The Girl In The Window (for Lainey)

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The Girl In The Window (for Lainey)

Gazing out, from this landing, serene and secure;

Hallowed ground is as a hologram, of days ahead.

A vessel compliant, strong of will, a heart pure,

Curious as to what awaits, along this grand tour;

Throwing caution to the wind, no sense of dread.

Take at face value, all that is seen, heard, said;

Growing up is never easy, you will have to endure;

Too young to see patterns, for needle and thread.

Life is for the living, let the dead bury the dead.

Only you can distinguish shade and shadow allure.

Over time, you will be spoken of by many a name;

Who addresses you, will define which is preferred.

Some will reflect a calling, others call to claim;

Regardless of how, who you are, will be the same,

By all so fortunate to have seen, read of, or heard.

Life is a series of challenges; press on undeterred;

Goals are worthy for those who play fair, the game.

Free falling may have consequences, but no blame;

Coming down from a mountain lends to vison blurred,

But a true visionary will take to canvas and frame.

You will take to the grandest stage one can afford;

Assume your role, as written, add flair of your spin;

Coats of colors, as real as rainbows to the children.

You to them, and they to you, will be mutually adored,

As you sing and dance them to a place of where and when.

Your current path to learning, the best place to begin;

When practical logic, acquired knowledge strike a chord,

You will find, over time, cognition is its own reward.

In turn, you will teach what you have heard and seen,

Freely sharing the wealth of wisdom you will have stored.

The terrain is vast, teeming or dormant, to be explored,

with roll calls, waiting for you to burst onto their scene.

In time, you will settle in Pallisers Triangle green;

From there, who knows what time will tell and record?

All I can say is, great things await, between now and then.

Written to Lainey, at Ten.

Michael Todd  (2014)

For those following the timeline, this poem is a prequel to

"The Greatest Story" from 2013, which can be found here...

http://myketodd.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-greatest-story-for-lainey.html

Peeps (The Musical)

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Peeps (The Musical)

Chica Boom is all excited. She's just got her feathers dyed. 

Asked Jaye Duck how he liked them; said he did, but he lied. 

Chica was the consummate spring chicken, as crazy as a loon, 

a perfect match for her partner Boone, who'd be along soon. 

Boone was a rabbit, in this musical trio, with chick and duck. 

Easter was approaching, auditions announced, just their luck, 

a handful showed interest; for those who would come around, 

a bandstand was vacant, in a barn on the outskirts of town. 

First to audition was a trio of sheep, to blow mariachi horns;

Chica gave a sour smile, mocking like she was chewing thorns.

As the sheep three moved along, from the rafters came a bat, 

overshot runway (piano keys), Chica screamed! That was that. 

Next to approach, in full grunt, with an antique auto harp, 

a pig with pleasant disposition. Too bad his notes were sharp! 

What followed was not common, and quite difficult to explain.

Donkey arrived, misplaced his harmonica, much to his disdain. 

At this point, I suppose we should say, every vote was a no. 

Boone, Jaye, Chica saw to it this was no dog and pony show.

"Open to All" auditions were a CYA process, merely a ruse. 

When the process was put on proper, our band left no clues. 

Today was different, as just before proceedings adjourned, 

two more wannabes were coming down the road, we learned. 

Vincent Vann Goat, with an upright bass, gave Chica the eye.

His partner unpacked drums, politely asked, "May we try?" 

Bass and drum, jazz to blues, a frenzy ensued in the crowd.

This was more grass roots excitement than ought be allowed. 

The trio was about to expand, adding two to become a quintet. 

To turn either down now, would cause a commotion, no doubt. 

A meet and greet followed, where the goat gave revelation, 

that he was along for the ride. The drummer was the sensation. 

Vincent acknowledged, there were times, but they would pass, 

when he found his true calling, wallowing in the new grass. 

When a goat gets high, there is no keeping him in time or key. 

The straight and narrow was not a place Vincent cared to be. 

But his partner, the drummer, the quiet one of the pair, 

said he would really like to be included, if they didn't care. 

When asked, he said he was clean, no bad habits, nothing like 

Vincent. The goat butted him in jest, said, "Come on, Spike!" 

Spike reared up on his back legs, and spouted a hideous hiss! 

Vincent shook his head, and walked away, feigning a near miss. 

