• Be a poet or be a poem •

I-BREAZIL

by John Gunderson


How in my enemy’s eyes can I not see god?
Is this his sin? Is this sin mine?

This man who stands against me changed not my place.
He obscures my vision of the horizon, I-Breazil a celestial place.

Not upward, but forward lays my eternal grace.
I-Breazil, where all good women wear Irish tatted lace.

Visions and swords with my enemy may cross.
Our eyes beset on that which was lost.

The distant horizon we both perverse
By believing our heavenly visions reversed.

The horizon we seek is one in the same
And unless this traveler comes up lame,

Step aside I will. This I’ll pray in any god’s name.
For our paths are set, I care not where.

Mine to I-Breazil, the heavenly fair.

John Gunderson is my younger brother and a poetic inspiration to me. He loves to write poetry. It is in his DNA. Everything he pens excites me and makes me want to write poems too. I give John “First Poet” honors in this collection. He is “first poet” in my heart. You can read more of John’s poetry at https://medium.com/@jgunderson

The Children's Hour

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(with special thanks to Mr. Thomas)

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Mr. Thomas was my sixth grade teacher when I was growing up in Brookfield, Wisconsin. He required the class to memorize this poem. I had a lot of nursery rhymes under my belt previous to this, but they didn’t prepare me for the sensation of reciting a “real poem” over and over. The imagery grew increasingly vivid in my mind with each practice until I felt like I too had been on that staircase with laughing Allegra and her three sisters. The Children’s Hour was the first “grown-up” poem I had ever memorized. Through it, I experienced the gift of caressing another person’s dream. Magic.

Naming the past

By Andrew McSorley

My mother searched the house
for a suicide note
from my father.

Unmoored every drawer.
Spent stacks of paper, piled
like mounds of dirt on the floor
spread across the kitchen table,
mouths unhinged, spilling
this hopeless hope like endless sand.

From the basement a dim light
left on overnight. Bare bulb
buzzing past the quiet
as if it didn’t know what happened,
didn’t know that its columned glow
fell on what was left of his obsessions:
plastic bins filled with thick socks,
shotgun shells and empty rifle casings
in scuffed wooden boxes, blaze orange
overalls, jackets and hats hung in the corner.

The scraps and pieces of a life,
like an ancient city, a ruin.

Where his hand used to drag the thread
of a brush through rifle’s bore,
there, in the pulled too tight covers
of evening, my mother stood
at the bottom of the stairs.

She must have wondered what
she was left with. Not even a scrap
of paper with “I’m sorry” in hurried ink.
Nothing but the desperate hum
of a single light held in place by years
of not trying to hold anything in place.
She must have wondered why he chose
silence, that most deafening tongue,
whipping through the night, naming,
repeating the past like thoughtless wind.

It just didn’t add up, didn’t come out right.

I had a feeling I miscounted so I rearranged
the minutes, but they were all there. Seconds
sparkled on the carpet like a shattered mirror.

I swept them all into a yellow backpack and crept outside.
I waited for someone to come.

Constellations murmured to each other.
They couldn’t see me, but they felt something change,
the way a crow sings before first light
or the way a matchhead flickers
just before bursting into flame.

Andrew McSorley is an alchemist. He takes the personal devastation of a tragic, pivotal day and its aftermath, juxtaposed with mysterious stories of Houdini’s life, and creates a transcendence over loss. He does this in his first published book of poetry titled “What Spirits Return.” I am so proud of his talent, and even prouder of his character. His wife is my niece. I guess you could say I love poetry and she loves poets (and I love this poet a lot). You can read more of Andy’s poems at https://andrewmcsorleypoetry.com

ALONE

By Heidi Kiser

Alone we enter
Alone we leave
Alone - a burden
Alone - reprieve
First breath a call of strength in crying
Last breath unknown, for we, the dying
Gifts bestowed, yet seldom measured
Received from each in whom we treasure
Moments shared with those we meet
Whose footsteps join our lonely feet
Honored if just one or two
I have walked the steps with you

