|
Poems table of content
The Lake Is Mother to Us All Christopher Kolon Lake Michigan Anneliese Finke Superior Sister Jim Landwehr to Michigami with love Kyote Schoor Casting Off Katrina Serwe My True Mother Stacey Wagner Sunrise Rhythm Lake Michigan Shore Carrie Sherrill The Bonded Mary Lindqvist Anything Is Possible David Edwards Polar Bear Plunge Elizabeth Harmatys Park Miracle Mirage Katherine Yets Our Lady the Lake Darleen Coleman Fuse Ed Werstein Who Could Imagine a Lake M.A. Hoff Kenosha Jeff Leisgang Advice to Barefoot Boy CJ Muchhala Where the Shoreline Takes Me Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes I Am Having an Affair with Lake Michigan Missy Isely-Poltrock At the lakefront Phyllis Wax Ghost Ship, A Great Lakes Mariner's Tale Peter Sherrill Flight Plan Marilyn Zelke Windau Almost 70, and Have Not Yet Stepped in Lake Michigan Thomas A. Thrun Weather at the Lake Margaret Rozga Our Mother, the Lake Christy Hoff Great Water Michael Staeger Not Blue Freesia McKee The Waves Daniel August Christensen, Sr. Within This Fading Autumn Joe Engel Shimmers Toni Roucka Lake Michigan Meandering Shawna Neal I'm Standing on a Beach in Southeastern Wisconsin Robert M. Katzman Lake Michigan Sailor's Seasons, four haiku John Neal Dear Kenosha Jean Preston Rock Collectors Christel Maass The Lighthouse Stands Michelle Murray Nobody Is Sleeping Sarah Freeborn |
Angel of Lake Michigan III
by Missy Isely-Poltrock www.lemonstreetgallery.org/missy-isely-poltrock.html www.redbubble.com/people/pigwingsangel www.instagram.com/missy1111girl/ 
Project chapbook available at the Modern Apothecary and Lemon Street Gallery in Kenosha. The chapbook will be available at the Kenosha Book Festival on June 23. Watch this space as new locations are announced.
|
Poems
The Lake is Mother to Us All
Christopher Kolon
I climb across the boulders that line
the lakeside of Southport Park,
settling down on a thick ledge that juts
out over the water.
Waves gurgle underneath
me as they sluice through stone,
counterpoint to the sound of the bamboo
flute I am preparing to play.
Who else is greeting you, Mother Lake,
on this sunny, windy day?
Two men parked in a Kenosha City
pickup truck eating sandwiches, drinking coffee,
eyes scanning the endless blue.
Glassers on Simmons Beach, boaters at the Marina.
Walkers and cyclists, drunks and addicts,
lonely people on benches and lovers
walking hand in hand in Wolfenbüttel Park.
Tourists and teachers, school kids and shop workers.
And others whose lives are enriched
by the constancy of these waters.
Lake Michigan presents herself equally
to every one of her children.
And though there are times she berates
us with winter storms or summer squalls,
her power is just a reflection of our limitations,
a lesson that humbles as it teaches.
This Mother Lake, whose waters
are so full of promise and solace,
provides connection
to something bigger than ourselves,
a mystery and a gift
available to all who share her shoreline.
I offer my flute to the lake
and begin to play,
not really sure why I am playing.
The lake doesn't care, she listens.
Christopher Kolon
I climb across the boulders that line
the lakeside of Southport Park,
settling down on a thick ledge that juts
out over the water.
Waves gurgle underneath
me as they sluice through stone,
counterpoint to the sound of the bamboo
flute I am preparing to play.
Who else is greeting you, Mother Lake,
on this sunny, windy day?
Two men parked in a Kenosha City
pickup truck eating sandwiches, drinking coffee,
eyes scanning the endless blue.
Glassers on Simmons Beach, boaters at the Marina.
Walkers and cyclists, drunks and addicts,
lonely people on benches and lovers
walking hand in hand in Wolfenbüttel Park.
Tourists and teachers, school kids and shop workers.
And others whose lives are enriched
by the constancy of these waters.
Lake Michigan presents herself equally
to every one of her children.
And though there are times she berates
us with winter storms or summer squalls,
her power is just a reflection of our limitations,
a lesson that humbles as it teaches.
This Mother Lake, whose waters
are so full of promise and solace,
provides connection
to something bigger than ourselves,
a mystery and a gift
available to all who share her shoreline.
I offer my flute to the lake
and begin to play,
not really sure why I am playing.
The lake doesn't care, she listens.
Lake Michigan
Anneliese Finke
Beautiful glacier scar across the land--
love is always dangerous
and deep.
One moment, your toes are curled
in cool sand, the sun
warming your forehead.
Then, without warning, the current comes--
it’s no use trying to swim back
to shore.
Whatever strength you thought you had,
this requires a different kind--
to see safety
and not reach for it, to strike out instead
along the coast, deep waters and the sight
of land,
hope and fear and exhilaration curled up together
in your chest— if you are the kind of person who falls
in love with a scar.
Anneliese Finke
Beautiful glacier scar across the land--
love is always dangerous
and deep.
One moment, your toes are curled
in cool sand, the sun
warming your forehead.
Then, without warning, the current comes--
it’s no use trying to swim back
to shore.
Whatever strength you thought you had,
this requires a different kind--
to see safety
and not reach for it, to strike out instead
along the coast, deep waters and the sight
of land,
hope and fear and exhilaration curled up together
in your chest— if you are the kind of person who falls
in love with a scar.
Superior Sister
Jim Landwehr
As a Minnesota boy growing up
all I knew was Superior
with its cold, unforgiving depths
and the lore of its shipwreck song.
To me, it seemed an endless inland sea
with an unknowable, distant shore.
There could not be anything like it,
or so I thought
until I met her little sister, Michigan,
after a move to Milwaukee in the ‘80s.
She was equally impressive
-not inferior to Superior-
slightly better behaved, but still capable
of taking ships for her own songs.
She has a warmth not known to Superior
and while not as deep, is still far from shallow.
As the middle child in a family of Greats
she is approachable but still demands respect.
She is more Suzanne Vega than Lady Gaga.
She is the girl next door, but don’t mess with her.
She is our Superior sister.
Jim Landwehr
As a Minnesota boy growing up
all I knew was Superior
with its cold, unforgiving depths
and the lore of its shipwreck song.
To me, it seemed an endless inland sea
with an unknowable, distant shore.
There could not be anything like it,
or so I thought
until I met her little sister, Michigan,
after a move to Milwaukee in the ‘80s.
She was equally impressive
-not inferior to Superior-
slightly better behaved, but still capable
of taking ships for her own songs.
She has a warmth not known to Superior
and while not as deep, is still far from shallow.
As the middle child in a family of Greats
she is approachable but still demands respect.
