I dreamed I saw a Wooly dog descendant—
wiggle-butted, scruffy, ornery, clearly
one more in a long line of poodle-terrier mutts.
His owner said, “he’s a Rottweiler,” but
no way. Just too much Benji evident.
Black against the giant foxtail. Curly
in every way—tousled coat, bent tail,
wagging walk toward me when I called.
When I was little, we let our dogs run free
all day and shut them up at night. Also, we
got the girl dogs fixed, but not the boys.
Thus all the Wooly dogs in Southern Illinois.
Every single thing was looser then.
I was happy. My dogs were my best friends.
Napping with Wooly.
Posted in Authenticity, Bloem or Pog, Dream Songs, Opdyke, Pandemic Poems, Poetry, Poetry journal, sonnets, Southern Illinois
Tagged dream song, Dream Songs, mutts, poetry, sonnet
Aline is a poet
Bob likes to fish
Chuck likes to throw things
Doug plays in the dirt
Ed likes to teach
Fanny likes to WHAT? WHAT DID YOU THINK I WAS GOING TO SAY?
Gale is a blowhard
Hi says hello
I spend so much time
Just amusing myself. I wonder if I can
Keep it up when we start
Losing people we know to the virus.
Mom and Dad are in lockdown
Now, we can’t hug them
Or even visit except online.
Prayers seem distasteful when the religious
Quacks sound them the loudest.
Really trying to focus, to be there for my
Students, but I feel stunned a lot of the
Time. But I keep trying. Which of
Us will turn out to have the right
Vision for how this all will
Work? Imagining the future takes e-
Xtreme optimism, which I don’t have. Do
You? Let’s talk about it more on
I’m not much of an optimist, but in a few weeks, my azaleas will be blooming.
Posted in Anxiety/Depression/Yuck, Authenticity, Bloem or Pog, Creativity, Family, Hot Take Poem, Pandemic Poems, Poetry, Poetry journal, Searching
Tagged abecedarian, pandemic poem, poetry, quarantine poem
Life might get back to normal, but I don’t know when.
I’m trying to work. I’d rather nap. I just wash
my hands and sing happy birthday again and again
and watch my hands dry out. Here’s another concern:
if I don’t strive hard right now, really push,
my life will never, ever be normal again.
Pandemic, panic, politics. Alliteration is not our friend.
While I wait for everything online to crash,
I decide to wash my hands and sing happy birthday again.
I want to be a superspreader. I want people to die. I want
to die. I’m not as shocked as I should be by my awful thoughts.
“Things will get back to normal.” Can you tell me when?
I’m grateful for root vegetables and food in cans.
My hero potatoes: fry, roast, boil, mash.
Will we ever sing happy birthday at a party again?
How soon we have to cook over open fire depends
on how well the grid holds up. Such a specific wish.
Life might get back to normal, but I don’t know when.
I’m singing happy birthday all alone again.
Posted in Anxiety/Depression/Yuck, Authenticity, Bloem or Pog, Healthy Health, Hot Take Poem, Pandemic Poems, Poetry, Poetry journal, Searching
Tagged dry skin, handwashing, pandemic, pandemic poetry, poetry, singing happy birthday, Villanelle
–for friends whose child died
I have nothing to give you, and nothing
on a piece of paper will help except that
having lost everything, you have
less than nothing, so maybe nothing
is something, maybe nothing is enough.
I am so sorry for your loss. I am so sad.
I think of you so often. I send you love.
I send you my prayers and my thoughts.
I, I, I,
I have this compulsion to make it about me.
One time I grieved so hard for a man
I barely knew, it took me years
to write the widow and that letter
was, like this current moment, about me.
Love from a distance and tokens and prayers
and kind thoughts on paper and strong wishes
every time you cross my mind, which is a lot.
As you continue to do the math of all you’ve lost,
the complicated math, the algebra, the calculus
(the problems of death are exponential,
the remainders don’t fit anywhere), just add
this in somewhere, this nothing. It isn’t nothing
exactly, but it’s not enough. It’s nothing much.
“Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?” Elizabeth Bishop
When I look at Real Estate in The New York Times,
I am charmed, absorbed by how small the spaces are
how much they cost, how light, how airy, how clever.
And oh! The things the owners say sometimes:
“It’s a modest little apartment but it’s so well done,”
(Barbara Barrie said) “It has brought me joy every day.”
But the odds for joy on the Upper West Side of Manhattan
are better than even, I’d guess. I really couldn’t say.
I am obsessed with other people’s homes.
I drive by houses and picture myself there.
Would I like it? Are the people inside happier
or sadder? Do they want to stay or go?
I think I could be happy anywhere.
I could be happy anywhere but here.
I suppose it’s possible that last line is true, but more likely it’s the poet in me having that line occur to me and going NICE TWIST. In any case, my house in small-town Wisco is pretty sweet sometimes:
a pic my husband took this morning
The trees and hills are at that awkward point
of winter, snow on the ground but nowhere else,
a bald guy with new implants too spread-out
to be attractive. I can’t wait until it all melts.
I had a dream once of climbing a hill like that.
I stubbed my toe, looked down to see bright pink
instead of white—blood mixed with snow—I think
that’s why hills look like heads to me still. What
dream book should I consult for giant head
with tender scalp and kicked-up bleeding crown?
I was part of a dream journaling experiment back then
and had a wicked crush on the therapist who led
the group. He had snake dreams. We all said
a snake means sex. He said no, not always. It doesn’t.
At 22, I was a nearly-manic mix of depressed
and horny and drank too much one time and tried to find
his house. I knew it was by a lake. If I found
his house, he didn’t answer the door. Which is good.
That night felt like a dream, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.
Posted in Anxiety/Depression/Yuck, Carbondale, Dream Songs, Drinking, Poetry, Poetry journal, Searching, Southern Illinois, Uncategorized
Tagged dream, dream journal, dream song, Dream Songs, dreams, fat sonnet, poetry, sonnet
I almost never want to leave the street
where my dream is taking place, but things
move fast so I can’t linger. The other night
I was in Butte (I think) and everything
was Irish, St. Patrick this and Brigid that,
mint green signs and throbbing drums and drunk guys
and a sense that things were turning dangerous
and I was walking, not driving, down a very narrow street.
That’s it. That was the end. I wasn’t afraid.
A man I know who lost a tooth in Butte
(for real) has cancer. I dreamed about him last night.
A gallery show, collages of himself, most naked,
which he called “The Ravager_________.” Next to the cheese tray,
he was selling tiny brown cloverleafs he’d crocheted.
Posted in Bloem or Pog, Car Sonnets, Color of the Month, Creativity, Dream Songs, Mindful Driving, Montana, Places, Poetry, Poetry journal, Uncategorized
Tagged Butte, dreams, dreamscape, poems, poetry, sonnet, sonnets