infinitely patient, and her patience is matched only by her beauty.  Yes, we've had some major ups and downs during our time together.  Some of the downs were so down that I truly didn't think our union was going to survive.

Yet, here we are, almost 30 years later, still together and still in love.  I'm not a rich person.  I've tried to be the best husband and father I know how to be.  Haven't always succeeded in that goal.  Yet, my wife has stood by me, and I've stood by her, through all the earthquakes and roses that 30-some years can throw at a couple.

My wife is asleep now after a long day, but I just want to say one more time before midnight comes:  Happy anniversary, my love.  

You make Saint Marty's cup runneth over, every day. 

May 10: A Very Nice School, Mother's Day, Strong Women

Merton matriculates to Public School . . .

I was already nearly too old for Ripley Court, being by now fourteen, but I had to pick up enough Latin to be able to make at least a presentable showing in a scholarship examination for some Public School.  As to the school where I should go, Uncle Ben made a more or less expert choice, in his capacity as retired headmaster of a prep school.  Since Father was poor, and an artist, there would be no thinking of one of the big schools like Harrow or Winchester--though Winchester was the one for which Uncle Ben had the greatest respect, having achieved his ambition of sending many of his pupils there with scholarships.  The reason was twofold:  not merely that Father could not be considered able to pay the bills (although, in fact, Pop was to pay them, from America) but the scholarship examinations would be altogether too hard for me.

The final choice was regarded by everyone as very suitable.  It as an obscure little school in the Midlands, and old foundation, with a kind of a little tradition of its own.  It had recently gone up slightly in its rating because of the work of its greatest headmaster, who was just about to retire--all of this was the kind of thing Uncle Ben knew and told me, and Aunt Maud confirmed it, saying:

"I am sure you will find Oakham a very nice school."

There's something very ominous in these three paragraphs.  Merton has not had a good track record when it comes to Public Schools.  The fact that the title of the next chapter of The Seven Storey Mountain is "The Harrowing of Hell" also does not bode well.  Although, when looking at the list of notable alumni from Oakham on Wikipedia, Thomas Merton is prominent, along with a couple bishops, famous mathematicians, and a British Ambassador to Peru.  So, Oakham is still going strong.

Today is Mother's Day.  I will not be able to see my mother in person, because of the pandemic.  She is in her late eighties, and, since I work in a medical setting, I don't even want to take the chance of spreading the virus to her.  Yet, Merton's Aunt Maud, who has the last work on Oakham in this passage, reminds me a lot of my mom. 

My mother always wanted what was best for me.  When I said I wanted to study English in college and become a writer, she said something like, "Well, why don't you go into computers.  There's a good future in that.  You can take all the English classes you want, too."  So, I became a Computer Science major, just like Merton followed Aunt Maud's advice and went to Oakham.

Strong women have always had a huge influence on my life.  I'm the youngest of nine kids.  I have three older brother, five sisters in between, and then I came along.  Thus, my sisters had a big hand in shaping me into who I am.  My mother had her hands full with so many kids.  So, my oldest sister pretty much taught me how to drive.  My middle sisters chauffeured me to play practices before I had my own driver's license.  They listened to my short stories and plays and poems.  Praised me, even though I'm pretty sure they thought I was a little odd.  I was.

And then I met my wife, who came from a family of very strong women.  All of these ladies (grandmother, great aunts, mother, sisters, cousins)  taught me so much about being a loving and supportive man, partner, and father to my wife and kids.  They have all been a part of my life for close to 30 years, and I don't know what I would do without them.

The mother of my children has had many struggles in her life with mental illness and addiction.  It has not been an easy road.  Our marriage and family have weathered some pretty turbulent storms.  Yet, through all of these difficult times, I think my kids have always known that they were loved and cherished by her.  That is really important.

So, on this day that celebrates motherhood, in all its shapes and forms, I give thanks for all of the strong females in my life, who have molded me and made me a better person.  They truly are heroes, each and every one.

Saint Marty loves them all.

July 5: Shock of Vertigo, Hurtling Through Outer Space, Gravity of My Life

Arthur is in a place that is hard to define . . .

It wasn't infinity in fact.  Infinity itself looks flat and uninteresting.  Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity--distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless.  The chamber into which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very very very big, so big that it gave the impression of infinity far better than infinity itself.