She is more Suzanne Vega than Lady Gaga.
She is the girl next door, but don’t mess with her.
She is our Superior sister.
to Mishigami, with love
Kyote Schoor
I have been her soft-bellied toad
hopscotching rocks over ringlet pools.
I have been baptized in her polar
high tide, pimpled and shivering and blue.
I have stood humble on her shorelines
as gulls pirouette at jasmine daybreak,
beckoned to the promise that eastward
rising holds, solaced in the drumbeat
of edge water lapping, smoothing sands
with her welcoming arms unfolded.
I have traced her shores innumerably;
her wavelengths syncopate my pulse,
her breakwaters brace my very marrow.
Her swelling tides at moonrise
are a burrowed womb, a homeward beacon,
a lighthouse in storm-cloud fury.
She has witnessed every moment,
my first steps and romances and milk teeth.
Her marble crested tapestries, anchored
yet formless, engulf all my shipwrecks.
Her breathtaking thunder, cleated
on shattered skies, mimics all heartaches.
She is home, cradle and mother alike.
She is ancient and storied and constant.
She is ferocious, relentless, and mighty.
She is a comforting whisper at night.
Kyote Schoor
I have been her soft-bellied toad
hopscotching rocks over ringlet pools.
I have been baptized in her polar
high tide, pimpled and shivering and blue.
I have stood humble on her shorelines
as gulls pirouette at jasmine daybreak,
beckoned to the promise that eastward
rising holds, solaced in the drumbeat
of edge water lapping, smoothing sands
with her welcoming arms unfolded.
I have traced her shores innumerably;
her wavelengths syncopate my pulse,
her breakwaters brace my very marrow.
Her swelling tides at moonrise
are a burrowed womb, a homeward beacon,
a lighthouse in storm-cloud fury.
She has witnessed every moment,
my first steps and romances and milk teeth.
Her marble crested tapestries, anchored
yet formless, engulf all my shipwrecks.
Her breathtaking thunder, cleated
on shattered skies, mimics all heartaches.
She is home, cradle and mother alike.
She is ancient and storied and constant.
She is ferocious, relentless, and mighty.
She is a comforting whisper at night.
Casting Off
Katrina Serwe
I’ve never been good
at goodbyes. Transitions
are awkward. I see an ending
and a beginning, but everything
in between is foggy
and dense,
oddly lit
like when Lake Michigan
merges with air
and creeps out into the woods,
filling in the low
places– opaque moist
pressing in, vision
clouded, that is when I feel–
equanimity, unable to anticipate,
I simply notice
what is,
follow the departing water
vapor.
Let’s not say
goodbye. The future is
unknown, let’s embrace
uncertainty, say
we’ll meet another day
share stories
in a different place
where the lake can
reflect our brightness.
Katrina Serwe
I’ve never been good
at goodbyes. Transitions
are awkward. I see an ending
and a beginning, but everything
in between is foggy
and dense,
oddly lit
like when Lake Michigan
merges with air
and creeps out into the woods,
filling in the low
places– opaque moist
pressing in, vision
clouded, that is when I feel–
equanimity, unable to anticipate,
I simply notice
what is,
follow the departing water
vapor.
Let’s not say
goodbye. The future is
unknown, let’s embrace
uncertainty, say
we’ll meet another day
share stories
in a different place
where the lake can
reflect our brightness.
My True Mother
Stacey Wagner
I am 16, drunk on whiskey & love.
She watches over me &
guides me home safely.
I am 23 & broken hearted.
I can’t take my baby home from the hospital.
She holds me close.
I am 27 & my very human mother has died.
She catches all of my tears & grief
& will continue to for eternity.
I am 30 & searching for answers,
Should I go or stay?
She tells me She will be here
no matter what.
I am 32 & my first grandchild arrives.
She tells me I have the strength to do this.
I am 40. I am tired.
I find ALL my respite in Her.
I am 45
out on a sailboat with my ex-husband's second wife.
We let Her mend us in love.
I am 50 & both grieving and in love simultaneously.
To see Her is to cry,
because to see her is home.
To see Her is to remember
She has always & will always protect me.
Stacey Wagner
I am 16, drunk on whiskey & love.
She watches over me &
guides me home safely.
I am 23 & broken hearted.
I can’t take my baby home from the hospital.
She holds me close.
I am 27 & my very human mother has died.
She catches all of my tears & grief
& will continue to for eternity.
I am 30 & searching for answers,
Should I go or stay?
She tells me She will be here
no matter what.
I am 32 & my first grandchild arrives.
She tells me I have the strength to do this.
I am 40. I am tired.
I find ALL my respite in Her.
I am 45
out on a sailboat with my ex-husband's second wife.
We let Her mend us in love.
I am 50 & both grieving and in love simultaneously.
To see Her is to cry,
because to see her is home.
To see Her is to remember
She has always & will always protect me.
Sunrise Rhythm
Lake Michigan Shore
Carrie Sherrill
First the light
pale pink on the horizon
blots across pewter sky
brings red warning of a new day.
Then the stars
yellow lights blink over water
like lighthouse beacons
blink once, twice
are gone.
And the water
it calls, gasps rhythmically
struggles with the pulley
to bring up the sun.
The gulls are here
riding waves, rocking awake
rocking, rocking
rocking forward and rising
white v's in the morning sky.
And you, you're here
lying on your belly in damp sand
your eye on the camera lens
waiting
watching for the first curve of sun
to sing yellow harmony
into the deep rose of day.
Lake Michigan Shore
Carrie Sherrill
First the light
pale pink on the horizon
blots across pewter sky
brings red warning of a new day.
Then the stars
yellow lights blink over water
like lighthouse beacons
blink once, twice
are gone.
And the water
it calls, gasps rhythmically
struggles with the pulley
to bring up the sun.
The gulls are here
riding waves, rocking awake
rocking, rocking
rocking forward and rising
white v's in the morning sky.
And you, you're here
lying on your belly in damp sand
your eye on the camera lens
waiting
watching for the first curve of sun
to sing yellow harmony
into the deep rose of day.
The Bonded
Mary Lindqvist
Let me go, I yell.
Cold embrace numbs my limbs,
Soft sand squished between sunburnt toes.
Let me go, I rage.
Fleeing to a better place,
She, a constant reminder of who I am.
Let me go, I sob.
Moonlit ripples comforting me,
Gentle, accepting my grief as her own.
Let me go, I beg.
Waves adorned in dawns first light,
Calling me, always there.
We stand there, we two.
My face to her cool breeze, her cold fingers caressing my toes.
Washed with memory, hopes and dreams.
Let me go, I think.
She whispers,
I am not the one holding on.
Mary Lindqvist
Let me go, I yell.
Cold embrace numbs my limbs,
Soft sand squished between sunburnt toes.