Now if any of the barnyard four-legs or fowl could attest, 

to seeing a hedge hog first hand, would surely have professed. 

But truth be told, seeing Spike's reaction, putting on a show, 

gave them appal, to the degree, no one dared respond, "No." 

The quartet had a week to pick and choose and learn a new set.

With so much practice, this garage band is as good as it will get. 

Chica Boom and Boone brought the vocals, from back to front. 

She pecked keys. Boone played all the bass line one could want.

Jaye, a guitar wizard from the Panhandle, who handled demand; 

when time to take a break, Jaye was there to "lend a hand." 

(That was an inside joke Jaye brought on his very first date.) 

As to how Spike would fit in, it would not require a long wait. 

The longer the practice session, the better Spike kept time. 

By Good Friday, the band had a perfect click, they were prime. 

No practice or work on Good Friday, a day set aside to reflect. 

Saturday, a brief unplugged run though, checking every aspect. 

The Easter Festival was due to start at three, don't be late, 

but this year, a hitch in the plans, weather did not cooperate.

High winds blew in from the West according to the weather vane. 

All agreed to flee to the storm cellar. Don't break the chain. 

Spike wandered, looking high and low for that ornery caprine. 

He found him on a hillside near a cave, welcome site and scene. 

Once inside, the high winds would pass soon with no ill effect. 

Spike's concern now toward his band, whom he'd shown neglect. 

The trio was with all the other festival goers, safe and sound. 

Almost all the inhabitants were accounted for, to be found, 

except for a secret set that lived in the big house on the hill,

where conditions were setting circumstances in line for a kill.

A high wind blew apart a weakened pane and out came the glass. 

A bird cage atop a china cabinet, lost shroud at breeze's pass. 

As the cover was lifted, two prize parakeets came into sight, 

of house cat, who leaped, climbed and clawed with all his might. 

The cat, to his ever lasting credit, made it to his destination, 

toppling the rickety cage, which rolled, creating a new situation, 

causing its door to open, allowing the birds to fly, though rusty. 

As they flew out the window, one said, "My, this wind is gusty." 

Having been caged for a while, and what with the humans hiding, 

these parakeets were famished, and the sight of a feast abiding,

below, was a draw above all others, "Look at those seed a'ground!" 

Down they flew to the fruit and grain and water they had found. 

At this stage, we can only surmise; there was no one to witness. 

How that single parakeet feather dislodged is anyone's guess. 

Word came down from Jackson, days later, the birds found shelter. 

High winds propelled them there, hurried, from the helter-skelter. 

Back to the "here and now" in the "there and then" Spike is spied. 

A crow flew over and false-claimed Spike ate a bird. The crow lied. 

With the cellar door open, this was heard, even as Spike picnicked. 

A closer examination found a feather in a bowl, and they panicked! 

With any investigation, as to what a hedgehog eats, it is not fowl. 

They eat worms, bugs, crawlers. There was no reason for the howl. 

Within minutes, all the locals wearing scowls, were hurling scorn. 

Chica looked Spike dead in the eyes, wishing he'd never been born. 

Easter Festival cancelled; there would be no feast or show to play.

Spike gathered his belongings, went to the cave, then on his way. 

He and Vincent did not stop until they passed three towns, or four.

Spike never realized what happened, or feel need to even the score. 

Back on the homestead, Chica Boom and Boone settled down forever. 

Duck Jaye heard about this thing called migration; sounded clever. 

He took to the skies, Mexico bound, soon replaced by a grey goose. 

That house cat is stuck on life number seven, never getting loose. 

It was a shame about the music show and how it never came about. 

It might have been the stuff of legend, how Spike came to help out.

Chick and Rabbit and Duck were quiet Easter Saturday and Sunday; 

just a raccoon sounding a stolen harmonica; my, how he could play!

Michael Todd (2021)

(Thanks to Caitlan, Lottie, Apryl & Alba Leigh for guidance and inspiration.)

Kelli's Tree House (Suite)

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Kelli's Tree House (Suite)



I. Prologue / Burn Permit (Sonnet)


At the start of the day, the coast was clear.
First impressions, all you want when you please.
Closing credits have an anthem, to share,
called, "Can I See the Forest for the Trees?"

Covered bridge needs murky water to flank.
Hayloft needs block and tackle to pull through.
Morning fog needs a sun to drain the tank.
A slow boat needs an inland to float to.

This park bench compels you to come and sit;
unintended consequence, a sprawl.
King County requires written burn permit.
Allow me to usher a curtain call.

Comfort zones allow for fall and forget,
but even Rumpelstiltskin had a net.



II. Climb


Second Centennial, walk in the park, Seattle in Seventy-Six
Kelli gazes at the big kids, fulfilling tree climbing fix.
For a second grader to have and hold aspirations so high,
she might as well settle a scale and seize a path to fly.
Deduction: not all is measured by hand rulers and yardsticks.

Kelli wanders over, observes limbs and leaves, unsupervised, 
until finally, between shade and shadow, perfect angle sized.
Points of light fixed, then it clicks; these things take time.
Sounds of this playground lend to the symmetry of the climb,
her climb of the centuries, imagined, some day to be realized.



III. Merge (Acrostic)


Knowledge is the key to power. The key to a kite is string and tail.
Electricity to a kite is less of a foregone conclusion, more a rumor.
Lyrics do not compensate for harmony, when moments call for a dirge.

Left to our own devices, more often than not, we can carry the mail.
In case of a sudden panic (pressure), display a way to dispel rumor;
rail on reckless surmise, keep the surprise; as for the rest, purge.

Unless we are under cloudless skies, we cannot appreciate contrail.
So often, we overlook the obvious currents, in haste to reach shore,
Setting sail in search of certainty, failing to pave for the surge.

Equal parts give and take, in that order, will most often prevail.
Love and honor land sentience, guaranteed leap of faith in store,
landing on your feet, on the precipice, on time, in time, emerge.

After all of the on-the-run is said and done, look behind the veil.
Garner a horde, get into the game; leave a mark, stone-set in lore,
or stand on the sidelines, biding your time, until time to merge.

Did you know, there are those who find safe haven beyond The Pale?
Often, we confine our options to a definitive method: either/or,
not rationalizing, there is middle ground, where chances converge.



IV. Tree House


"Congratulations! You're the twenty-third caller in our contest."
She was put on hold, while the radio Dee Jay got another finalist.
When the jock came back to Kelli, also on the line, was Stan,
a steam fitter from Vashon Island, who Kelli was now playing.

"Between Sun Tzu and Niccolo Machiavelli who held the most might?
In other words, all things being equal, who'd win a fair fight?"
Stan was out of sorts, clearing his throat, asking for a clue;
Dee Jay, mistakenly said, "Articles of War. Kelli how about you?"

Kelli knew from literary training, Machiavellian was reprobate.
She offered an enthusiastic "Sun Tzu" then waited on her fate.
"That is correct, Kelli, and you are our grand prize victor.
Stan, if you will hold, I will reward your secondary score."

Not long after, Kelli was given three options which to choose;
a tree shed, cookware, or a trip to the Anaheim House of Blues.
Kelli jumped for joy at the thought of a tree house, or shed,
which is that the radio guy offered. That is what the man said.

Weeks later, crates arrived, from the architect hardware store,
and to boot, the deliverers assembled, "Because A&H Does More!"
Kelli came home later to find the biggest back yard surprise...
She saw a storage building, grounded and settled, with no highs.

She called the local radio station to offer a sincere protest.
They referred her to the A&H mercantile, to get her to arrest.
Those people assured her, the mistake did not fall in their lap.
When everything was said and done, it was the Dee Jay's mishap.

To Kelli's ever lasting credit, she embraced the new station,
turning it into an office, but she could not ignore frustration.
Kelli was the proud owner of a tree house without a tree where
sun in the window was all glare, without limbs and leaves there.

There were no steps to climb, there wasn't a pennon to hoist;
there was no dizzying height, and that is what she missed most.
The "Tree House Diaries" project blog would have to be scrapped.
Quietly letting that deal slide, a new directive would be mapped.

All things considered, innocent little office was just a shell,
and the desire of a tree house, was just an errantly cast spell.
While across town, Vashon holds suspense, fire truck on the scene.
Stan's pressure cooker lid, through the roof! It got away clean.



V. Articles


Kelli is a master of many trades. Editor, author, and avid poet;
eyes forward, always on the future, building an impressive resume.
But, truth be told, there remains one crash and burn to acquit,
which led to her writing a new book, one called "Articles Aweigh!"

