she spends thirteen hours putting summer clothes away
gets out snow boots for it is a cooler day
the rest of the week it is ninety-two degrees
a muggy, stifling heat wave, no autumn breeze
hay fever in December, sure, because it makes no sense
our seasons are bi-polar, unsure, sporadic and dense
the Midwest is notorious for keeping three or four sets of clothes
because what our insane weather will do, we never know
blue plaid flannel shirts
Illinois and iowa
winter uniform
midwest freezing rain
nebraska and iowa
natives fear her wrath
You cannot exist unless you have a gun
This is the Midwest
You might want to kill a deer
Or an enemy
Or an enemy’s kin
Or an annoying grouse
Get your gun
Let’s practice shooting
We can shoot out windows
Or doors
Or people’s cars
This is the Midwest, we will be forgiven
Everyone has a gun
We all wanted to be sheriffs back in the day
No one will worry or call us thugs
We will be “good old boys”
Petted and loved,
Admired for our viciousness
There is a squirrel
Kill that.
Several semis have jack-knifed
The blizzard has made the air fog-like
Highway patrol has closed the interstate down
Electric cars cannot run in this weather
There is treacherous black ice
Many pile ups of cars, some injured, eight dead
Frostbite is waiting around the corner to set in
Tell me again why we live in the Midwest?
Outside "Clio" history lays
simply on cobblestones ways
Between its bricks just stays;
an hourglass, measuring days,
It sees the beauty in each worn stone,
a story etched, with a life all its own
Within the cracks, it settles in layers so deep,
there's no need for grandeur or fame or sleep
Symbols of freedom, pure, simple, and true
The Omaha stones shared with me what they knew
Her whisper throughout my soul was voiced so clear,
"Wilson & Washburn" took hold of my heart damn near...
In every sand, are storeys, of lives lived, of dreams, of moments made of gold
"When I am dust, hopefully, someone writes of what lively stories I behold"
snow
ice frost
icicle
January
teeth are chattering
February also
March has been called off this year
a new ice age in the Midwest
we will not be planting until June
robin family is annoyed at Spokane’s rainy weather
They get a yellow umbrella and stay together
Let’s go back to the Midwest says the father, loud.
Yes! The wife agrees, looking at a new storm cloud.
They huddle together, bracing their feathers in the wind.
Mommy, Daddy, Zin and her twin brother, Finn.
At the end of the storm, they decide to stay.
Their nest is marvelous with cushy places to lay.
I readily admit I am a country bumpkin
But I am no buffoon
I am in this to build others up
To help others win
To raise up my neighbors and my friends
We hear about the coastal towns
Both east and west coast have terrific reputations
Their people are more sophisticated, more stylish, chic.
It is fashionable at both coasts to be less hands-on.
To be less community oriented.
In the big citiies of the coasts, people on the streets do not speak.
They do not smile.
They do not say “hi”.
They walk past each other, like trotting lamp posts.
Not noticing faces or inflections.
Not noticing humanness in each other.
I am in New York City today, trying to figure it out.
Where is a guidebook to help me unlearn social niceties?
How can I immediately become less human? Less caring?
How do I not say “hi” to everyone I pass?
Is there a manual? A cheat sheet? A U-tube video?
Too late. I am already here, feeling miserable.
Wishing I was back in the Midwest where it is okay to care about strangers.
The sun rises in a watermelon sky
Green leaves welcome the newborn light
shivering in the crisp air
Watercolor wings amid the blooming blossoms
flutter in the breeze
The verdant high hills and gentle ravines
awaken to the Meadowlark’s chorus in Nature's melody
Bite Size Poem no48 Poetry Contest
Here in my suburban acre of Ohio;
I feel the generations,
the hungarians, the irish and germans,
the dutch, the blacks, the shawnee.
We are not a melting pot,
we are birds and critters brought here
by wild, wild winds.
I am a grackle
with my own grackle language,
I expect you who live in the same tree with me
have your own way
of making a home in this land.
Heartland is the root we share,
The root is lazy days in PJ’s.
Hectic mini-van school runs,
sweats for Walmart and yelling at stuff.
One dress tie for special occasions.
Most of us are not poor or rich,
Most of us about nothing much.
We don’t love our guns,
we simply keep them
in case those who don’t understand
want to mess with what we’ve earned.
My neighbor is a mourning dove,
Her son is a possum that loves to play
video games from dawn to dusk.
My pal is a rooster, a gnarly-handed poet,
don’t ask him to write anything
he might think those fighting words.
I like being a grackle, but I married an anhinga
from Florida.
She is adjusting.
We accept tornadoes here,
expect them, tick them off
as they pass by like demon dreidels.
Usually they are not a big deal
unless they are.
Spring culls its little lambs
in all sorts of ways.
The murder rate in Chicago
climbs ever higher
until the city prays for more snow.
Folks in their privileged trailer parks
get rolled like dice.
A pressing need for body bags
creates work for some.
The addicted and dying oblige
as best they can.
It’s all a small town hush
unless a celebrity overdoses
then distraught, the news is spread
from parlor to parlor.
Shooting-up on the streets
is a recreational choice for those
who camp-out in Cleveland and Dayton.
Meanwhile birds keep singing,
Spring flowers struggle to bloom
squeezed as they are
between such climatic collisions.
We hear the roar and rumble
of funnels turning upon themselves
as they twist the nights away.
Let's go ice skating, like when we were kids!
We skated indoors at the Chicago Arena.
My leather brown case with peacock satin
interior,
And gold locks that shined like the morning sun.
Those figure skates, polished were my pride and joy.
The Arena was huge and had its own organ.
So proud we were to skate to real music.
I was so unsure of myself, my parents hired a trainer.
Clarence was an experienced and gentleman and
par excel lance.
I learned to not be fearful.
We skated for hours....my cousins, friends and I.
Those were such special, dear hours of learning and
friendship!
Falls and spills,we thought, golly we are skilled!
At real ice shows we were admired costumes and how they
went so fast...
.....Alas, the decades have, too!.....
The Zamboni of life cleared all of this away.
A wondrous memory of many loved winters past.
How much this heart wants to bring back the joyous ice skating,
the days of fun, companionship and young, free, laughter!
~Thanks Mom and Dad~
11-15-2020
NOTE ..I FOUND NOTHING FOR ICE SKATING WHICH THIS IS ABOUT.
The magnolia
The frontsman of the spring
The pear is jealous
Dark tornadic skies
batten down the Oz hatches
twisters by the score
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