Arthur's senses bobbed and spun as, traveling at the immense speed he knew the aircar attained, they climbed slowly through the open air, leaving the gateway through which they had passed an invisible pinprick in the shimmering wall behind them.

The wall.

The wall defied imagination--seduced it and defeated it.  The wall was so paralyzingly vast and sheer that its top, bottom and sides passed away beyond the reach of sight.  The mere shock of vertigo could kill a man.

I know a little something about vertigo.  I have experienced it on more than one occasion.  It's hard to describe.  It's as if the walls are spinning in one direction and the floor is pulsing.  It's as if you can feel how fast the planet is actually hurtling through outer space around the sun.  It's as if you are on a roller coaster and a merry-go-round and a space shuttle being launched into orbit at once.  It's as if you are having a heart attack and a stroke at the same time.  It's as if some person has pulled the thin carpet of reality out from under your feet and you are floating in a place where boundaries don't exist.

If you have never experienced vertigo, none of this will make sense to you.  If you are unfortunate enough to suffer from vertigo, the above paragraph will probably make you run for your bottle of Meclazine.  I take Meclazine every morning, as a prophylactic against bouts of vertigo.  It makes me feel safer.

This day has become a little vertiginous for me.  The plan was for my family to drive to Canyon Falls and go for a little hike in the morning.  Then, in the afternoon, we were going to see Toy Story 4.  In the evening, it was to be dinner at a local microbrewery/restaurant.

Some of those plans have gone out the window.  My daughter, who got home last night from Washington state at around midnight, did not want to go for a hike today.  My wife went to pick up some medications and have brunch with a friend.  Nix the hiking of Canyon Falls.  We are supposedly still planning to go to the movie, if my wife gets back in time from brunch and my daughter drags herself out of bed in time.  That is a big "if."  We are also supposedly going out to dinner tonight, as well.  Then, we are going to a July 4th fireworks display that was canceled last night because of rain.

In short, the whole day has been one big case of vertigo for me so far.  At the moment, I am typing this post at an entirely different location than normal.  It's a place owned by one of my best friends.  She keeps me grounded when I'm feeling a little . . . well, vertiginous.  So does her place.  The world is not spinning as fast for me now that I've been here an hour or so.  I'm rediscovering the gravity of my life.

You all know that I thrive on the false assumption that I have some control over everything that happens to me.  Vertigo is a strong reminder that my life can tornado out of control at the drop of a feather.  That's what happened to me this morning.

Before I sat down to type this post, I wrote in my journal.  I ended my entry like this:  "Please, God, my life is in your hands.  Send me peace today.  Happiness today.  Love today."  I don't want to live a life of physical or mental or spiritual vertigo.

Saint Marty is going to take another Meclazine now.

April 6: Very Very Improbable, Good Improbabilities, Fill Me Up

Zaphod Beeblebrox and Trillian are arguing about the presence of Arthur and Ford on their stolen spaceship . . .

He tapped irritably at a control panel.  Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important,  Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include--dash, bravado, conceit--he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture.  Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason he had had such a wild and successful life was that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.

"Zaphod," she said patiently, "they were floating unprotected in open space . . . you wouldn't want them to have died, would you?"

"Well, you know . . . no.  Not as such, but . . ."

"Not as such?  Not die as such?  But?"  Trillian cocked her head on one side.

"Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later."

"A second later and they would have been dead."

"Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away."

"You'd have been happy to let them die?"

"Well, you know, not happy, as such, but . . ."

"Anyway," said Trillian, turning back to the controls, "I didn't pick them up."

"What do you mean?  Who picked them up then?"

"The ship did."

"Huh?"

"The ship did.  All by itself."

"Huh?"

"While we were in Improbability Drive."

"But that's incredible."

"No, Zaphod.  Just very very improbable."

"Er, yeah."

You know, I've been dealing with the improbable for quite a while.  Some of the faithful disciples of this blog may argue with my use of the word "improbable."  They would say that everything that I write about is fairly common--experiences that many people have every day.  That may be true.  People are diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain every day.  People are displaced from their jobs every day.  People work three and four jobs every day to pay their bills.  People's brother and sisters and parents die every day.  I know all this.  However, to me, my life seems improbable, and I have the same kind of reaction to this improbability that Zaphod has.  I bristle and complain.