You see, after reading Sun Tsu's "Art of War" to see what it was,
she got all caught up in strategy, and how to counter a next move.
Soon she was active in gaming, then book sales was her next cause.
She was constantly in search of culprits and theories to disprove.

Her math improved to where she was involved in the baseball scene.
She created a brand new level of saber metrics, for contact skills.
One night, while singing the anthem before the game, unforeseen,
she had an epiphany, at "free and brave" proclaiming "Speed Kills."

She left the Seattle stadium during their seventh inning stretch,
muttering about articles, and how they cost her a house in a tree.
Finally, with her epiphany, the equation made sense, just one catch;
the literary world would be better without them, "a, an and the."

Colleagues, casual acquaintances, tried to head her off at the pass.
Critics and antagonists, went to great lengths to prove her wrong.
Three printings in, and Kelli was now in demand to teach the class.
Gone were dissenters who urged her to go along just to get along.

Her next volume "What Morse Means to Me" invoking Morse Code style,
went to the top of the coastal best seller lists, a hit parade.
Her poems now read by mathematicians, her stats on the prose dial,
her greatest literary triumph encompassed all, titled "Like I Said."

One cannot submit too many entries. That includes books and manuals.
With a stroke of luck, and equal amount of effort, Kelli went bank.
When the votes were cast and tallied, she cashed the crown jewels,
winning the Wallace Stevens Award. Question now, who would she thank?

(A) gracious winner, will always recall where she came from and how.
(An) independent thinker, will acknowledge, others paved the way.
(The) manner in which one gives and takes, affects the here and now.
(Articles) have their place, in the Bi-Centennial, back in the day!



VI. Walk in the Park


A ribbon cutting ceremony in Seward Park is cause for celebration.
To some, this will be a time to display dismay and bring contention.
Kelli paid what was due, for permits and fees, and seized the park.
Well, not all, but a choice area was hers from daylight 'til dark.
By end of day, not a person would doubt her novel noble intentions.

Three prime, choice trees were now housed, strategically encased.
Not a single nail was driven or barked scraped, as brackets placed
with pulleys and braces, block and tackle, made from iron and steel,
scrap from a failed bridge, which Kelli paid to move. Her plan ideal,
waterways were freed, and much needed tree houses planted in haste.

These tree houses were all code approved, with attendants on site
to help those whose balance might be impaired, or others who might
have other issues, or who might just need a little special attending,
because sometimes it gets lonely at home, when alone, nothing pending.
Everyone was happy, except for the protesters, who gave up the fight.

Just before our host could step aboard personally designed Tree One,
she heard a car horn, and saw the Green Miata. "Oh my, time to run!"
She was met by her chauffeur, Tyler Myrth, who said, "We're late."
Spying Jay Sole running, car stopped. Waving, he said, "We'll wait."
Jay was running in a 2K Run sponsored by Kelli, just for added fun.

Next stop, a personal appearance at the local Washington State Fair;
they wanted Kelli as a judge. Everyone who was anyone would be there.
Dave Schrader was in from Minnesota, to capture moments on film disc.
The pickle judging was a drag, but the turkey roping event was brisk.
Kelli chose winners, with no rebuke, then asked Tyler, "Now to where?"

She had gotten so caught up in the whirlwind, she forgot Glastonbury
of the West Coast, Capitol Hill Block Party Spoken Word where she
was set to duet with Melissa, her accomplice from Texas, Southwest,
where everything is bigger, and sometimes even better than the rest.
Kelli took the stage, and saw the crowd... such a sight to see...



VII. Epilogue / For Good Measure (Sonnet)


Waking from a noon nap, eased in her chair,
she draws a blank, not knowing where she is.
This new office needing conditioned air;
that is for a future analyses.

It appears she may be overdoing.
Best case, she is far too dedicated.
She always goes all out when pursuing,
though sometimes endeavors are ill fated.

Her focus now, strictly on quarantine.
Her day dreams drift away and betray her.
She cannot recall how long it has been.
Uncounted days, weeks pass by in a blur.

Some day she will count, bounty of treasure.
'Til then, she'll dream on, just for good measure.



Entire Set written for Kelli Russell Agodon


Michael Todd (2020)


Including Cameo Appearances by...

