Poems from 2003

Minnesota
By Sandra Evans

Lake cabin summers measured
by your basking body stretching
plank by plank, year after year.
The summer sun lengthening you
to a teenager who wants to de-tassel
money from corn
instead of shucking it for lunch,
silk in your hands instead of fungus.
You can still be lulled to sleep
by frog song from the shoreline
sneaking measure by measure
under the flap of the tent camper.

What happened to that rhythm,
the one Minnesota gives it's children?
Lap-splatting against the boat
like the tail of a sunny,
tender pats of rain, fingers drumming
on the screen porch roof,
summer turning over into
leaf fall
into
snowfall
into brown grey slop into
white puddles of apple blossoms.
The blue earth, mah-kato
, is still here
turning around the sun
twirling you from center by your
skinny brown arms.

Winterscape
By Brian McCann

In Minnesota
winter is a thick blanket
that strangles all sound.
Asphyxiating,
you cannot get free unless
you get on a plane.
A car could work too
as long as you remember
to heat your oil first.
You pass away south,
watching white turn brown then green;
the blanket dissolves.
In Amarillo
winter is a tree with fruit,
drink its sweet syrup.
The white inside you,
victorious over death,
now you truly live.

Redland
By Polly McCann

Whenever I sit in Pearl's kitchen
I must soak it all in before it disappears
in a dream of the golden age
people say never existed
A sweet old-time smell comes from
the gas stove in the corner
My eyes shine brightly

On the Bonner Farm four kings, apostles
mark edge of the dirt road
between two fields
Servants to both sky and earth,
the trees perpetually call
the artist to try her hand
or the poet his words
But the farmer knows them and loves them
as he does every noble thing

If a farmer ever invites you to walk the road
between his fields, always say "yes."
You might become a part of the place
carry it with you-the land
remaining and changing you
like water changes rock into sand

One day I smelled Pearl's peach cobbler
from half a mile away
and when I moved 1,000 miles
to the edge of Lake Valentine
and the brown soil of the prairie
snuggled under the ice for
another long winter, I wept
and longed for the fields of corn
pushing earth into rows
with rose colored fingers.

It was the mocking bird who greeted me
every morning by the wash line,
the two blue poles framing the horizon
for a whole year

Jeremy brought us a little jar of deep red soil from the farm
on the plane to Minneapolis.
Carefully I planted some of my heart inside,
tightened the lid, and promised
I'd take it home again one day

Being Minnesotan
By Michelle Kelley

Land of the loons and wild raccoons,
Snowballs and geese calls;
Frozen wonderland and arctic air icicles,
Enchanting call of frost on white pines.

Ski's and scarf's,
Mitten's and muff's;
Frost bite from below zero,
Wet lands, out doors and mosquito's.

Subzero wind chills,
Icy lakes and snowmobiles;
Iron Ore, Taconite, minerals,
Above northern lights of Lake Superior.

Snow pants, boots and sleds,
Ice scraper and winter snow;
Wild deer and camping we'll go,
Fishing and hunting we do it all.

Minnesota Winter…
Yeah, yah bet-cha…

Minnesotans: The Proud, the Lively, the True
By Diane McGuire

A decade in Minnesota
is not enough to be beguiled
by the expression UFF DA!

"Uff da!" Look! A snowflake
wider than my mother's smile,
whiter than her teeth!

"UFF DA," I found my winter spread
and still I reach for another helping of
hot dish, lutefisk besides
as mystery jello complements.

"Uff Da," I met another man: he hunts,
he fishes, he fishes, he hunts…
"what else is there?" he asks
and she whistles sex
between her strong teeth.

"UFF DA!," The Wild's score in their remaining 7 seconds to win the game…
So tell me again,
what is 'Minnesota Nice?'
No mercy in sports,

Man attacked, jumped by irate Vikings fans (well, 3 stayed in the car), hit him from behind with a log for having the audacity to cheer for the Bears and wear their sweatshirt-

Whose blatant stupidity?
"Go back to Chicago!," they shout, limping away.
--Tue story,
not so tough
but testosterone levels alive & high
producing girl after girl,
Uff da.
the men know better
not to utter uff da
yet uff da,
uff da
Among themselves: where will all the hunting and fishing go?

* * * "Hi Cookie," a retired history teacher greets me in passing, years back
"Hi Muffin," I tease back,
bu uff da,
did I offend?
(never in NY), but uff da, here I am in "Minnah Sotah",
where in this Great White North
a red fox and a deer cross your path
& angle toward each other as if to say,
laughing,

"Look, it's Sven-
or is it Ole?"

You BETCHAH-

No fashion models or movie stars here,
have a sense of humor or perish,
we're right at you
before you,
begging,
Tell me a story
More than food or water,
we love a good story.

Like Garrison Keillor wanna-be's,
our live monument
suspending disbelief and time,
and we never give up
our stories.

FARGO not so far from us
we gather in cabins on lakes, hibernate
with
jabs & jeers, giggles & guffaws…

Oh yah, tell me about dat den
when you pooped in your hood
on hunting watch
or da time
when you put reflective tape all
over yer mailbox after yer wife
kept running it over…

Ya, dat's not all,
until no one breathes words
as the sauna sedates
with a shot of Jagermeister in hand
resting on round, satiated big bellies…
Ah, yah, that's it fer me then
And it is a Good Night.
On the short walk home,
the North Star winks back
glistening on the lake,
(frozen or thawed),
and the only direction
is dreamtime,
(stories to come)
hard & fast
deep & deliberate
till dawn
when work calls…
just keep busy
for without busy
what is play?

A Minnesota Being
begins with a sigh
and
ends the day with a sigh…

Arighty then,
it shouldn't be
any other
Way.

Protected Species
By Joyce Truchinski

"The wolves are at the barn again,"
The frightened children cry.
"We hear them howl; sometimes they growl.
We see some shiny eyes."

"The door was closed when I came in,"
Mused Father, standing near.
"And yet, I hear the Nanny goat.
She knows the wolves are here.

These Minnesota timber wolves
Are huge and vicious beasts.
My little farm cannot endure
To be their choice for feasts".

The farmer lifted down the gun-
Winchester! Perfect aim!
"'Tis sad," he said, "To want them dead.
To break the law is a shame.

But they've ravaged the sty where the piglets grow.
They've killed the calving cow.
If I don't fight those wolves tonight,
They'll probably get the sow".

He quietly slipped out from the house
Staying close in its shadow,
When to his ear came a squeal of fear
From the shed at the end of the row.

His feet then scarcely touched the ground.
As he ran, he readied the gun.
He gave a hoarse roar, kicked down the door,
And saw what the wolves had done.

Then reflex action forced the shots
As the corned wolves faced man.
Three beasts lay dead; shot through the head.
Man muttered, "I'll do what I can".

He knelt beside his wounded hog;
Held back the blood with his hand.
She was alive; she would survive,
But he'd broken the law of the land.

DIDJA EVER?
By Beverly Simmelink

Didja ever build a campfire on a cool September night?
Didja ever wait all hungry till the coals burned down just right?
Didja ever cook some cocoa in an old enamel pot?
Didja ever try to sip it slow when it was boilin' hot?
Didja ever eat a hot dog that you roasted on a stick?
Didja ever chew a cob o'corn with butter oozin' thick?
Didja ever lick your fingers and then sorta reach for more?
And eat some toasty 'mallows till you're getting' kinda sore?
Didja ever throw more wood on to bring the fire up?
Didja ever warm your hands around a cocoa-heated cup?
Didja ever smell the woodsmoke when the breezes brought it 'round?
Didja ever see a spark-filled log break open on the ground?
Didja ever watch the friendly faces round the fire there?
Didja ever reminisce about the memories you share?
Didja ever sing the old songs and try to harmonize?
Didja ever get all teary when the smoke blew in your eyes?
Didja ever see a falling star across the dark night sky?
Didja ever feel a chill when the fire began to die?
Didja ever stir the ashes to find the last red glow?
Didn'ja hate to say goodnight when it came time to go?

"Tornado"
April 26, 1984
By Phyllis Scholberg

While driving up Silver Lake Road, I had seen
That the sky was tuning a yellowish green.

I barely reached home in time to take shelter
Before the wind struck moving trees helter-skelter.

The wind, the rain, the lightening, the thunder-
All signaled the need to escape down under.

It was black as midnight-through only eight-
So crouched in the basement I had to wait.

In less than two minutes, it was quiet as church.
Did now I dare to leave my stairway perch?

I waited and listened, paralyzed with fright,
Then voices were heard, "Is every one all right?"

I crawled to the door and answer in fear,
For not much of our home remained was quite clear.

I needed a flashlight for safety inspection
Of damage by winds from a South-West direction.

No death, no injury, no fire, no explosion.
No roof, no window, no door. Just implosion.

With dogs on leashes and lanterns in hands,
The Sheriff and Governor set up commands.

The Salvation Army-not the Red Cross-
Arrived to assess out neighborhood's loss.

What wasn't destroyed by the tornado's blow
Was soon to ruined by nine inches of snow.

Hardwood floors warped; ceilings leaked like a sieve.
It was raining inside the house where we live.