Let me go, I rage.
Fleeing to a better place,
She, a constant reminder of who I am.
Let me go, I sob.
Moonlit ripples comforting me,
Gentle, accepting my grief as her own.
Let me go, I beg.
Waves adorned in dawns first light,
Calling me, always there.
We stand there, we two.
My face to her cool breeze, her cold fingers caressing my toes.
Washed with memory, hopes and dreams.
Let me go, I think.
She whispers,
I am not the one holding on.
Anything Is Possible
David Edwards
Anything is possible
on the western shores
of Lake Michigan,
where the sun emerges
and the moon rises
with their attending
clouds and stars,
and I imagine sailboats
are the dorsal fins
of megalodon,
slowly patrolling the darkened depths
with mouths as wide as my father,
stretched out and snoring
on his sporty towel
several feet from shore.
On gray days
that blur the horizon,
ghost ships drift
in and out of the mist,
vaporous vessels
condemned to sail these waters
for all time;
my mother says it’s a mirage,
but you can’t splash
or skip stones in a mirage.
The bony ribs
of sunken pirate ships
are worn smooth and small
by the time they reach the beach,
though my older brother insists
the driftwood comes
from ordinary planks,
not the dangling shipboard kind
pirates make you walk.
Emeralds, diamonds, topaz,
and even rarer sapphires and rubies,
are gently tossed onto shore of Lake Michigan,
drawn by storms and currents
reaching into rusted treasure chests beyond the reef,
but my big sister says
they are bits of glass
polished by the waves.
And I build castles
at the water’s edge,
lined with boulders
smaller than my fist,
as I become a giant
on the western shores
of Lake Michigan,
where anything is possible.
David Edwards
Anything is possible
on the western shores
of Lake Michigan,
where the sun emerges
and the moon rises
with their attending
clouds and stars,
and I imagine sailboats
are the dorsal fins
of megalodon,
slowly patrolling the darkened depths
with mouths as wide as my father,
stretched out and snoring
on his sporty towel
several feet from shore.
On gray days
that blur the horizon,
ghost ships drift
in and out of the mist,
vaporous vessels
condemned to sail these waters
for all time;
my mother says it’s a mirage,
but you can’t splash
or skip stones in a mirage.
The bony ribs
of sunken pirate ships
are worn smooth and small
by the time they reach the beach,
though my older brother insists
the driftwood comes
from ordinary planks,
not the dangling shipboard kind
pirates make you walk.
Emeralds, diamonds, topaz,
and even rarer sapphires and rubies,
are gently tossed onto shore of Lake Michigan,
drawn by storms and currents
reaching into rusted treasure chests beyond the reef,
but my big sister says
they are bits of glass
polished by the waves.
And I build castles
at the water’s edge,
lined with boulders
smaller than my fist,
as I become a giant
on the western shores
of Lake Michigan,
where anything is possible.
Polar Bear Plunge
Elizabeth Harmatys Park
Because I had a significant birthday
I decide it is finally time to do it,
to plunge into the lake on New Years
I shed my outer clothes on the cold shore,
run into the lake, dive under floating ice
The icy water stuns and numbs me,
makes me gasp, knocks me breathless
Paralyzed, I watch the shivering crowd
leave till I am alone in the sluggish surf
Move! I tell my halted heart and stiff legs
When at last I stagger out to the frozen beach
I am a proud nearsighted bewildered polar bear
whose jacket, towel, and glasses are gone
Elizabeth Harmatys Park
Because I had a significant birthday
I decide it is finally time to do it,
to plunge into the lake on New Years
I shed my outer clothes on the cold shore,
run into the lake, dive under floating ice
The icy water stuns and numbs me,
makes me gasp, knocks me breathless
Paralyzed, I watch the shivering crowd
leave till I am alone in the sluggish surf
Move! I tell my halted heart and stiff legs
When at last I stagger out to the frozen beach
I am a proud nearsighted bewildered polar bear
whose jacket, towel, and glasses are gone
Miracle Mirage
Katherine Yets
I step timidly into the city's lake,
uncertain of myself and life
or what creeps in the water.
My mother-in-law sits on the shore,
a raised brow
judges me ever so slightly.
On the beach, she tells of how
in high school
her husband and another suitor
presented her with gifts--
her husband a necklace,
the other guy a blue cashmere sweater.
They stood at each end of the hallway,
and she chose him. Thank God,
or my husband would have just been a mirage
I see one summer night, alone,
looking up at the full moon over the lake
as speculations of the whys and hows of the moment
ruminate inside me,
and I would see him and step out
into the water to get closer
only to find he is not there.
Katherine Yets
I step timidly into the city's lake,
uncertain of myself and life
or what creeps in the water.
My mother-in-law sits on the shore,
a raised brow
judges me ever so slightly.
On the beach, she tells of how
in high school
her husband and another suitor
presented her with gifts--
her husband a necklace,
the other guy a blue cashmere sweater.
They stood at each end of the hallway,
and she chose him. Thank God,
or my husband would have just been a mirage
I see one summer night, alone,
looking up at the full moon over the lake
as speculations of the whys and hows of the moment
ruminate inside me,
and I would see him and step out
into the water to get closer
only to find he is not there.
Our Lady the Lake
Darleen Coleman
Sometimes our Lady is Midwestern nice
but when she's mad, she’s been known to spit ice.
She waves at passersby with a swish of her hips
and calls them to sand bars full of bottles and fish.
Generous with her gifts of wood and stone,
she’s also a thief who steals glasses and phones
(not to mention crews of ships and a house or two.)
She’ll even lift the spirits of those who feel blue.
One day, she’s a mirror of unblemished sky
and the next, dirty foam and stinging flies.
She’s an ankle-biter worse than any chihuahua,
who’ll slap you from Southport Beach to Benton Harbor.
Once chosen as Covergirl by National Geographic,
her dresses are wild enough to stop seagull traffic.
She’s a brandy old fashioned when the dog days arrive
and on simmering nights she’s well worth the drive.
She packs heat in the fall to warm those nearby,
whispering sorry to those who live west of the I.
It’s best not to curse her or show disrespect,
or she’ll shut down the city, just for effect.
A short trolley ride from Kenosha’s train station,
she’s an expert guide when it comes to location;
so if lost when confusing an avenue for a street,
remember our Lady the Lake points the way east.
Darleen Coleman
Sometimes our Lady is Midwestern nice
but when she's mad, she’s been known to spit ice.
She waves at passersby with a swish of her hips
and calls them to sand bars full of bottles and fish.
Generous with her gifts of wood and stone,
she’s also a thief who steals glasses and phones
(not to mention crews of ships and a house or two.)
She’ll even lift the spirits of those who feel blue.
One day, she’s a mirror of unblemished sky
and the next, dirty foam and stinging flies.