Heidi Kiser is a polymath. I first met her when she was a fetus. Heidi is powerful, curious, independent, brilliant, creative, and fierce. Although she is the daughter of some of my oldest and dearest friends, she is my friend in her own right. I don’t have room to list her passions, her accomplishments, her creations. Name a topic and put “avid” in front of it. That’s Heidi. She manifests an equally magnificent life adventure for her two children. I am so happy to have watched her grow through life and look forward to every Heidi moment I can get. You can connect with her on LinkedIn here or on Facebook here.

MEMORIES

By Janice Reigel

Don't remember me when Im gone- remember me today
Stop over or call- I'd love to hear what you have to say
It doesn't matter what you talk about- nothing is too small
I just love to hear your voice- I love to hear it all
Don't think about me when I'm gone and what we used to do
Please take the time to make new memories between me and you

When my husband, Keith, was growing up, there were about 30 kids living and playing together in his neighborhood. One of his favorite playmates was Janice, but called Jeannie back in the day. She was the youngest daughter of the six Smith children, and a co-conspirator in a variety of fun and mischief. 1000 Steps Around the House. Red Light-green Light. Statue Maker. Kickball. Four-square. Snowball fights. Squirt gun wars. Whenever she sews a quilt for someone, she writes them a little poem to go with it. Janice told me she wrote this poem to give to her grandkids when they move away. 

ECLIPSE

by Erica Peters

Winter and rain, power and pain.
Anguish and shadow cast from you.
No remorse, no guilt, no ounce of a soul remains.
Only a hole of darkness you fill with power and pain.
Agony, affliction, torture and death.
This is what you bring to the world around you.
It fills the emptiness inside you, to know another life lay in your hands.
Ruins and cadavers for your greed to feast upon.
No mercy, you know not this word’s worth.
Exasperations from the masses reach you not.
A wicked sin to see one’s self so ignorantly blameless.
Your turpitude bright orange shining through your skin.
Your core scarlet with a vile stench.
Eyes once empty, now filled with the departed souls.
Energy stolen from existence, only to live on with your stranglehold of their memory.
Vanity, your veil, to shadow over your pure evil intent.
Merciless exploits perpetuate your mouth; a gateway to eternal damnation.
trump a synonym for eclipse,
meaning to deprive significance to life,
and obscure the light that shines from our celestial bodies to one another,
by passage between us.
But alas, the cadence of your passing nearly complete.
Then we will see the hope that shines in us all once again.

Erica is my niece, daughter of my brother John. I think she is extraordinary in so many ways, I don’t even know where to start - her character, her empathy, her fortitude, her motherhood, her loyalty, her talent, her intelligence, her beauty, her devotion, her humor, her world view, her goodness. I simply love her and cherish everything about her. She has the heart of a lion and the tenderness of a lamb. Knowing her is a privilege.

BOOK SPINE POEMS

by Michelle Verbos

“I was thrifting in Appleton this past week. Mostly I treasure hunt and poke around but as I was looking at the clearance books I remembered your letter and the Book Spine Poems you spoke about in this letter. So I placed 2 sets and snapped shots. I know the people around me thought I was a bit odd but for the most part that is just a given. I’m not sure these qualify as poems but to me they were funny. They both reminded me of my Tom. The first reflects how meeting him changed my life after he asked me to “be his one and only”.

The second reminds me of him as a boss man (bawse man), how he strived so hard to be well known in his industry (famous) and how I know he has asked himself at least 101 questions daily about his role as leader. I think he will always question his leadership but I believe he has left everything on the field and am looking forward to seeing him enjoy his earned relaxation now.”