Glass slivered the carpets; tar imbedded the walls.
Insulation and shingles littered the halls.

The patio was stacked full two-storeys high
With roofing and lumber that dropped from the sky.

Life became simplified for many an hour:
No means of transport; no heat and no power.

Old-fashioned candles and matches for light
Would get us through our very first night.

Gloves and work shoes were in style that May
Worn while clearing debris out of the way.

It was a year to remember: one hard to forget.
Fear gave way to tears, which return even yet.

Nature put on an indescribable show.
My souvenir says, "I survived a tornado."

Northwoods Soliloquy
By Spencer Mann

Standing upon the threshold of a lonely forest
Birds chirp and sing above, in the tranquil dawn
Needles gently drift down form endless queues of evergreens,
I peer silently into the depths of the forest.

A pristine stream running between the willows
Teems with sleek swimming fish,
Cattails sway in the late autumn breeze,
An old heron stands on a floating log.

By the bend of a slow moving river
A shadow, small wetland fills the inlet
Where elusive ducks and geese swim
Music of frogs can be heard all around.

The Minnesota dawn casts lovely hues
Illuminating the dark forest,
A wild land in solitude
Where earth and sky meet.

And then the winds come.
Frigid fingers of the Arctic
Tearing through marsh and forest
Chilling creatures as they seek safety.

The once beauteous morning has drifted away
Now wreathed in the fury of an icy storm,
Snow slice through the solitary wood,
Squirrels scurry to shelter under a sugar maple.

The tempest's frigid vortex leaves
An aura of cold draping the tall pines.
Plumes of reflected light dance across the slowly melting drifts,
Birds chirp their sweet tunes again.

Quite a dazzling spectacle is the beauty of sun on ice,
Pale rainbows disappear in a haze of drained color,
Eerie manifestations of light and cold,
The true lights of Minnesota.

The cold begins to evaporate,
Icicles glitter in the mid day light,
Vibrant patches of green appear,
Spring reverberates through the state.

Shoots sprout in surges of greenish hues,
Animals awaken from their sleep,
Muskrats gorge upon the young cattails,
As the forest begins to rejuvenate.

Hawks and osprey soar overhead,
Sturgeon and pike swim far below,
Foxes bound nimbly through the wooded labyrinth,
A woodchuck digs a hole.

The sun beats down in the cloudless sky,
Flower fragrance permeates the air,
Hummingbirds zoom by on a quest for nectar,
A mink pursues a spritely deer mouse.

Leaves grow out to their fullest
Flowers reach their peak
Mosquitoes are in their prime
Chipmunks chatter under a spruce

Large puffy clouds from the west arrive on
A zephyr gliding through the lively forest,
Raindrops ripple in the stream,
Abruptly the sky begins to fall.
Rivers of rain rampage the ground
In a barrage of translucent drops,
The creek begins to flood
Globes of water saturate all in their path.

Thin curves clouds are all that remains,
The moon shimmers softly on the horizon,
Fireflies begin to glow,
At last the sun disappears in a veil of moonlight.

Minnesota Memories
By Shane Macavlay

The long winter path yet ahead,
the short summer trail through the hot, humid
weather. The man on the path thinks of memories,
peaceful in his head of the warm spring & summer ahead
of the months. Cold, that the weather is, blows the man
on the rough terrain that is the path.

Along the way walking up the path, time seems as
if years. With the passing of the minutes, the path
rolls on, to what seems to be an endless path, while the
memories of past fade.

A NEW PLEDGE by Doug Gray
I pledge allegiance to no flag,
To no republic’s gaudy rag.
For no one land, however bold,
Can claim: “We purest Truth uphold.”
I honor lasting, brave ideals
That many true, free hearts can feel:
The justice, liberty and rights
That all enjoy who sense the lights
Of freedom’s rays invisible,
No nation’s indivisible,
Least of all ours, our colors mixed,
And language building walls betwixt
The new arrivals and the long-
Since native-born. One’s “right,” one’s “wrong;”
So East and West and South and North
We’ll set against each other. Forth
Their fervent battlecries will sound;
Their crafty arguments go ‘round.
From this division, we’ll build strength;
Our ayes and noes, expressed at length
Will thrive, as grass from scattered seed.
Nor man nor god must free thoughts heed;
And, if god, which shall I obey?
Moses or Christ? Babalú Ayé?
Buddha, Mohamet, or Lao-Tzu?
Or Ba’al, Be’elzebub and Moloch, too?
Pledged words won’t tell me what to do.
We build allegiance, not with hand
On heart, but making in this land
A home for all who look for rest;
The tyranny- and fear-oppressed
Who know that here, they might stand tall:
With liberty and justice for all.