She’s an ankle-biter worse than any chihuahua,
who’ll slap you from Southport Beach to Benton Harbor.
Once chosen as Covergirl by National Geographic,
her dresses are wild enough to stop seagull traffic.
She’s a brandy old fashioned when the dog days arrive
and on simmering nights she’s well worth the drive.
She packs heat in the fall to warm those nearby,
whispering sorry to those who live west of the I.
It’s best not to curse her or show disrespect,
or she’ll shut down the city, just for effect.
A short trolley ride from Kenosha’s train station,
she’s an expert guide when it comes to location;
so if lost when confusing an avenue for a street,
remember our Lady the Lake points the way east.
Fuse
Ed Werstein
All’s quiet on the eastern front
as a thin white cloud
an open parenthesis
curves up from the line
separating the gray-blue sky
from the blue-gray lake.
Gradually, it begins to glow
red-orange, like a lit fuse.
Slowly the sun,
like a programmed cherry bomb
rising light by light from the bottom
of a Times Square billboard,
climbs out of the lake.
As it crowns into view
the horizon explodes,
flashes brilliant north to south, afire
like a distant war zone
only silently, and with hope.
Ed Werstein
All’s quiet on the eastern front
as a thin white cloud
an open parenthesis
curves up from the line
separating the gray-blue sky
from the blue-gray lake.
Gradually, it begins to glow
red-orange, like a lit fuse.
Slowly the sun,
like a programmed cherry bomb
rising light by light from the bottom
of a Times Square billboard,
climbs out of the lake.
As it crowns into view
the horizon explodes,
flashes brilliant north to south, afire
like a distant war zone
only silently, and with hope.
Who Could Imagine a Lake?
M.A. Hoff
Who could imagine a lake?
Whitecaps and breakers and spray,
A lake that hobnobs with the horizon.
A lake that waves through winter.
A whispering lake that serenades a city.
A throbbing lake: “Look at me!”
Angry and wild today, roaring.
How do you imagine a lake?
M.A. Hoff
Who could imagine a lake?
Whitecaps and breakers and spray,
A lake that hobnobs with the horizon.
A lake that waves through winter.
A whispering lake that serenades a city.
A throbbing lake: “Look at me!”
Angry and wild today, roaring.
How do you imagine a lake?
Kenosha
Jef Leisgang
When he finally did return
after long away, he found
his back field, the woods, where his
childhood summers had flourished
in feral abandon, transformed
into postage stamp yards,
resistant to mystery.
Around town, indelible storefronts
and neon-lit haunts, mostly renamed,
scratched at his brain,
the blackened lakeside auto plant
where his father had once toiled,
swept away most tidily,
a flotilla of townhomes in its wake.
And yet, on Simmons Island Beach,
the waves still rushed the shore,
darkening sand like blood,
white gulls hovering above,
familiar yet abstract,
shrieking their laments,
the red lighthouse at pier’s end,
an exclamation point stuck
straight into his heart,
and everywhere he looked,
the shadow of something
he once knew underneath.
Jef Leisgang
When he finally did return
after long away, he found
his back field, the woods, where his
childhood summers had flourished
in feral abandon, transformed
into postage stamp yards,
resistant to mystery.
Around town, indelible storefronts
and neon-lit haunts, mostly renamed,
scratched at his brain,
the blackened lakeside auto plant
where his father had once toiled,
swept away most tidily,
a flotilla of townhomes in its wake.
And yet, on Simmons Island Beach,
the waves still rushed the shore,
darkening sand like blood,
white gulls hovering above,
familiar yet abstract,
shrieking their laments,
the red lighthouse at pier’s end,
an exclamation point stuck
straight into his heart,
and everywhere he looked,
the shadow of something
he once knew underneath.
Advice to Barefoot Boy
CJ Muchhala
Take the topmost sauna shelf
pour buckets of water on red-hot rocks
listen to the music of hiss
and crackle until your breath won’t come
then leap on your sweat-slicked antelope legs
from deck step to sand to dock
your lean body angling towards Lake Michigan
seeking a baptism of ice.
Published in Soundings: Door County in Poetry, Carvaggio Press, 2015
CJ Muchhala
Take the topmost sauna shelf
pour buckets of water on red-hot rocks
listen to the music of hiss
and crackle until your breath won’t come
then leap on your sweat-slicked antelope legs
from deck step to sand to dock
your lean body angling towards Lake Michigan
seeking a baptism of ice.
Published in Soundings: Door County in Poetry, Carvaggio Press, 2015
Where the Shoreline Takes Me
Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes
All that we do is touched by ocean
yet we remain on the shore of what we know...
~Richard Wilbur
Here again
no GPS
the only reassurance
this lowering haze
my feet lead me from what I leave
the lowing of the fog horn
fair warning:
lethal land point
still founders unseasoned sails
the rocks helpless to hold back this lake.
As fog tangles me
I stumble
but the sound of water rights me
rocks worn:
old friends losing their edges.
Birds wheel above my head
the lighthouse--hesitant flash
the strands of fog
erase what went before:
waves, gull cries, stones.
All that I do is touched by water
yet I remain
on the shore of what I do not know.
Carol Lee Saffioti-Hughes
All that we do is touched by ocean
yet we remain on the shore of what we know...
~Richard Wilbur
Here again
no GPS
the only reassurance
this lowering haze
my feet lead me from what I leave
the lowing of the fog horn
fair warning:
lethal land point
still founders unseasoned sails
the rocks helpless to hold back this lake.
As fog tangles me
I stumble
but the sound of water rights me
rocks worn:
old friends losing their edges.
Birds wheel above my head
the lighthouse--hesitant flash
the strands of fog
erase what went before:
waves, gull cries, stones.
All that I do is touched by water
yet I remain
on the shore of what I do not know.
I Am Having an Affair with Lake Michigan
Missy Isely-Poltrock
I am having an affair
with Lake Michigan.
Her wave voice always saying
it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok.
Showing me
to honor
ALL the moods.
Some days so calm.
Some days smoked as h*ll.
Beautiful all days.
Never afraid to be heard.
Never apologizing.
Luring you in and
soaking your foot when
she can, just for fun.
Gifts of green rocks,
broken china
and jagged glass
made smooth.
Perfect weathering.
Everything in its own time.
Missy Isely-Poltrock
I am having an affair
with Lake Michigan.
Her wave voice always saying
it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok.
Showing me
to honor
ALL the moods.
Some days so calm.
Some days smoked as h*ll.
Beautiful all days.
Never afraid to be heard.
Never apologizing.
Luring you in and
soaking your foot when
she can, just for fun.
Gifts of green rocks,
broken china
and jagged glass
made smooth.
Perfect weathering.
Everything in its own time.