My dear friend Tom had finally met the woman of his dreams. He lauded her intelligence, business acument, kindness, and beauty. He knew she was “the one.” When I met her, I knew he was right. Michelle loves. No matter what the situation, she seems to find a way to frame it in her mind to find a way to love, to heal, to teach. She is a very special person and I admire her for all those qualities. Inspired by a little poetry project I did with my grandkids, she found herself in a book store and thought she’d assemble some “book spine” poems. I think they are simply wonderful. Here’s what she said about them.

There is nothing better you can wish for a friend than a partner who loves him like this.

YET ANOTHER MASS SHOOTING

by Larry Floeter

The door to the school wasn’t lockedd. THAT’s the problem.
The police did not respond properly. THAT’s the problem.
We have too many guns in this country. THAT’s the problem.
Our kids are playing violent video games. THAT’s the problem.
We don’t have universal background checks. THAT’s the problem.
We don’t lock up violent criminals. THAT’s the problem.
We don’t have adequate treatment for mental illness. THAT’s the problem.
We have a gun culture in thiss country. THAT’s the problem.
Parents don’t raise their kids properly. THAT’s the problem.
The internet. THAT’s the problem.
Media sensationalizes shootings, prompting copycats. THAT’s the problem.
School employees are not allowed to be armed and defend their classrooms. THAT’s the problem.
Democrats. THAT’s the problem.
Republicans. THAT’s the problem.
Gun manufacturers. THAT’s the problem.
Gun owners don’t lock up their guns. THAT’s the problem.
Bullying in schools. THAT’s the problem.
Allowing 18 year olds to buy guns. THAT’s the problem.

That’s a lot of problems.

Larry has been one of my dearest friends for over four decades. I was an engineering intern at Mercury Marine. Larry was the engineer who mentored me in a variety of areas. I fell in love with his goodness. Forty years of kindness and friendship to me and my family has filled me with eternal gratitude. I have a gathering of friends in my home once a month to debate and discuss one social issue, political policy, scientific topic, etc. It is lively, confrontational, but never mean-spirited. It is an attempt to better understand different views and foster a wider perspective. It is the same group every month, and, of course, Larry is a prominent and vital part of every discussion. One of our past topics was Gun Control. Larry wanted to communicate the breadth of this topic and the characteristic and unproductive finger-pointing that recurs in all discussions. Instead of the usual outlines or essays our members share, Larry delighted me with a poem. I was so charmed I asked to include it here.

ADAMS COUNTY HAY SHAKERS

by T.C. Farley

Sister Monica Mary
back to the farm in August.
Mental health break.
An infant
doctors estimated five weeks
Swathed in strips of black habit
bound with several rosaries.
Picked up and turned
by horse-drawn hay rake.
Faint heartbeat.
Rushed to St. Michaels
surviving with the name
Jesse.
Early September
Monica Mary was found naked
and floating face down
in the Wisconsin River.

Before I ever knew T.C. Farley, I learned my niece Farleigh was named after him. Later, my husband met him at UW-Oshkosh. T.C. was an art professor with, among many other responsibilities, had oversight of the sculpture lab and foundry. Over the course of his time there, Keith had the opportunity to cast many of the bronze sculptures that are part of his legacy to our family. As Keith returned to painting, we maintained contact through updates on Christmas cards. Over the years, each time another book of T.C.’s provocative poetry was published, he’d send us a copy.When I started to write poetry again in 2019, although we had never actually met, I sent him a letter of gratitude for the inspiration his poetry had provided me. I credited him in part for my renewed interest. He graciously wrote me back and offered to be my poetry pen pals and cheer me on. Ever since, I look forward to his letters, his poems, and his critiques on mine. I feel like I know an intimate part of his soul through his poetry. We still have never met.

MY LIONESS FRIEND

by Michael Krueger

Mike Krueger is a Renaissance Man with that elusive gift of curiosity leading him to explore all the wonders life has to offer. We worked together for many years in manufacturing where he was one of the pillars on which whole areas of accomplishment rested upon. His technical mind is matched by his artistic side which has led him to adventures in writing, theater, art, music—and has filled his home with projects, inventions, and love. Merely thinking of him brings warmth to my heart and a broad grin to my face. He wrote the poem for his cat. I hope you can meet him someday.