I'm sitting in McDonald's this morning, after a fairly emotional week of goodbyes and endings, feeling a little empty.  Like I don't have any more to give at the moment.  In the coming week, I start a new/old job with new hours and duties.  There will be a learning curve for sure.  It's not a job that I'm particularly excited about.  I'm sure my attitude will change eventually.  I'm still adjusting to the upcoming change, and you all know how well I deal with change.

So, indulge me today.  I'm going to try to think about the good improbabilities of my life.  Things that fill me up again.

IMPROBABILITY #1:  I am a poet.  This one has brought into my life many joys.  Friends.  Opportunities.  Ways to do good in the world.  At this moment, my tribe consists of poets who think like me, share my values.

IMPROBABILITY #2:  I am the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, for the second time in a row.  This one still blows me away.  There are so many great writers who've been nominated for this position.  Mentors and friends and heroes.  The fact that this plumber's son was chosen still amazes me.

IMPROBABILITY #3:  My daughter.  She's 18 years old, about to graduate from high school.  Smart and beautiful and compassionate and passionate.  She danced into my life one cold December morning, and she fills me with improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #4:  My son.  My orange child.  He's so much like me that it's frightening.  We butt heads.  A lot.  But he makes me laugh, gives me hope.  (Of course, that hope is sometimes that he doesn't end up in prison, but it's still hope.)  Improbable love, yet again.

IMPROBABILITY #5:  My wife.  Next year will be our 25th wedding anniversary.  We have our share of struggles over the years.  Things that would have broken most marriages irreparably.  Yet, here we are.  Still struggling, but more in love than ever.  Improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #6:  I lived to see the first African American President of the United States.  This one gives me hope, even in the dark time we're in right now in my country.  We got it right once.  We'll get it right again.

IMPROBABILITY #7:  My friends.  All of them.  I have a large tribe of people who genuinely care about my welfare.  When I'm feeling down, they reach out, do things that life me up.  When I have something to celebrate, they are the ones putting the candles on the cake.

IMPROBABILITY #8:  My brothers and sisters.  Dysfunction is always a part of familial relationships.  Yet, I know that these people have my back, will do anything to help me out when the chips are down.  They'll just bitch about it when I've crawled out of the hole.

IMPROBABILITY #9:  My wife's family.  These individuals welcomed me into their clubhouse over 25 years ago.  Recognized a fellow freak, I guess.  They continue to fill my life with acceptance, humor, and love.  Plus, they serve alcohol at Christmas dinner.

IMPROBABILITY #10:  The future.  I don't always think about the future as happy and fulfilling.  I'm a pretty pessimistic person a lot of the time.  However, in the past few weeks, as I've been struggling with my job and life situation, so many people have told me, "There's something better coming for you.  There is."  So, here's to something better.  Amen.

There you go.  I embraced goodness and hope this morning.  Don't worry.  Tomorrow, I'll be back to my old, cynical self tomorrow.

Today, however, Saint Marty is all about good improbabilities.

February 14: Should Never Have Survived, Valentine's Day, One Constant in My Life

Back to the Vogons, who are going to demolish the planet Earth . . .

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons.  His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead.  His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of down to a thousand feet with no ill effects.

Not that he ever went swimming of course.  His busy schedule would not allow it.  He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet's virgin shores . . . when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution had simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake.  They never evolved again:  they should never have survived.  

The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thick-willed slug-brained stubbornness of these creatures.  Evolution? they said to themselves, Who needs it?, and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the gross anatomical inconveniences with surgery.

Okay, the Vogons sound like creatures only a mother could love, and my bet is that the Vogons eat their mothers (or vice versa).  In any case, love is probably a foreign concept to these aliens.  It has not been part of their evolutionary process.

Happy Valentine's Day to all my devoted disciples.  (That number is probably about two or three, my wife not among them.  She's around me all the time, listens to all my fears and insecurities every day.  She doesn't need to read about them, too.  She is an incredibly patient woman.  She has to be in order to stay married to me.

For example, tonight, I'm doing a poetry thing.  My wife isn't coming with me.  I'm attending with a really good friend.  My friend and I made these plans about a week ago.  Her husband is going to be cross country skiing.  My wife was supposed to be taking my son to his dance class.  Turns out that my son isn't going to dance.  So, that left me with a dilemma:  to cancel or not to cancel.

