You’ve been writing poetry for a while, perhaps as a student or for your own pleasure and eventually you decided (or been encouraged) to submit somewhere for publication, and with some trepidation, you did. Lo and behold, your poem was accepted for publication and you saw your name in print or on the internet and…
— Read on trishhopkinson.com/2019/09/08/what-constitutes-poetic-success-guest-blog-post-by-kathy-lundy-derengowski/
I am so pleased that you have volunteered for Meals on Wheels–a noble endeavor to say the least. The driving around and handing out of containered food must surely keep you busy; which as we both know is something you need to do, especially now, at this point in your life.
Here on Santa Ana it is raining, a necessity for all ranches and farms alike. There always seems to be too much or too little of the wet stuff: cows either grazing in knee-deep water or chewing cud in puddles of dust, wheat like reeds in lakes or corn withering and dropping cracked ears. Last week the soy leaves turned from yellow to brown, a worsening state of bad, and the wind–break evergreens ochred the cow-lot borders. This afternoon, after two hours of steady raindrops the size of acorns, the whole ranch and everything on it seemed to sigh with relief; an almost audible sigh like one you hear in a dream as you are waking. The land has blackened to chocolate and the air chilled to jacket weather. Today’s downpour reprieved a two-month bout of ninety-degree swelter that made ill the character of the entire Santa Ana populace, not to mention tainted much of our cupboard tins and racked red wine.
We start the yerra next week–a picnic for us, as we watch while the gauchos perform. The cooler weather will be perfect for it. In a month or so we sell the calves.
I am sure you are happy that you will soon move to Florida after such a cold Michigan winter. Two months of breath-cracking below-zero is enough to make anyone seek guayaberas and daiquiris on the beach. Retirement will be pure pleasure. No more up before daybreak! No more “thru rain and shine!”
I hope your recovery from prostate surgery goes well. A hobby is in order for you to find, as we spoke about, to keep you occupied. Distracted. Don’t be like your father. Your career is over, not your life.
I trust this letter finds you and Mom well.
With much thought,
Your son, Jonathan
PS The jacket you gave me during my last visit, the bombardier with the shoulder insignia missing, keeps me from the wet and chill. I use it on my wood walks.
This poem first published on Foliate Oak. Read the poem there: http://www.foliateoak.com/stephen-page.html
Stephen Page is from Michigan. He is the author of The Timbre of Sand and Still Dandelions. He holds two AA’s from Palomar College, a BA from Columbia University and an MFA from Bennington College. His critical essays have appeared regularly in the Buenos Aires Herald and the Fox Chase Review. He is the recipient of The Jess Cloud Memorial Prize, a Writer-in-Residence from the Montana Artists Refuge, a Full Fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center, an Imagination Grant from Cleveland State University, and an Arvon Foundation Ltd. Grant. He loves his wife, travel, family, and friends.
“Reading Aloud for his Grandson” by Stephen Page
as published on RiverLit
read poem here:
Reading Aloud for His Grandson
For the seventh time in a row
Jonathan reads aloud a story
in rhyming couplets
for his grandson
who rests his head
on Jonathan’s arm
and sits with his dirty boots
tucked up under his legs
upon Teresa’s white couch.
It is a tale of a fisherman
who stands upon a muddy shore
of a lake in front of his home
and for months has hauled in
nothing but shoes and key rings
and buckets and bottles.
When he finally lands a fish,
the biggest fish ever caught
from the lake,
and the neighbors cheer,
and the book ends,
Jonathan’s grandson says: