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Best Poems Written by Rosann Fode

Below are the all-time best Rosann Fode poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Slow Pitch

In the dirt of the diamond, my son’s eyes
Burn below the rim of his red hat
And he pulls his hand back,
looks at the score yet again,
digs his small toe in as his chest rises.

From my place in the stands
Every muscle has become tense 
And my heart is pounding in my chest
As he draws his arm back and then forward
Releasing his breath and the tiny spinning ball, 
A wild pitch bouncing off the wire fence.

And I finally exhale, wonder if he knows 
I am throwing with him and that was my wild pitch 
because I forgot to breath when we released the ball
And I was trying to throw it slow.
And I should just let him throw the ball 
Because I am not a good pitcher
Because how can I possibly throw with him 
When he is a lefty and I am a right.
But all of me grows tense, as he has the ball yet again, 
And then we are winding up again 
Because I cannot let go
Because his dreams are now my dreams 
Because I don’t know how to love him
Any other way. So I will wear his little hat and  
Must remember to exhale when we release the ball.
And I can play with him for a few more years 
So we wind up, and we pitch, and that fast ball down the middle,
It wasn’t even trying to be avoided, 
And so I know he threw that one 
Because he is ready for the fast ball
And I would prefer we pitch it slow,
Just for a little while longer. 
Long enough for him to know I am out there with him.
Long enough for me to learn how to let a fast ball fly.

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The Dead Essays

The Dead Essays


Today I wore all black 
But there is no funeral procession. 
So I just went to work and sat at my desk
Before piles of essays which need to be read,
A red pen in my hand - 
Because I am old school 
And the students can deal – 
And it would seem that women
Of the mid 1900’s were being oppressed 
And that is the reason they were all insane.
Yes, all of them. It is clearly stated in paragraphs two and three,
The introduction and the sad excuse for a conclusion 
Which is hanging on at the end like some sort of cough.
And here it would seem the student forgot all syntactical purpose 
And I am quite certain “When women were alone” 
Is not a sentence, and yet it is punctuated as such,
A big fat period where there should only be a comma. 
The chop, chop of simple sentences 
And yet I am relieved because at the very least, 
It is a sentence… no matter how misguided the idea. 
Oh, and the idea because today women are equal to men 
In every possible way, and I hope the tone is sarcastic, biting, a little ironic,
But no… it is not. 
This child does not know to capitalize I 
Let alone how to portray through language 
A tone which is biting, satirical, humorous.
It would seem I am dressed appropriately after all.

Details | Rosann Fode Poem

To Bed I Said

Inspired by tough good nights and the master of rhyme, Dr. Seuss


I am Mom.   
I am Dad. 
Mom I am.
Dad I am.

“That mom and dad.
That mom and dad.
Right now I don’t like mom and dad.”

“Would you like to go to bed?”

“I do not want to go to bed.”

“How about you rest your head?”

“I do not want to rest my head.
I would not like to go to bed. 
Mom and Dad that’s what I said.
I am not going to go to bed.”

“Would you sleep if we read a book?
Would you sleep with your nuk?”

“I already read a book,
And I’m too big for a nuk.
I do not want to rest my head.
I would not like to go to bed.”

“Would you with your teddy bear?
Just twirl your fingers in your hair.”

“I will not with my teddy bear,
won’t twirl my fingers in my hair.
Though… you can read another book,
And maybe I will take that nuk.
But I do not want to rest my head.
I do not want to go to bed.” 

“Will you with a kiss good night?
Will you if we turn out the light?”

“I do not want a kiss good night.
And don’t you dare turn out that light.
But I guess I’ll take my teddy bear.”
She twirled her fingers in her hair.
“Sit and read me another book.”
In her hand she held her nuk.
“But I do not want to rest my head.
I will not, will not go to bed.”

“Could you close those pretty eyes
 if we sang a lullaby?”

“I could not close my little eyes.
Please, don’t sing me lullabies.
You can give me a kiss goodnight.
But out the window I still see light.
I will hold my little bear.”
Her fingers still twirled in her hair.
“But I don’t want a book 
and don’t need this nuk.
I do not want to rest my head. 
I will not, will not go to bed.
I will not got to bed I said.”