My wife, being the understanding a loving person that she is, told me to go to the poetry thing, even though it's Valentine's Day.  I have asked her several times again over the last week if she wanted me to cancel the plans with my friend.  Each time, my wife has told me that I should go be a poet tonight.  I'm not sure if she is saying this out of love or out of wanting to get rid of me for a few hours.  Either way, I will be celebrating Valentine's Day with my friend, reading love poetry at an open mic.  If it counts for anything, the poems I'll be reading are about my wife.

My wife and I can't really afford to go out to eat or anything, and we gave up buying Valentine's Day presents for each other several years ago.  We do exchange cards.  I think, in some way, my wife letting me go to this reading is her Valentine's Day present to me, because she knows how important poetry is in my life.

My wife and I have had many ups and downs in our relationship.  Our love hasn't always been easy.  It is a continually evolving thing.  However, I still find her sexy and attractive after almost 30 years of being together--in one year we'll be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary.  She knows me better than anyone else.  I think I can say the same for her.  We are best friends, with some benefits thrown in when the kids are asleep or not home.

She is the one constant in my life, and I would be lost without her.)

That was an incredibly long parenthetical passage, but I think it really captures my feelings this Valentine's Day.

Saint Marty wishes everyone reading this post great love and great chocolate tonight.

September 25: Old Gang of Mine, Best Friend, Lobotomized

Now an optometrist called for attention.  He proposed a toast to Billy and Valencia, whose anniversary it was.  According to plan, the barbershop quartet of optometrists, "The Febs," sang while people drank and Billy and Valencia put their arms around each other, just glowed.  Everybody's eyes were shining.  "The song was "That Old Gang of Mine."

Gee, the song went, but I'd give the world to see that old gang of mine.  And so on.  A little later is said, So long forever, old fellows and gals, so long forever old sweethearts and pals--God bless 'em--And so on.

Unexpectedly, Billy Pilgrim found himself upset by the song and the occasion.  He had never had an old gang, old sweethearts and pals, but he missed one anyway, as the quartet made slow, agonized experiments with chords--chords intentionally sour, sourer still, unbearably sour, and then a chord that was suffocatingly sweet, and then some sour ones again.  Billy had powerful psychosomatic responses to the changing chords.  His mouth filled with the taste of lemonade, and his face became grotesque, as though he really were being stretched on the torture engine called the rack.

I am luckier than Billy.  I have close friends and best friends.  I'm not talking about people on Facebook who send you greetings on your birthday.  (Don't get me wrong.  Those are wonderful messages to receive.)  I'm talking about people who get me on a much deeper level, who have seen me at my absolute best and worst and still love me.  Billy really doesn't have that.

It may be a cliche, but my best friend really is my wife.  She knows me like no other person.  I would like to believe that all married couples have that, but, if Billy and Valencia are any indication, I know that is not always the case.  People fall out of love with each other all the time.

I'm lucky.  My wife and I have had our share of troubles, for sure.  Addictions and mental illness.  Separation.  Almost divorce (we even had custody papers drawn up).  But love won for us.  I wish I could provide some sage marital advice to couples out there, struggling to stay together.  I can't.  I really don't know what saved my marriage.  Forgiveness certainly.  Compromise.  Acceptance.  The ability not to judge, to remember why you fell in love in the first place.

Of course, all that has to come from both sides.  If only one person is doing all the work, the marriage is doomed.  I guess my wife and I are stubborn people.  We never gave up.  We came close, but we never took the final step.  And our secret is that both of is keep forgiving, compromising, and accepting.  We keep falling in love every day in small ways.

Sure, we still irritate the shit out of each other.  Sure, we yell sometimes.  Sure, we disagree about whether Fannie Flagg is a good writer or not.  That's normal.  Well, maybe not the Fannie Flagg thing, but the rest is regular as oatmeal.  Love doesn't mean you're lobotomized. 

But love does mean that you have someone to come home to at the end of the day who knows your failures and still, for some reason, thinks you're pretty damn cool.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for the love of his wife.

August 8: Guts Fluttering, My Wife, Courage and Strength

The theater was paved with American bodies that nestled like spoons.  Most of the Americans were in stupors or asleep.  Their guts fluttering, dry.

"Close the fucking door," somebody said to Billy.  "Were you born in a barn?"