Bad Poetry

by Jean Campana

Hats are hard.

Hats are soft.

Hats are big.

Hats are small.

Hats are on your head.

This bad poem was sent to me by my dear friend Jean Campana from Florida. We met many years ago and were instant friends, the kind of relationship that feels like we grew up together. One of my mosst cherished parts of life are the long Facetime visits we call our “Tea Times.” We always say good-bye with a long to do list of things to share, explore, and read. I admire everything about her! As you might guess from the photo, she has a long consulting affiliation with Disney, a true love for hats, and an even greater love for Mickey. Her “Bad Poetry Day” poem was the “worst” I received in the contest I sponsored for friends and family. Congratulations on the win, Jean!

DIRTY DISHES

by Larry Floeter

I am completely enchanted by this poem. Larry is one of my dearest friends and is good at everything. I think it’s because he is consistently thorough and rigorous like no one I’ve ever known. If you scroll back up to the poem titled “Yet Another Mass Shooting,” you will find a little history of our relationship. You’ll also find another, although more serious, poem, also written by Larry. He is a very deep researcher, and thoughtful thinker. He is also one of the joys of my life.

PERHAPS THERE’S
SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME?

by Jim Starke

I notice that as I get older, my laughs are more muted.
I find that my smiles are expressed less with my lips and cheek bones 
and more with my eyes. 

 I watch my grandson try to skooch across the carpet 
knowing it won’t be long before he can lift that buddha belly off the floor 
and off he will go.

 I notice that as I get older, I recognize the face of God in the everyday,
In feeding a bird, 
watching a child, 
or stealing a warm summer morning in the early month of May.

 Perhaps there is something wrong with me 
That I cannot seem to laugh or muster a smile.
Instead, my eyes simply well up.

Perhaps this is the difference between experiencing happiness
and experiencing joy,
Or experiencing God

Jim Starke is my first cousin. We shared childhood in a wonderful extended family. After a career as a brilliant metallurgist, he heeded the call and became a Deacon of the Holy Roman Catholic Church where he serves as Director of Deacon Services for the Milwaukee Archdiocese. He also serves the parish at St. Boniface in Germantown, and serves God in his role as husband, father, grandfather, and human. I have long admired his goodness, sincerity, and sacrifice. And when he recently became a poet, I found I admire his writing as well.

THE OLD BLUE VAN

by Jim Starke

 And he who was seated on the throne said,
“Behold, I am making all things new.”
Rev. 21:5a  

We were driving home from the airport
dropping off our last son
as he headed back to school 

To a quiet house
To a clean house
To an empty house

As the last stop light turned green,
The van stood still
Shift into park, shift into drive, and still stood still.
“I told you we should have traded it in for something new” 

You’ve surely seen that van in the parking lot
It was the blue one
with the scratches in the side
missing one of its mirrors
large dent in the rear
And only wore two hub caps
Truth is, I didn’t want a new van
I just wished it was new again. 

We drove our kids to school and soccer practice in that van
I taught the boys how to drive in that van
#2 received his first speeding ticket in that van
That van had the remarkable ability to collect parking tickets
In areas of the city that I have never been, 

But I’d give my eye tooth to do it all over again. 

Except this time 
I would work less and live more.
I would run less and sit more
I would argue less and listen more
I would worry less and pray more. 

Truth is, I didn’t want a new van
I just wished it was new again. 

Reality is that all things die and way to soon
We have a new van now
(at least new to us)
It’s the red one in the parking lot
The one with the two mirrors
All four hub caps
And no dents

At least no dents yet.

You can find more information about Jim Starke by taking a look at the end of the previous poem, titled “Perhaps Something is Wrong with Me.” There, you will discover insights and reflections that provide context and depth regarding his character and experiences.