At the lakefront
Phyllis Wax
with Schubert’s Trout
Quintet on the radio
I swish my tail, cool
in the rippling sequined
waters of the Great Lake
I swim and splash,
spray droplets into the air
I elude bigger fish
and birds who might see me
as prey I wriggle and frolic
I leap
and leap again, ebullient
beneath the noonday sun
and the music
leaps with me
Phyllis Wax
with Schubert’s Trout
Quintet on the radio
I swish my tail, cool
in the rippling sequined
waters of the Great Lake
I swim and splash,
spray droplets into the air
I elude bigger fish
and birds who might see me
as prey I wriggle and frolic
I leap
and leap again, ebullient
beneath the noonday sun
and the music
leaps with me
Ghost Ship
A Great Lakes Mariner’s Tale
Peter Sherrill
We were south of Sturgeon Bay with a load of taconite for the steel mills.
I’d come up on deck from the engine room
to give the engineer a hand with some cables and latches.
It was good to get away from the noise.
When everything had been stowed and secured, we stood for a minute,
just relishing the wind, the sun
and the hush of water sliding past the hull.
“Well, will you look at that,” I mused.
“An old side-wheeler. You don’t see one of them very often.”
“Yeah,” the engineer replied. “I’ve only seen that one a couple of times.”
“Where do you think she’s headed?” I wondered aloud.
“Nowhere,” he replied. I studied his face for an explanation.
“Where’s our wind coming from?” His voice and face were matter-of-fact.
“Out of the west. Pretty stiff, too,” I answered.
“Look at the smoke from her stacks. Where’s her smoke blowing?” he asked.
I studied the horizon. “Right into the west. Into the wind?”
He handed me a pair of binocs. “Now look at the paddlewheel
and tell me how fast you think she’s moving.”
It was a little bumpy. Took a few seconds to focus on her,
but it was clear the paddlewheel was still.
Its wake was as frozen as a photo.
I looked back at the engineer. “She’s gone as far as she’ll ever go,” he said.
I looked back to find the side-wheeler again
but there was only a lake, a sky and a stiff west wind.
A Great Lakes Mariner’s Tale
Peter Sherrill
We were south of Sturgeon Bay with a load of taconite for the steel mills.
I’d come up on deck from the engine room
to give the engineer a hand with some cables and latches.
It was good to get away from the noise.
When everything had been stowed and secured, we stood for a minute,
just relishing the wind, the sun
and the hush of water sliding past the hull.
“Well, will you look at that,” I mused.
“An old side-wheeler. You don’t see one of them very often.”
“Yeah,” the engineer replied. “I’ve only seen that one a couple of times.”
“Where do you think she’s headed?” I wondered aloud.
“Nowhere,” he replied. I studied his face for an explanation.
“Where’s our wind coming from?” His voice and face were matter-of-fact.
“Out of the west. Pretty stiff, too,” I answered.
“Look at the smoke from her stacks. Where’s her smoke blowing?” he asked.
I studied the horizon. “Right into the west. Into the wind?”
He handed me a pair of binocs. “Now look at the paddlewheel
and tell me how fast you think she’s moving.”
It was a little bumpy. Took a few seconds to focus on her,
but it was clear the paddlewheel was still.
Its wake was as frozen as a photo.
I looked back at the engineer. “She’s gone as far as she’ll ever go,” he said.
I looked back to find the side-wheeler again
but there was only a lake, a sky and a stiff west wind.
Flight Plan
Marilyn Zelke Windau
Geese are cry-honking overhead,
headed east.
It’s September third,
84 ° F. at 8PM in Sheboygan, Wisconsin.
They’re flying to the shore,
to Lake Michigan.
The waters beckon them with relief.
They dip wings and necked bills
into cool, await waves over feathers.
Perhaps they’ll head to Canada
in December.
Their earth is changing.
They, like all of nature, modify flight plans.
Marilyn Zelke Windau
Geese are cry-honking overhead,
headed east.
It’s September third,
84 ° F. at 8PM in Sheboygan, Wisconsin.
They’re flying to the shore,
to Lake Michigan.
The waters beckon them with relief.
They dip wings and necked bills
into cool, await waves over feathers.
Perhaps they’ll head to Canada
in December.
Their earth is changing.
They, like all of nature, modify flight plans.
Almost 70, and Have Not Yet Stepped in Lake Michigan
Thomas A. Thrun
The 1960s were turbulent years. I was ten
when The Beatles rocked Ed Sullivan's stage. We
watched from our Wisconsin farm house in B/W, as
Neil Armstrong took a giant leap for mankind!
But my world was that of a hickory-handled hoe,
chopping weeds in our tobacco, potatoes and corn.
Madison might as well have been a whole world
away -- somewhere over the rainbow, the moon?
Pa said, There's no need to drive ten miles to
Madison, or even further to Kenosha, just to fish!
No, we fished off our sleepy Yahara River bridge,
after the evening milking, for bullheads and panfish.
And then there was college, babies and low-paying
jobs as my wife and I started careers ...and other bumps
in our roads not taken. We did, though, once glimpse
Lake Michigan breakers from Milwaukee’s Art Museum!
Who knows... Maybe the whole of my life has been
the result of Eastern Wisconsin's "Lake Effect" gusts.
But I'm not one given to being driven by ill-fated winds!
My grand boys are almost old enough now for cohos!
And my new Medicare Advantage Plan? It helps
to cover more of my old-man, health care costs... Not
that we've tons of money to spare, but there should be
enough, finally, to charter a boat out of Kenosha...
Maybe even for the Ed Sullivan Theater ...or the Moon!
Thomas A. Thrun
The 1960s were turbulent years. I was ten
when The Beatles rocked Ed Sullivan's stage. We
watched from our Wisconsin farm house in B/W, as
Neil Armstrong took a giant leap for mankind!
But my world was that of a hickory-handled hoe,
chopping weeds in our tobacco, potatoes and corn.
Madison might as well have been a whole world
away -- somewhere over the rainbow, the moon?
Pa said, There's no need to drive ten miles to
Madison, or even further to Kenosha, just to fish!
No, we fished off our sleepy Yahara River bridge,
after the evening milking, for bullheads and panfish.
And then there was college, babies and low-paying
jobs as my wife and I started careers ...and other bumps
in our roads not taken. We did, though, once glimpse
Lake Michigan breakers from Milwaukee’s Art Museum!
Who knows... Maybe the whole of my life has been
the result of Eastern Wisconsin's "Lake Effect" gusts.
But I'm not one given to being driven by ill-fated winds!
My grand boys are almost old enough now for cohos!
And my new Medicare Advantage Plan? It helps
to cover more of my old-man, health care costs... Not
that we've tons of money to spare, but there should be
enough, finally, to charter a boat out of Kenosha...
Maybe even for the Ed Sullivan Theater ...or the Moon!