The English prisoners of war don't have a high opinion of the Americans.  Of course, the Americans haven't given the Englishmen to regard them with anything but disdain.  They've been rude, sick, and violent.  Billy lost his mind in the middle of a theatrical performance, and the rest of the Americans spent the night shitting their guts out in the prison latrine, swearing and groaning.  Like I said, the Americans don't come off very well.

Of course, that sets me up for an entire post about the reputation of the United Sates in the global community since Donald Trump took over in the Oval Office.  (For those of you who haven't been keeping up with current events:  America has gone from world leader to world laughingstock.  You know it's bad when Canada is offering asylum to citizens of the United States.)

However, I'm not going to go down that path.  Too easy.  Instead, I'm going to write about something that makes me proud--my wife.  Today, she went to a doctor's appointment, and she has lost another six pounds.  That means she is closing in on 60 pounds of weight loss since her surgery in June.  Amazing.

She's had struggles over the last couple months.  Vomiting and such.  As Vonnegut writes, her guts have been fluttering, dry at times.  But she's feeling much better, and she's excited about the fact that she weighs less than 300 pounds now.  All of her hard work is paying off, and I love her for her courage and strength.

Yes, I am bragging about my wife, but she deserves a little bragging.  She's one of the bravest people I know.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his beautiful wife. 

July 1: I'm So Happy, My Wife, Courage

The honeymoon was taking place in the bittersweet mysteries of Indian Summer in New England.  The lovers' apartment had one romantic wall which was all French doors.  They opened onto a balcony and the oily harbor beyond.

A green and orange dragger, black in the night, grumbled and drummed past their balcony, not thirty feet from their wedding bed.  It was going to sea with only its running lights on.  Its empty holds were resonant, made the song of the engines rich and loud.  The wharf began to sing the same song, and then the honeymooners' headboard sang, too.  And it continued to sing long after the dragger was gone.

"Thank you," said Valencia at last.  The headboard was singing a mosquito song.

"You're welcome."

"It was nice."

Then she began to cry.  

"What's the matter?"

"I'm so happy."

"Good."

"I never though anybody would marry me."

"Um," said Billy Pilgrim.

I find this little passage heartbreaking.  I have a lot of sympathy for Valencia, even if Vonnegut uses her as the butt of some of the humor in Slaughterhouse.  It's the whole socially acceptable habit of making obesity the cause of laughter.  I don't really buy into that idea.  I have too many loved ones and close family members who struggle with weight issues.  So I have a soft spot for Valencia and her struggles.

Over the last few weeks, since my wife's weight loss procedure, I have been astounded by her courage in taking this step.  Some think that bariatric surgery is the "easy" way to get skinny.  However, most people who actually reach this point have tried dozens of diets, been on a yo-yo of skinny and fat for years.  It's not about looking good.  It's about being healthy.  My wife wants to be around to see our daughter and son grow up.

I don't want to preach here.  No trying to judge.  If you have always been a thing person, you should give thanks that you have never had to struggle with food.  Obesity is not a matter of will power.  Obesity is an illness, as much as alcoholism or diabetes.  I have a friend who has struggled with weight her whole life.  Her skinny mother used to tell her, "All you have to do is put the fork down and push your chair away from the table."  It isn't that simple.

If you have friends or relatives who struggles with food, don't look at them as weak.  Don't look at their dinner plates and shake your head.  Don't count their calories or tell them they should go to Weight Watchers or Overeaters Anonymous.  You aren't saying anything they haven't thought of themselves.

Instead of doing all that, try something different.  Try empathy and understanding.  Your cruel words or looks or jokes aren't going to help matters.  However, your love will.  I believe a guy who lived over two thousand years ago said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you."  Try it out sometime.

Saint Marty is thankful today for his courageous, beautiful wife.

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.

May 10: My Wife, James Scannell McCormick, "A God"

Tonight, I have a love poem from my friend.

It's funny.  During the week, my wife and I see each other for about three or four hours a day.  I leave the house before she is awake.  During the school year, I sometimes don't get home until after she's asleep.  We talk on the phone at lunchtime.  "How's your day going?"  "How's work?"  "Do you want me to pick something up for dinner?"  That's it.

Yet, I think about my wife all day long.  Hear her laugh in my ear.  Feel the warm palm of her hand on my neck.  She's present for me, all the time.