“Could you with your baby doll?”
“How about your favorite ball?
Tomorrow is a busy day.
We have plans to go and play.”

“We can go and play today.
Right now, Dad, let’s play I say.
I will take my favorite ball.
Put away my baby doll.
Teddy bear can stay right there.
Put a pony in my hair.
We don’t need to read a book
But maybe you should bring my nuk.”

“But the sun has said ‘good night, goodnight’.
The heavens have turned out their lights.
The entire world is sleeping tight.
Even the moon is saying goodnight.


“Mom and Dad if you will let me be 
I’ll lie down and you will see.
There is no need for me to rest, 
I am being my very, very best.
There’s no need to say goodnight. 
No need for you to put out the light.”

And she lied down with the night
Her eyes closed sweetly and… 

Goodnight.

Details | Rosann Fode Poem

Waiting At the Grocery Store

Waiting at the Grocery Store

Looking around, my fingers fidgeting a multicolored scarf,
Searching through pockets for a letter that needs to be read, 
a phone call message I need to hear, but there are none. 
And I am going over the list one more time,
Standing semi-still under artificial lights, 
Balancing on alternate limbs
For a carton of skim milk, a loaf of French bread, coffee grounds, cream.
With the arm of a dangling child, a mother rushes by
Pushing cold rubber wheels across the linoleum.
The frantic woman at the register cries about her coupon.
Preparing for a battle, she shakes her head
And waves the war flag,
Fifty-five cents off a box of Lucky Charms.
She spits discontent at a tiny, gray haired cashier.
“Expired?” 
In the distance a child is being abused.
There will be no gum, no M&Ms, no sugar-silence.
The man behind me chimes, “Man, these lines. Never seen such lines.”
And he lies about a place where there are no lines.
He looks in my eyes, tries.
I barely nod, no need for provoking conversation. 
Like the man at the bar who mistook, “Hello” for “Let’s go ****.”
The back of my head still throbs.
And I hate them all.

And I shift away, burning in my skin under the artificial lights,
Waiting for waiting.

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My Live Doll

I have a live doll. 
She curtsies and twirls, dances.
Farts and says excuse me through a giggle,
Poops and pees,
Is anatomically correct. 

Little blonde doll, 
I comb her hair but it is always wild,
Sometimes I’d like to carry her by it
But I never do.

My live doll
Smiles and sings songs
Has multiple sayings from her pull-string: 
I love you,
Please and thank you,
Mommy and Daddy,
F*&% or fork.
(We aren’t quite sure.)

My pretty doll,
She is fully posable 
Has multiple outfits: 
Pink dresses, blue jeans, 
Pajamas for night.
She came with a certificate.

My darling doll,
I hope the world 
doesn’t rip off your limbs 
and forget you under the bed.

Details | Rosann Fode Poem

A Stone

Loss (2/11/2014)

It is a stone that cannot be lifted
Planted into the earth of the soul.

Buried under the cat that he drove over 
Pressing it into the ground in the ridges of the tractor tire.
And the jungle gym of his arm that I swung under
Long hair, laughing.
And tongue sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, an old apple
Brought in a brown bag to the field at noon.
Shouts and a broken plate, his fist to my face.
And his hands under his head folded in worry.  
The girl he loved was getting away.
A single red rose in a small crystal vase 
on her concrete steps.
Talking on the green couch downstairs of the past
Of the future.
And the letters from San Francisco, 
The letters from Carolina, 
The letters from Japan,
Begging for baked goods and promises not to enlist. 
The launch off the rope swing into the Missouri,
Profanities screamed over the current into the bright sky.
The stick to Harley’s leg for one more day.
Sneaking out my bedroom window
Drinking a bottle of rum in the tent in the front yard
In a marijuana haze.
My white dress, dancing, his blue and gold uniform,
My manicured nails in his hands and his head over my shoulder
Tears on my back.
And the new girl who wore her own white dress.
And his eyes reflected in his sons
Tiny pieces of him in his arms.
His voice so gentle, so close to them.
Jumping and screaming, laughing bedtimes, 
Children being thrown upside down 
Tickles and goodnights in the nightlight
The darkness in the windows waiting.
Cold beers on the front porch, 
The hum of the crickets call 
To the moon.