Tyler Myrth, Jay Sole, Dave Schrader & Melissa Studdard

The Wicker Will Weave

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The Wicker Will Weave

 

 

If you ask how I'm doing... not very well;

just getting by, as far as I can or will tell;

Going down for the count, on a count of one,

on account of, you're done; I had barely begun.

 

I am merely a glass of water, you an artesian well;

Choice was mine, circle the drain, or break your spell.

Gaze at a different mountain, climb a different cloud,

Hang up a different veil, lift a different shroud.

 

Don't bother with details, burden of proof is on me;

Dispelling rumors, debunking myths; I hold that key.

I never listened when she implied I give up my boyish ways,

Now swept away; recalling what she decreed our end of days...

 

 

when she said...

 

“I wonder what lengths you might go, to keep me close,

when I begin to drift away, as I will inevitably will do.

Dropping my guard along the way, you got closer than most.

Did it ever occur to you, I was just passing through?

 

Somewhere in the process, you relaxed, dropped defenses.

Does this implied epiphany really catch you off guard?

Either way, don't beat yourself up for taking chances.

When silence settles, does it matter who had the last word?”

 

 

I readily admit, when that hammer fell, I was ill equipped;

It was a hard pill to swallow when I saw how far I'd slipped;

Time wasted like excess sap on the side of a maple tree,

Waters that were tried and true and tread, swept from me.

 

Find me now, sitting on a park bench, in search of clues;

Past the stage of mourning, no ready breath left to accuse.

Outsourcing emotion is a bad habit, one hard to kick;

Surely it is possible to teach an old dog one new trick.

 

Why get back up on that pony, with no finish line in sight?

Because I did not give up or give in without a fair fight?

She sure seemed happy, for one caught in throws of divorce,

When she laid down her law to me, in her matter of course...

 

 

as she said...

 

“Relationships tiered, on multiple levels, assembled in stages;

When the clock says closing time, one degree of separation;

Hold on to a renegade mood with all your might, read gauges;

My eyes reflect no measure of shared guilt or explanation.

 

Take at face value, merely my way of offering fair warning;

Reference material, should you go back and look for clues.

It is your choice, should you choose a lifetime of mourning.

It is my choice to break the ties that bind, as I now choose.”

 

 

So here I dwell, in search of some alternative solution.

And, I really do believe in the healing power of absolution.

And, I know she spoke the truth, saying I have a choice.

When all is said and heard, the answers come from my voice.

 

When the lights go down and truth comes out, as I perceive;

My toe dipping in the water, too close to the edge to leave;

As postcards from a vacation conjure solace, grant reprieve,

The only voice I hear now is mine, and I am geared to receive.

 

For all said and done, I'd still meet her halfway, I believe,

I will always keep her in my heart and wear it on my sleeve.

But until such amend, I will no longer be found to bereave;

The curtain will come to call, and the wicker will weave.

 

 

Michael Todd (2014)

Are You Dying?

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Are You Dying?


Call it a thoughtful moment, one perhaps long overdue;
I saw her out and about, and spoke in turn, as if on cue,
"If you don't mind me saying, you are looking nice tonight."
She stopped dead in her tracks, asked if she'd heard me right?

I suppose a compliment coming from me seemed out of place,
and this was not the first time I'd noticed her pretty face.
Granted, for an instant I felt empowered; I cast a smile,
I was expecting one in return. She said, "Not your style."

Normally, I would back up. I just asked what she was implying.
She ruined the entire mood, asking me, "Hey, are you dying?
Seriously, if something is wrong, tell me. I need to hear.
As much as you annoy me, I don't want to see you disappear."


I shook my head from side to side, and quietly walked away.
For all intents and purposes, it should have ended that day,
but I could not get those words she said, out of my head;
I was in the best health of my life, no thoughts of being dead.

For years, I had prided myself on being cynical, as intended;
while it is considered part of my charm, some get offended,
but really, all they need do is chill, and consider the source.
I was comfortable in my sarcastic skin, for better or worse.

It took her little time to share her viewpoint, so slanted;
soon, our small circle of friends feared I would be planted.
Phone calls and text, social media remarks, coming my way,
mostly beating around the bush, wondering how I felt today?


"What's the matter," "Have you seen a doctor?" "How do you feel?"
Honest to goodness, this couldn't be happening, but it was real.
No matter at the efforts I expended, I was not able to deflect.
I treated each one with kid gloves, showing nothing but respect.

My smart ass persona fell by the wayside, as if put in reverse.
Wouldn't you know, that only served to make the situation terse.
Now each was witnessing my "transformation" in person, firsthand,
at how conciliatory I had become, though this was not planned.

Eventually, the sad tidings brought about a negative effect.
I began to ponder the eventual outcome of my real health neglect.
It was a good thing I had insurance, and a decent pharmacy deal;
two visits to a doctor, a sniffle and a physical; spin the wheel.


I stopped taking calls and messages, setting my sites to "away,"
putting my social life on hold, going straight home at end of day,
opting to sit in the dark and dwell, or cast a mirror a glance;
became a bonafide germaphobe, not about to take a chance.

With no one available, I turned to the mirror to plead my case.
"On the verge of pushing up daisies, can you see it on my face?
Am I about to check out in the near future? Look into my eyes!
Tell me what I need to know, and be straight; tell me no lies."

We worked it out, that glass and me. I'd fallen prey to a ruse,
and it was up to me to turn it all around; I just had to choose.
Determined to get my feet on, not under, solid ground, but how,
was yet to be determined. I needed a believable way to disavow.


I put my master plan together, one that was cunning and bold.
She stepped forward with a revelation that put my move on hold.
She said, "If anyone should sense sarcasm, it was you the most.
That line about you dying was a joke, about giving up the ghost."

This startling revelation she brought, left me dead in my stance.
Was she conciliatory, ridding herself of guilt perhaps by chance,
or was she cleverly spinning my dial, to yet another station,
to leave me further bewildered, toward a deeper resignation?

We eventually worked it out, that girl, the mirror and me.
I found an acceptable attitudinal ground, for all to see.
I still see the girl on weekends, when our schedules allow,
so all things considered, at least I'm not dead to her now.


Michael Todd (2017)

Swimming With the Sharks (for Lainey)

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Swimming With the Sharks (for Lainey)


Swimming with the sharks, what an adventure,
when time comes to finally run a race;
a brief respite for those without a cure;
apples not oranges, footing not sure,
a time to redefine goal of first place.

A lesson in charades, for those static,
gladly given up. They know from the start,
all are not measured by the same yardstick;
will make sure today is less traumatic;
swimming with the sharks, worthy counterpart.

A moment to compete, not hide away,
on top of the world, season to define;
to enter in the game, come out and play;
daring to move, keeping the wolves at bay,
ground beneath, showing way to finish line.

When swimming with the sharks, choose to swim deep,
disregarding conventional rule sets.
There are arenas which welcome black sheep,
where the losers rejoice and victors weep.
Provided, this is a good as it gets.

Michael Todd (2017)

Disclaimer: The prompt for this poem was given to me by Lainey. I asked her for an idea. She responded with "swimming with the sharks." Not long after, I saw a video of several instances where people who were physically or mentally challenged, were taking part in athletic endeavors.

There was one where a basketball player got a rebound, and went the length of the court, and on the third try, hit a shot. Players from both teams gave him time and space. When that shot went in, players from both teams celebrated, along with the crowd. It was a magical moment in time.

There were several other defining moments in the video, but the one that got to me was when a player scored a goal in a soccer game, and immediately ran across the field, removed his team jersey, and gave it to a fan, confined to a wheel chair. I had great respect for that player. I have great respect for all of the individuals I saw in the video. I have tremendous respect for those who are impeded and cannot compete on an apples to apples level, but still give it their best.

And as for those who encourage them, I have no proper words to describe, other than to say, to me, they are the finest people, and worthy of acclaim, but odds are good, they don't want or need that.

Friend of My Father (for David McLansky)

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Friend of My Father (for David McLansky)


A friend of my Father, is a friend of mine.
Stealth in the shadows, until time to shine,
They would put me in the spotlight, all to see,
Allowing me to join in their camaraderie;
Now past and gone, let this be their shrine.


A friend of my Mother, someone I hold dear;
When I see them now, it is as if she is here.
Envision patchwork quilt, each holds a square,
Catalogued, documented, recall time to share,
Some memories faded, while others shine clear.