Saint Marty guesses that's what love is all about.

A God

by:  James Scannell McCormick

Thumb-heel at the back of my neck, nails in my stubbly nape,
You wrench my head back and my mouth wide open.

Usually I’m no fiery vessel; usually I’m as unburning
As a stone-pile in dawn frost.

But you tear me from tongue-root to pubic-bone.
Lightning-rod, I spark and flare.  Even my knees glow.

O incandescence.
You want to speak all the time now, I not at all.

March 12: Rootless Weekend, Jonathan Johnson, "She of Tioga Creek"

One of the things that always strikes me when I am separated from my family for any length of time is how much I depend upon them to keep me sane.  Particularly my wife.

Yes, our marriage has had its share of struggles, but what marriage doesn't?  After two decades, we are still together, despite a year of separation and one court hearing.  Yes, we were that close to not being together.  Yet, here we are.  Two beautiful kids.  A house that is in need of serious repair and remodeling.  And each other.

I miss her this weekend.  A lot.  There's something about her that sort of makes me feel . . . rooted.  She's not going to see this post, unless she's using my daughter iPhone to read my blog this weekend, which I highly doubt.

Poet Jonathan Johnson is a lot like me.  I've known him for years.  I've known his wife for almost as long.  They have a teenage daughter around the same age as our daughter.  I went to grad school with Jonathan.  Shared two offices with him at two different universities.  Jonathan's wife and daughter root him, too.

Saint Marty is having a rootless weekend.

She of Tioga Creek

by:  Jonathan Johnson

Marsh went mostly unnoticed then,
and the sun's tremolo through spruce shadows
was just the context our desire used for
your feet on the dash, and the outpost houses
with their dead Chevys were mere residences
for the dusk behind what we decided to say,
and we were never the land we imagined ourselves,
so there's nothing of us to notice now, as I pass.
Not even in the roadside park where we pulled off
and walked the creek up to a dark we used
to unfasten each other from weeks of expectation
in so many other grasses under your back
and where I held the source of your true voice
that, soft, almost mourning, was also the delicate water
inches from your hair where I don't stop
but drive by, past more bleached, dead cedars
we must have passed when we got back on the road
but wouldn't have seen in the night beyond our headlights'
          periphery.

November 24: Stealing Kisses, My Wife, Billy Collins, "Thanksgiving Morning," Off the Top of My Head

Leaving Macy's, they spent an hour walking uptown and lingered by the Rockefeller Center ice skating rink, on the promenade, directly across from the bronze statue of Prometheus reclining, the great tree, a Maine pine, some fifty feet high and as wide as a house, covered with thousands of lights, towering cheerfully over the scene.  Down below, a hundred skaters, of all ages, circled the ice, some gracefully as professionals, others clumsily, their faces and twisting bodies in colored caps and suits, vivid in the surrounding floodlights.  Leaning against the railing, Annie and Ives were caught up, as were so many others, by the romance of the setting, and, ever so happy, held each other tightly, nudging one another with their chilled noses and stealing kisses, until laughing, she said, "Oh, Eddie, you make me feel like a kid again."

Annie and Ives love each other deeply.  The above moment occurs just hours before their son is killed.  It is Christmas time, and they are swept up in holiday joy.  They've just attended some parties and finished their Christmas shopping.  And they end up at the Rockefeller ice rink, watching the couples glide around the ice.  They kiss and hold each other like teenagers on a first date.  Ives and Annie have true passion and love for each other.

This month I have been writing about thankfulness.  It was a challenge from my wife.  She had been noticing a streak of melancholy in my posts, and she wanted me to focus on the blessings in my life.  That is what I have been trying to do.  It hasn't been an easy task.  Some days, I've really struggled to remain positive and grateful. 

Today, I faced many challenges.  Up at 4:30 a.m.  Work at 6: 30 a.m.  Loooong day.  And then, this evening, I attended my daughter's high school chorus concert.  Crazy busy, with barely a moment to relax.  I am already exhausted, and it's not even 9:30 p.m.

I am thankful for my daughter's concert, which I thoroughly enjoyed.  I loved the music and the (at times) slightly off-key singing.  I sat with my wife in the auditorium, holding her hand.  Like Ives and Annie at the ice rink, we felt like we were on a date at the concert.