Weather at the Lake
Margaret Rozga
May slipped away, its cool, its gentle buds.
June blossoms full heat and humidity.
I keep my voice low and calm as if
the person I speak about were with me,
as if we could still walk hand in hand the edge
lake waves reach before retreating.
Geese step back before I get too close,
one with head held high as if a sentry.
I walk alone now along uncertain shoreline,
the water wind-troubled touches. Recedes.
Margaret Rozga
May slipped away, its cool, its gentle buds.
June blossoms full heat and humidity.
I keep my voice low and calm as if
the person I speak about were with me,
as if we could still walk hand in hand the edge
lake waves reach before retreating.
Geese step back before I get too close,
one with head held high as if a sentry.
I walk alone now along uncertain shoreline,
the water wind-troubled touches. Recedes.
Our Mother, the Lake
Christy Hoff
Our mother, my compass,
a guiding force.
When growing, developing
Asked more than once,
Considering which
Direction to take,
Always remember
Which way is the lake?
A lady, a teacher,
A presence I feel.
With wisdom, yet unforgiving
Consequences are real.
Make your independence,
Perfectly clear,
When the others
All jump off the pier.
A temptress, a beauty,
Her siren calls come!
Reflecting the sunrise
And flat skipping stone fun.
She’ll lure you, soothe you,
Lead you far from shore.
Then rear up and suck you
Down to her floor.
Despite fickle love
And unpredictable moods.
Her bounty sustains us
Both water and food.
Some make a living
Plumbing her depths
While others’ vigilance
Our souls protect.
She, too, needs care
From those who would take.
Return clean water,
To our mother, the lake.
Myriads of creatures.
Above and below her face
Rely on her promise
And pray for her grace.
Christy Hoff
Our mother, my compass,
a guiding force.
When growing, developing
Asked more than once,
Considering which
Direction to take,
Always remember
Which way is the lake?
A lady, a teacher,
A presence I feel.
With wisdom, yet unforgiving
Consequences are real.
Make your independence,
Perfectly clear,
When the others
All jump off the pier.
A temptress, a beauty,
Her siren calls come!
Reflecting the sunrise
And flat skipping stone fun.
She’ll lure you, soothe you,
Lead you far from shore.
Then rear up and suck you
Down to her floor.
Despite fickle love
And unpredictable moods.
Her bounty sustains us
Both water and food.
Some make a living
Plumbing her depths
While others’ vigilance
Our souls protect.
She, too, needs care
From those who would take.
Return clean water,
To our mother, the lake.
Myriads of creatures.
Above and below her face
Rely on her promise
And pray for her grace.
Great Water
Michael Staeger
birds that look like shadows
of birds, vanish in the mist.
a dense fog, compresses
the landscape.
our faces press nearer
the break-wall
with eyes fixed
on swelling waves.
as the lake’s power surges
even the break-wall appears
fragile within the immense
power of Mishigami.
Michael Staeger
birds that look like shadows
of birds, vanish in the mist.
a dense fog, compresses
the landscape.
our faces press nearer
the break-wall
with eyes fixed
on swelling waves.
as the lake’s power surges
even the break-wall appears
fragile within the immense
power of Mishigami.
Not Blue
Freesia McKee
Not big
Not blue
Not all that old
Not awake at night
Not as loud
as I’d like I’m porous
and opaque
Nobody can swim across
me
I’m
not the lake
but of her
born on topsoil
next to a mystery
She’s in me
Freesia McKee
Not big
Not blue
Not all that old
Not awake at night
Not as loud
as I’d like I’m porous
and opaque
Nobody can swim across
me
I’m
not the lake
but of her
born on topsoil
next to a mystery
She’s in me
The Waves
Daniel August Christensen, Sr.
When I walk along the beach,
the pounding waves subdue every sound,
only the screech of the gulls survives.
The endless waves race relentlessly,
trying to catch the ones in front,
and stay ahead of the ones behind.
The stones clack together
as the waves push them upon the shore,
then murmur and mumble as they tumble back down.
Year after year the stones grow round,
the rough edges slowly disappear
as the tireless waves polish each one.
Wave after wave splash at my feet,
slowly washing away all my worries,
while the drone of the surf drowns my cares.
I threw a stone into the water and wondered,
how long before the waves tossed it back onto the beach?
Whether days or years, it didn't matter to the stone.
Daniel August Christensen, Sr.
When I walk along the beach,
the pounding waves subdue every sound,
only the screech of the gulls survives.
The endless waves race relentlessly,
trying to catch the ones in front,
and stay ahead of the ones behind.
The stones clack together
as the waves push them upon the shore,
then murmur and mumble as they tumble back down.
Year after year the stones grow round,
the rough edges slowly disappear
as the tireless waves polish each one.
Wave after wave splash at my feet,
slowly washing away all my worries,
while the drone of the surf drowns my cares.
I threw a stone into the water and wondered,
how long before the waves tossed it back onto the beach?
Whether days or years, it didn't matter to the stone.
Within This Fading Autumn
Joe Engel
Two boys
heave a football in the wind
and sand and cold
ten yards up from a man
who walks down the shore
of water polished rocks.
He wears a down coat
with a hood that blows all over;
it’s November.
I could say that he strolls,
but I won’t, not in this weather.
Instead, he came to
a place with endings echoed
in gray water, to commiserate
with ash colored sand
and scrub oaks stripped
of leaves for winter,
like I have.
I look past him, out
where the waves jounce,
a crowded stadium of water,
before I realize the man’s feet
are blocked from sight
by a dune,
gone below the ankles, and look
as if he’s held by the peak
of each wave
every crest stretching up
for him to cross
these freezing blades of water.
As I stare, I find
myself entranced before
magic and faith.
I need this,
so when his boots reappear
I bend light with a squint,
see him balance on water.
Yes, I think, yes.
Then the football hits my car
and a long haired boy
apologizes and backpedals
so that when the other
blindsides him
he goes down indefensibly
and sand flies like it’s summer.
Kids, I think as the man comes up
to see if they’re okay.
He smiles and shakes his head,
unlocks his car with a fob
on a key chain
and comes toward the lot.
He opens his door,
swings into his seat, and yawns,
then checks his watch.
The time must be right
because, in midwestern reflex,
when he starts his car
our eyes meet and he waves.
Joe Engel
Two boys
heave a football in the wind
and sand and cold
ten yards up from a man
who walks down the shore
of water polished rocks.
He wears a down coat
with a hood that blows all over;
it’s November.
I could say that he strolls,
but I won’t, not in this weather.
Instead, he came to
a place with endings echoed
in gray water, to commiserate
with ash colored sand
and scrub oaks stripped
of leaves for winter,
like I have.
