The Poet's Room

  Fishing for God                   An  outer space Fisherman seeks a connection with God. He sits in his little boat contemplating the fishing pole and line. He leans forward, his gaze fixed narrowly on the boober. Sending Out A Call          Failing to get even a nibble he changes his approach. After putting away his rod and reel he writes a message, a prayer, a Call if you will on a piece of paper.  His vision widens as he looks out into deep space. Making a paper airplane he's ready to send his Call out into the Universe.  In Response -- an Expansive Vision               As he relaxes in serenity on a crescent moon he catches a vision. A response to his Call.  The vision of an unimaginably grand Universe filled with planets and plenty of space. A Safe, Gentle, Landing               Safely held by this grand vision he gently returns to Earth with a broader perspective on his life and that mysterious creative power some call God.          My friends we're all that Fisherman,

                      We all start out in the dark. Tiny sea creatures floating in  amniotic fluid inside the warm cave of our mother's womb. Vibrating in time with the rhythm of her beating heart we grow. Nourished through the umbilical cord cells divide, multiply, specialize to become us. A potential human being that contractions force out the vaginal canal to cry with eyes shut tight when first exposed to the bright light of our birth day.            No wonder we feel awe upon seeing a new born. For our journey also began after sperm met egg, followed by nine months gestation, during which we sprouted head, arms, legs, then fingers, and toes; all body organs needed for two legged upright being.  And the ability to smile. Love the picture below.                Now as mature adults we can reflect on our life's journey. Wonder at being at all. To reflect, think, consider the trials, tribulations, joys and sorrows on being embodied.  To reflect requires a mysterious potentiality

Beth Steffen               In the dark walking her dog at 6:30 a.m. Beth Steffen began crossing  South Syene Road   just above the top of a small hill in Fitchburg, Wisconsin.  A car driving south crested the hill as she neared the other side. Hit violently Beth never reached the other side. January 3, 2023 became her last day on planet earth. The accident happened a short distance from where I sat in our apartment sipping coffee. Unaware of the tragedy unfolding I stared out into the dark across Nannyberry Park toward where Beth lay taking her last breath.  I heard no sirens, saw no flashing lights. A fire station is within a stones throw of where the vehicle struck her. So close  sirens weren't needed. EMT's were probably on the scene almost immediately.   An educator and proud civil rights advocate, at 56  Beth worked as the interim principal at Badger Ridge Middle School in nearby Verona. She's survived by her husband, son and daughter. There's no report about wheth

                  My mother's prints of the Four Seasons by Currier & Ives hangs now in our living room. For as long as I can remember the prints hung behind my mother's couch in the living room where I grew up.  After she died my father remarried. I removed the prints without seeking permission. They had been and are an important part of the landscape of my life which began in December.      Winter when all plant life has gone to seed; dormancy and hibernation seem to be dominant themes. The potential for rest, recuperation and a focus on the contemplative self becomes real.  A time to reflect on the past year of growth and development. To count things lost or let go of, and think on that which has been gained. A time to count the years on planet earth and wonder at this thing called Being; the consciousness of sentient being and how that can be expressed. One winter I received the gift of a song which expresses this Wonder as longing. Midwinter Dreams of You Snow falls so

           This year I saw only one Monarch at the conservancy where I walk daily. The conservancy includes a large planted prairie with very few Milkweed plants. Those Milkweeds grew near the paved path where the prevailing winds blow toward the houses and mowed lawns across the street. The following poem reflects my attempts to help the Milkweed plants spread there wings so to speak and increase next years crop.           Freeing The Fairy Seeds! As one season bleeds Into another, Green photosynthesis Dies to the light, Reveals a  Spectrum of Red, yellow,  Bronze and brown;         A night rain           Wets grounded earth,         As wind gusts shake       Loose leaves;      Today...      A good day      To just put      One foot      In front of       The other; Rut ready To begin, The boy's  Ancient man Flares nostrils, Inhales The fecund odor Of Autumn; Gravitas and melancholy Form counterpoint, A somber symphony, Beyond wish Or Desire;                            Monarchs, W

      Joy can surprise us with its simplicity. On July 7, I discovered that a female hummingbird had made her nest on a branch only a short distance from our three story deck. Only about three inches long how could I get a picture of such a petite neighbor? I mounted binoculars on a tripod with rubber bands then held my iPhone up to the lens and took a picture. To my surprise and delight it worked. To make getting photos and video easier I then order a frame that attached to the binoculars to hold the iPhone in place. I was off and running as an amateur wildlife photographer.     Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds are the only hummingbirds found in Wisconsin. Our tiny hummers live off sugar rich flower nectar and insects. Hummers as pollinators serve as they hum along moving from plant to plant sticking curved beak and tongue into flowers. The mother hummer after picking a mate by watching him show off his ruby throat and flying skills builds a nest from plant down like dandelion's fluffy

  Tree Frog on a Stick          Mother's Day in the year 2022. Three years of continuing Covid and little contact with family my daughter-in-law came to celebrate along with her two sons. The grandsons  didn't start out strapping. Like all of us they began small red and wrinkled. Fresh out of the womb they'd begun crying to know why they had to leave such a snug home. Now nineteen and sixteen years later they've grown into strapping lads -- brothers two.      After a nice late brunch so that my wife and her daughter can talk we boys exited out the door. Our normal thing to do. When the lads were even smaller we'd leave mom and daughter to talk in a restaurant and go outside. We'd find something like pine cones to throw back and forth in the restaurant parking lot.      This time  I lead the lads on a walk over to the nature conservancy nearby. As usual as we walked and talked these two brothers started teasing each other. The younger picked up a small branch and