My wife is funny and beautiful.  She struggles in her life with mental illness and addiction.  Our twenty years of marriage have not been without difficulty.  Yet, my wife is a fighter.  She takes her medications; attends support group meeting on an almost daily basis; and follows the suggestions of her doctors.  She wants to be well.

And I love her for that.  She is kind and caring and generous.  My best friend and life partner.

Saint Marty gives thanks for his wife tonight.

Thanksgiving Morning

by:  Billy Collins

The crossed multiple blades of the blender
set out to dry on a counter.
The corkscrew unsheathed and ready

to enter whatever cannot resist its twisting.
The carving knife waiting alongside
the sharpener for its abrasive touch,

The blue box of matches, the white candles.
The branch of dry leaves brought in
Along with vines clustered with red and yellow berries,

All of which points to the anonymous turkey,
soon to be trussed with string
but now soaking on the cold porch
in a bucket of salted ice water,
in brine, as they like to say this time of year.

And we must not overlook the oven,
radiating in a corner of the kitchen
set at first at 500 degrees
then lowered almost mercifully to 350,

still hot enough to lift the bird
into the condition of sacrificial edibility,
yet short of what would incinerate a book,
the oven that swallowed the witch and Sylvia Plath
and now the oven of our pleasure,
our forks and glasses blindly raised.

Off the Top of My Head

November 24: Poems of Thanksgiving, Mark Doty, "Brian Age Seven"

I have decided to focus on poems of thanks this week, in honor of the American holiday of Thanksgiving being celebrated this Thursday.

I don't think I say "thanks" enough in my life.  There's so much for which I am grateful.  For example, I am grateful for the Christmas essay I finished this weekend.  I know that I had a little divine help with that one.  I am grateful for my job.  I am surrounded by good people who like me.  I am grateful that I have two, healthy, happy kids.  I am grateful for my wife, who supports me in all of my crazy jobs and obsessions.  I am grateful for my life.  I have a home that's warm, cars that run (for the moment), and almost enough money to pay my bills.

So, the first poem this week is by Mark Doty.

And Saint Marty gives thanks for it.

Brian Age Seven

by:  Mark Doty

Grateful for their tour

of the pharmacy,

the first-grade class

has drawn these pictures,

each self-portrait taped

to the window-glass,

faces wide to the street,

round and available,

with parallel lines for hair.

I like this one best: Brian,

whose attenuated name

fills a quarter of the frame,

stretched beside impossible

legs descending from the ball

of his torso, two long arms

springing from that same

central sphere. He breathes here,

on his page. It isn’t craft

that makes this figure come alive;

Brian draws just balls and lines,

in wobbly crayon strokes.

Why do some marks

seem to thrill with life,

possess a portion

of the nervous energy

in their maker’s hand?

That big curve of a smile

reaches nearly to the rim

of his face; he holds

a towering ice cream,

brown spheres teetering

on their cone,

a soda fountain gift

half the length of him

—as if it were the flag

of his own country held high

by the unadorned black line

of his arm. Such naked support

for so much delight! Artless boy,

he’s found a system of beauty:

he shows us pleasure

and what pleasure resists.

The ice cream is delicious.

He’s frail beside his relentless standard.

Thanks for ice cream

September 12: Going to Sleep, Matt Gavin Frank, "Sagittarius Nocturne"

After I am done with this post, I am going to sleep.  My wife is a little annoyed with me at the moment.  She wants to hold a serious conversation with me, and I want to type this post and have a serious conversation with my pillow.

I can't blame my wife.  We haven't seen each other much this week.  I had commitments literally every night this week.  Meetings.  Classes.  Poetry Readings.  Awards ceremonies.  This night is the first we've been together in about five days.

Unfortunately, all I can think about is slumber.  And the poem below by Matt Gavin Frank.

Saint Marty has to work up some energy to hold a conversation with his spouse.

Sagittarius Nocturne

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

Night heavy
as a cabbage, and I doze
to the dachshund's
chicken bone vomitting,
then swim, dressed like marriage
in only a cummerbund,
to the wet star so on top
of the tool shed, and hear
a single yard of black grass confide
to its finish every morning,
and the coal necklace
on brick where jellyfish,
in blocked uppercase letters,
spell another mystery
without the stroke of a few
fattening photographers,
disorganized white breasts,
the loud treasons of waking.

Sweet dreams, everybody