I look past him, out
where the waves jounce,
a crowded stadium of water,
before I realize the man’s feet
are blocked from sight
by a dune,
gone below the ankles, and look
as if he’s held by the peak
of each wave
every crest stretching up
for him to cross
these freezing blades of water.
As I stare, I find
myself entranced before
magic and faith.
I need this,
so when his boots reappear
I bend light with a squint,
see him balance on water.
Yes, I think, yes.
Then the football hits my car
and a long haired boy
apologizes and backpedals
so that when the other
blindsides him
he goes down indefensibly
and sand flies like it’s summer.
Kids, I think as the man comes up
to see if they’re okay.
He smiles and shakes his head,
unlocks his car with a fob
on a key chain
and comes toward the lot.
He opens his door,
swings into his seat, and yawns,
then checks his watch.
The time must be right
because, in midwestern reflex,
when he starts his car
our eyes meet and he waves.
Shimmers
Toni Roucka
The great lake shimmers,
teeming with life unseen.
A woodpecker ticks away at the pine I sit under,
paying me no attention.
The tiniest of spiders finds itself on my white shirt.
That is how I see it.
Not much more than a millimeter in size,
precarious life in my hands.
What is in its little mind? Does it have one?
Scared?
Trusting?
Unknowing?
Knowing.
I choose life and let it climb up on my pencil, a golden
mountain in the tiny spider world.
I set it free.
Mutual respect.
Love.
The great lake shimmers,
teeming with life concealed.
The pine I sit under
bows in the wind that caresses the waves.
I (we) Am (are) Blessed.
Toni Roucka
The great lake shimmers,
teeming with life unseen.
A woodpecker ticks away at the pine I sit under,
paying me no attention.
The tiniest of spiders finds itself on my white shirt.
That is how I see it.
Not much more than a millimeter in size,
precarious life in my hands.
What is in its little mind? Does it have one?
Scared?
Trusting?
Unknowing?
Knowing.
I choose life and let it climb up on my pencil, a golden
mountain in the tiny spider world.
I set it free.
Mutual respect.
Love.
The great lake shimmers,
teeming with life concealed.
The pine I sit under
bows in the wind that caresses the waves.
I (we) Am (are) Blessed.
Lake Michigan Meandering
Shawna Neal
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Feet dry, I feel a fresh breeze on my face.
Pondering its connection to the ocean,
I envision a tiny drop
Making its way from this lake,
Meandering – twisting, winding -
Until it reaches the sea.
I travel along in my mind’s eye.
My mind reaches the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Stepping in, my toes get wet.
A swell comes and splashes my ankles,
Connecting with me, then moving away.
Connect - Move away.
Then a wave, starting a journey,
Taking part of me with it,
Meandering in many directions
– bending, turning -
Until it reaches the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Breathing in, the air contains
The essence of the lake.
I let it fill me.
I feel the water on my feet, in my lungs.
Connect - Move away.
Imagining myself traveling like the water,
Meandering – flowing, allowing, trusting -
I reach the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth
Taking me along on its ride.
Shawna Neal
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Feet dry, I feel a fresh breeze on my face.
Pondering its connection to the ocean,
I envision a tiny drop
Making its way from this lake,
Meandering – twisting, winding -
Until it reaches the sea.
I travel along in my mind’s eye.
My mind reaches the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Stepping in, my toes get wet.
A swell comes and splashes my ankles,
Connecting with me, then moving away.
Connect - Move away.
Then a wave, starting a journey,
Taking part of me with it,
Meandering in many directions
– bending, turning -
Until it reaches the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth.
Breathing in, the air contains
The essence of the lake.
I let it fill me.
I feel the water on my feet, in my lungs.
Connect - Move away.
Imagining myself traveling like the water,
Meandering – flowing, allowing, trusting -
I reach the ocean.
I stand at the lake’s edge.
The water laps back and forth
Taking me along on its ride.
I'm Standing on a Beach in Southeastern Wisconsin
Robert M. Katzman
I’m standing on a beach
In Southeastern Wisconsin
And the waves are rolling in
Rolling in without exception
And each wave is a mirror
A mirror of the thousands
Waves like an invasion
A war upon our beaches
Each assault against the sand
Churning up a cloud of prisoners
Who are sucked back in the rear
Of those thousands of waves
And the beach is disappearing
And the trees meant to withstand
The waves' endless hunger
Keep falling at their posts
Ripped out and torn asunder
Wood all bleached and dying
Leaves still on their branches
Each one never knowing that
This Fall will be their last one
Soon will go the dunes with their
Tall grasses meant to hold them
But those grasses won’t hold them
They can’t protect the beaches
As those waves keep rolling in
Rolling in without exception
Five million people in Wisconsin
But none of them are here with me
To see their state is disappearing
As I watch the shore being bitten
As if by blind insatiable creatures
Whose appetite will never
Never be satisfied
My God, what is happening?
I’m standing on a beach
In Southeastern Wisconsin
And the waves are rolling in
Rolling in without exception
And each wave is a mirror
A mirror of the thousands
Waves like an invasion
A war upon our beaches
We–can’t–win
Robert M. Katzman
I’m standing on a beach
In Southeastern Wisconsin
And the waves are rolling in
Rolling in without exception
And each wave is a mirror
A mirror of the thousands
Waves like an invasion
A war upon our beaches
Each assault against the sand
Churning up a cloud of prisoners
Who are sucked back in the rear
Of those thousands of waves
And the beach is disappearing
And the trees meant to withstand
The waves' endless hunger
Keep falling at their posts
Ripped out and torn asunder
Wood all bleached and dying
Leaves still on their branches
Each one never knowing that
This Fall will be their last one
Soon will go the dunes with their
Tall grasses meant to hold them
But those grasses won’t hold them
They can’t protect the beaches
As those waves keep rolling in
Rolling in without exception
Five million people in Wisconsin
But none of them are here with me
To see their state is disappearing
As I watch the shore being bitten
As if by blind insatiable creatures
Whose appetite will never
Never be satisfied
My God, what is happening?
I’m standing on a beach
In Southeastern Wisconsin
And the waves are rolling in
Rolling in without exception
And each wave is a mirror
A mirror of the thousands
Waves like an invasion
A war upon our beaches
We–can’t–win
Lake Michigan Sailor's Seasons
four haiku
John Neal
meteors flash by
summer moon sparkles on waves
in a flash both gone
leaves falling from trees
boats seek shelter in storage
preparing for change
waves crashing on rock
wind howls through dockyard rigging
darkest day descends
life begins anew
ships sail from harbor’s safety
spring sprung none too soon
four haiku
John Neal
meteors flash by
summer moon sparkles on waves
in a flash both gone
leaves falling from trees
boats seek shelter in storage
preparing for change
waves crashing on rock
wind howls through dockyard rigging
darkest day descends
life begins anew
ships sail from harbor’s safety
spring sprung none too soon
Dear Kenosha,
Jean Preston
You have been my home for over forty years.