Dirt on a stone, 
Dirt on a stone.

Details | Rosann Fode Poem

Dakota Skies Part 2

Earlier than usual, for the pigs have broken free from their pen,
We are allowed to quit the milking because someone must get them.
The excitement of getting to be with her sets us to a run
But when we discover the pigs, we know that it is done. 
From the woodpile we gather two-by-fours with which we lay into 
The backs of the wild beasts because it is all we can think to do.
They had formed a circle around her, pushing and pulling her pain
Her hind legs were strings of blood and bone, little did remain.
With curses of Christian children we hurled into the wind 
We chased the beasts away from her, beating them for their sin.
Though her cries had quieted to whispers, she was crying still 
And this time we cried with her, for we knew the what will.
Mother, we asked for the gun, but father was not home.
Mother, we asked for the knife, but the good knives would not be won.
My brother made me wait inside so I ran to the kitchen window
And perched myself on the sink, pulling the curtain low.
He sat with her head curled in his lap in the shade of the old tree, 
Crying into the warmth of her neck and then to set her free
His small arms around her neck and his unanswered cries 
Echoing across the plains and through the cold Dakota skies.

2/25/14

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Dakota Skies Part 1

My brother and I walk the south pasture on an early spring day,
The warmth of spring slowly melting, the cold of winter away.
The golds of old growth are broken by the green of new,
And we are drifting in dreams, though we have work to do.
Gathering the cows for milking, we allow Father Time to pass by,
When a shadow in the barbed wire catches my brother’s eye.
We run through the stubble of last season allowing dreams to lead, 
Shaped by childhood stories which we had seen and read.
The cries draw us near where she hangs, limply as if half dead.
Each barb is cutting deeply. She slowly bleeds the earth red.
The life within her still pulsing its unbreakable bond
We make a solemn vow, a promise, to the crying, broken fawn.
Freeing her from her prison, we discover she is too weak,
She cannot stand or fight, has lost the force of her instinct.
My brother lifts her to his chest and orders me to go on.
For the chore of our cow gathering still must be done.

Miles between us and home, they trudge, a child with a child
Him dreaming of what will be when we tame the wild.
The weight of the burden breaks him and he falls to his knees.
Looks to the heavens for strength, but there is only me.
Her hooves drag along beside and I cradle her in my arms -
The weight of her pulling me downward, and yet I struggle on.
We entrust her to the dancing shadows of the oak tree in the yard,
And beg our mother for help but her motto is “Life is hard.
The veterinarian is more than we can spend. Milking still needs done.
Wild animals should be left to nature and the course which it will run.”
With a child’s gesture of love, we leave her and gather grain.
The labor of farm children - as essential as the rain.
(There is a Part 2 which can be found on my page.)

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For My Husband

If there is any truth to us, I could still see
You, the way I saw you long before this
Need took root in our hearts -
A desire to consume one another.

Friend, I know your face like my own and
I'm still memorizing the shadows of your soul
Sailing through the depths without wind
Right before the hour hand makes another tick, 
Behind us, calling us, commanding us
Like life has its own agenda - 
A parasitic desire to consume all that we have become.

Bridge the gap between here and there,
Over distance and time and death,
Troubled pasts and pulsating dreams,
Water the earth of my heart with your tears, and
I will find you,
Will return to where we were, where you are.

Ease the echoing void with the knowledge that
Your soul is my own and your pain has no 
Mind for the strength of our desire.

Details | Rosann Fode Poem

Night's Dream

(2/11/2014)

I want to roll into myself until there is nothing left
Close the golden doors to light and live in my dreams
Float away into the clouds where I can fly
Kiss strange men that confess their love for me
Breath heavy and sweet 
Sweat rolling down my neck like honey
Tingling everywhere, everywhere
Come into me like a child returning home
Desiring to have that child return home
Fingers grasping at flesh, digging rivers,
White sheets, flashes of dark and light 
Crawling into, rolling into, breathing, heavy, sweet  
Heavy, sweat, rolling, panting, flashes, 
Broken into until there is nothing left