beach play

people play
innocent
on the beach
all shapes sizes
ages colors
un-self-conscious
in their
joy and speedos

regret

ocean waves brought me
to this place and
tossed me
spit me to the
sand
regret pounds
resolve lost
at sea

following

shadows, born of
light and dark,
cast into the world,
skim the wall
stretching and following
as you
walk away

escape from Wisconsin

we left crushing winter behind
miles behind

desperation and American Airlines
took us to a tropical spot
and left us where
the waves roll in
erasing our past every
few
steps

on the beach

ocean wind slaps
the thatched roof

stars caught in trees
and clouds
telegraph
old messages

always

Vantage

What do you see
from that vantage point
looking down on all around you
spiraling on thermals and
coasting
motionless
over the fields and
rural Wisconsin roads
in search of
something.

Wasted Ideas

Thoughts spill from the pitcher
in your hands.
They slop over and land everywhere
drops of ideas pooling on
the floor
a guest's back
the table
where they will evaporate
into nothing.

Grammar

Imagine
life as grammar
rules  made to be
followed, but  often
transgressed
sometimes with success.
Love fills the dictionary
lush with meaning.

Crocus

The purple crocus blooms and
dies
within the span
of a
single sighing
breath.

trivia weekend

trivia
on the radio
 
hunched shoulders and
faces
cast blue by
computer screens

gung ho though
sleep deprived
punch drunk

fingers blur
conduct desperate searches
for obscure facts

climb the sky

the tower climbs
layer by layer
beam by beam
busy ant workers
scale and descend
noisily
going about their business.

some say it will bring
wealth
others label it
an eyesore
a modern day
bean stalk
minus the magic

Monday Night Dartball

They gather
in the church basement
each Monday night
faithfully
pursuing their goal.

Large metal tipped darts and
jokes fly across the room
some finding their target.

White hair and wrinkled faces
belie their
inner youth
zest for life
unflagging spirit.

Talk hovers around illness and
the obituary page
but the team plays on.

Dreams

The cursed fear success
hearts understand &
chance orchestrates
more beneath the table
than mind will ever
understand.
Bodies dead with sleep
dream of waking.

Dad

I will always remember
winter school day mornings
and dad fixing oatmeal
for the five of us.
He would demand quiet
when the weather was on
and then make us popcorn,
our favorite evening snack.
Emotional expressions
were not
his forte
but we knew
he was proud of us.

April 15, 2013

Winter lingers
fog, snow
sleet and indecision
plague the streets.

Traffic lights
stutter
as the plow
pushes on.

Hole at the Center of the Universe

the hole at the center of 

the universe

absorbs all into

oblivion

ideas and dreams

evaporate

becoming alternate grist

in another dimension

I’ve gone in, drilling

outfitted with miner’s light

pickaxe and canary

looked ‘round every obtuse corner

seeking some valuable piece

of this or that

but found nothing to

take back and

hold as mine

memory

memory wanders
a nomad with
no restrictions
forward or back

by the end
it's all the same

Homesick

I am homesick for my youth
the place where
dreams were planted
and nurtured with
limitless energy and optimism
where staying up past nine
was a source of excitement
and treated as a treasure

Youth was the pace of
all day energy
belonging
and
limitless future

words escape

words escape me
in rushes and rivers
swim away on
silver currents

blink
and they are gone

In the desert

The car sat at the 
side of the road, 
both doors open, 
nobody in sight. 
Only the cacti standing by 
and they 
aren’t talking.

when kids grow up

when kids are small they
need us
to
tie their shoes
button their shirts
kiss their boo boos

when kids are small they
hug and kiss with abandon
adore and abhor with
equal aplomb

when kids grow up they
exceed us in size
know more than we
earn more than me

when kids grow up they
need us
to
celebrate their successes
stick with them through the messes
remind them that this too
good and bad
shall pass
but shan't be forgotten

the bridge

the goatheaded man turned his
yellow eyes
on me
horns slicked back,
a calcified comb-over


I could see his question growing
a trick to keep me here

he expected me to cower but
instead
i stepped forward and pulled a
quarter from his ear
then a bouquet from my sleeve

my hat bore a white rabbit which
hopped across the bridge

mesmerized, he could do nothing
but watch me leave

Balancing

I sit down to balance my checkbook but
I'm distracted by
sunshine and
birds and
children and
words floating in from
the radio.

waiting for a spark

the winter has been long and dark
a lifetime of seclusion
moving glacier slow
yet so much faster than my thoughts

near-shadows crawl across the wall
mere gradients of gray
since there is no light

i sit, frozen,
waiting for a spark

The Poet

The poet opens his mouth
and words bloom.
Images dance off
his tongue
and plant themselves
in my imagination,
take me to places that
failed to exist
before,
where grace and grit
live side by side
and ideas grow.

Radio Intimacy

after talking about
murder
corruption
disaster and
hemoroid research
the radio announcer
wets his lips
I can hear it
an intimate sound
sexual even
and I wonder what
he looks like.

The Shield

Young man

Oblivious

Marches through the parking lot

Eyes glued to his

smart phone

Held before his face as a

Shield

Protector of his disconnection

With the

real world

Crucifix of the Martyrs

Written by

Susan Reetz (April 1, 2013)

Photo by Irene MacFarland

the path to the top winds

around the hill,

a red spiral belt

lungs burn in

desert air

each step slower than the last

plain white cross looks down

guiding the pilgrims

and keeping watch

over the martyrs