Funny, I never dreamed you’d hold me this long,
but the same life that carries us across new waters
sometimes anchors us in place. And here I am.
Moored to you by husband, children, grand-
children, grown and growing. You hold our
family traditions. You own my memories –
kites soaring above Lake Michigan’s blue-gray
waves, your bright red lighthouse glinting
in the sun, the Siebert Chapel steeple, tall
in snowfall on Christmas Eve. You’ve made me
who I am – my wedding at Kemper Chapel,
poems in the park, bitter winters, sweet summers,
one grandchild’s tiny grave. And, that first
Kenosha summer – that first Kenosha 4th of July –
the night so cold I dressed the children
in their winter coats, filled a thermos with
hot chocolate, asked myself “what are we doing
here,” then held my breath, watched as fireworks
lit the sky, watched their colors bless the surface
of the lake, the upturned faces of the crowd,
the shining eyes of my children, felt this place,
with the sureness of the tides, become my home.
Jean Preston
You have been my home for over forty years.
Funny, I never dreamed you’d hold me this long,
but the same life that carries us across new waters
sometimes anchors us in place. And here I am.
Moored to you by husband, children, grand-
children, grown and growing. You hold our
family traditions. You own my memories –
kites soaring above Lake Michigan’s blue-gray
waves, your bright red lighthouse glinting
in the sun, the Siebert Chapel steeple, tall
in snowfall on Christmas Eve. You’ve made me
who I am – my wedding at Kemper Chapel,
poems in the park, bitter winters, sweet summers,
one grandchild’s tiny grave. And, that first
Kenosha summer – that first Kenosha 4th of July –
the night so cold I dressed the children
in their winter coats, filled a thermos with
hot chocolate, asked myself “what are we doing
here,” then held my breath, watched as fireworks
lit the sky, watched their colors bless the surface
of the lake, the upturned faces of the crowd,
the shining eyes of my children, felt this place,
with the sureness of the tides, become my home.
Rock Collectors
Christel Maass
Walking with my head down
along the Lake Michigan shore,
I pocket a few colorful, captivating rocks,
tumbled smooth over time, pushed
onto the beach by strong waves, some
amid broken Cream City bricks
rounded in the surf—washed-up pieces
of our region’s history.
Down the strand I happen upon an older man
searching intently near his feet. When I inquired,
he said his hobby was collecting rocks with faces,
then shared a photo of a charmer--
one that winked.
Christel Maass
Walking with my head down
along the Lake Michigan shore,
I pocket a few colorful, captivating rocks,
tumbled smooth over time, pushed
onto the beach by strong waves, some
amid broken Cream City bricks
rounded in the surf—washed-up pieces
of our region’s history.
Down the strand I happen upon an older man
searching intently near his feet. When I inquired,
he said his hobby was collecting rocks with faces,
then shared a photo of a charmer--
one that winked.
The Lighthouse Stands
Michelle Murray
On the shores of Lake Michigan
Once a beacon of light shined
Guiding boats from the rocky shorelines
To land and safety
Lighthouses lit the way
For sailors to come home
Away from rough waters
Now though they stand empty
The history stays
The buildings stands
Reminding us of their stories
Ships sailing in the night
Risking waves, water, storms
To bring their goods or people inland
The lighthouse inspires us
Even today
We can imagine the fear
Waves crashing on the vessel
People on board bailing water
The captain trying to steer
Through the cascading tides
Not knowing if they were going to make it
Then to see
A beacon in the night
Guiding them through the lake
It gives us pause
And makes us appreciate
The mighty water and might of the lake.
Michelle Murray
On the shores of Lake Michigan
Once a beacon of light shined
Guiding boats from the rocky shorelines
To land and safety
Lighthouses lit the way
For sailors to come home
Away from rough waters
Now though they stand empty
The history stays
The buildings stands
Reminding us of their stories
Ships sailing in the night
Risking waves, water, storms
To bring their goods or people inland
The lighthouse inspires us
Even today
We can imagine the fear
Waves crashing on the vessel
People on board bailing water
The captain trying to steer
Through the cascading tides
Not knowing if they were going to make it
Then to see
A beacon in the night
Guiding them through the lake
It gives us pause
And makes us appreciate
The mighty water and might of the lake.
Nobody is Sleeping
Sarah Freeborn
The heat makes it so the sheets
and hair stick to your body.
One of my brothers coughs in the next
room over. We’re itchy with too much sun
and bug bites and scratchy sheets.
Mom and dad come and get us from our beds,
we all lay on the hardwood floor
on top of a thin area rug in the living room,
with the few box fans we own pointed at us.
“That’s enough,” dad finally says, “Everyone to the truck.”
Mom and dad sit up front,
my brothers and I in the open truck bed.
As we drive through town,
the haze of humidity weighs down on us.
The orange glow of the streetlights
have formed orbs of light in the heavy air.
Only when we park do us kids
realize where we are.
Dad hops out of the truck.
“Alright, let’s go cool off,” he says.
We barely register what he’s saying
before he’s off running.
Mom and us kids dash after him.
He runs into the cold waters of Lake Michigan,
sending up a comically large spray
of water. With no hesitation
we follow him right in.
Shouts and laughter fill the air,
the chilly water invigorating us.
Our backs are slick with icy water under
the summer moon.
Curls of steam lazily rise from our
heads as we pop up from the frigid water.
Soon we are driving back home
to sleep deeply, while thinking it’s so lucky
we have the lake to cool us down.
Sarah Freeborn
The heat makes it so the sheets
and hair stick to your body.
One of my brothers coughs in the next
room over. We’re itchy with too much sun
and bug bites and scratchy sheets.
Mom and dad come and get us from our beds,
we all lay on the hardwood floor
on top of a thin area rug in the living room,
with the few box fans we own pointed at us.
“That’s enough,” dad finally says, “Everyone to the truck.”
Mom and dad sit up front,
my brothers and I in the open truck bed.
As we drive through town,
the haze of humidity weighs down on us.
The orange glow of the streetlights
have formed orbs of light in the heavy air.
Only when we park do us kids
realize where we are.
Dad hops out of the truck.
“Alright, let’s go cool off,” he says.
We barely register what he’s saying
before he’s off running.
Mom and us kids dash after him.
He runs into the cold waters of Lake Michigan,
sending up a comically large spray
of water. With no hesitation
we follow him right in.
Shouts and laughter fill the air,
the chilly water invigorating us.
Our backs are slick with icy water under
the summer moon.
Curls of steam lazily rise from our
heads as we pop up from the frigid water.
Soon we are driving back home
to sleep deeply, while thinking it’s so lucky
we have the lake to cool us down.
webpage designed by Giving Back Wellness, inc. copyright 2024