A friend of my children will always be welcome.
Even with offspring scattered, not under thumb,
Speaking freely from my side shown, of agnation,
They are free to find solace about this station;
Let them always consider this as a second home.


A friend of my friend, such is David McLansky.
I am grateful, Lainey introduced him to me,
Providing me with a show of strength mentor;
Tried and true, with a wicked sense of humor.
I share this, gratitude from a humble devotee.


Michael Todd (2016)


To read the works of David McLansky, visit his poetry page...


http://www.poemhunter.com/david-mclansky/

Aoife O'Donovan Fiddle Camp

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Aoife O'Donovan Fiddle Camp

Welcome to the 2016 event of the Minnesota music season;

El Rancho Manana was booked, but not Duluth. The reason

for all the excitement, not seen before here or since is,

Annual Aoife O'Donovan Fiddle Camp is about to commence.

Friday night was set aside for a staged contest for locals,

A talent contest of sorts, to showcase pickers with vocals.

Several bands shone like new money, but still did not win.

The St. Louis County crowd stuffed the ballots once again.

Bertram Haversham and the Bayfront Ramblers took the vote;

with no consolation for second place, that's all she wrote.

For their efforts, the boys will take the stage, authorized

to perform a tune alongside Aoife. Won't she be surprised?

She arrived Friday night, no one knew she was in proximity,

their rented tour bus affording her a measure of anonymity.

Her entourage, Steve, Anthony, and Carl, driver of the bus,

step out, wearing tee shirts proclaiming, "She's With Us."

Saturday morning workshops start promptly at nine, or ten.

Anthony's tutorial on playing mandola is the first to begin.

At another tent, Steve instructs students on Celtic Drums,

Aoife nods in approval, silently rendering Gaelic hums...

At high noon, she takes the stage, fielding random queries.

No question is repeated, until well into the third series,

She explains, moonshine does not come from a crooked still.

Aoife fills in anecdotes of her ride on the music treadmill.

This is the first festival season that she has done solos,

so cannot defer quiz models designed for Thile or Jarosz,

but she is a master of spinning toward her own expertise.

When it comes to song suggestions, "Try a few of these..."

So as to not interrupt, notes are placed at edge of stage.

"Why don't you play a Martin? When did you quit The Rage?"

"Do you know Rabbit in a Log?" (Seems someone is dyslexic.)

"How do you play your guitar so clean without using a pick?"

The game of twenty-plus questions is scattered yet seamless;

most she knows the answers, the rest she hazards a guess.

Shy and unassuming, this girl to the patrons, comes alive,

closing, to their mutual chagrin, "See you back at five!"

After the session, the group leisurely strolls the grounds,

Stopping along the way to sample foods, on their rounds.

The line was long at the Luke's Lutefisk on a Stick stand.

Too bad they ran out of lemonade. This was not well planned.

Five o'clock, the air is filled with an eerie mournful sound

of lawn chairs taking weight, those not sitting on the ground.

Bertram is introduced to Aoife, they step to a microphone;

as soon as his banjo rings, she wishes she was onstage alone.

It seems, "Hot Corn, Cold Corn" was the only song both knew.

Fare you well, Uncle Bert, see you never, when this is through.

As bad as he sang, even to point of misinterpreting a verse,

The Bayfront Ramblers, by any comparison, were even worse.

As the contest winners exited to applause, did a sound linger?

Aoife turned to see Bertram, tuning his banjo, near the singer.

"What key is your next one, little lady?" his question her way.

"If you don't leave, I will kick your shins. You cannot stay."

Ever the consummate professional, she regained her composure,

and navigated through her set. It was truly a magical hour;

her compositions, Irish tunes, sampling Joni and Emmylou,

with an encore sing along of "Oh Mama" and she was through.

At dusk we find Aoife and merry band, walking along the groves,

as parking lot pickers, strength in numbers, gather in droves.

Surrounded by amateur aficionados here in the Land of Prince,

there was one familiar out of tune banjo. That made her wince.

She was approached by a man with a camera, about next year.

Dave, along with committee members, Lia and Deanna, made clear,

come next season, the festival would have a new theme in play.

When revealed, polka was in the offing, Aoife turned away.

She found herself eye to eye with a stranger. In his zeal,

he sounded the news, "She is here. Aoife O'Donovan is here."

As her band mates and bus driver watched in mock disbelief,

Aoife turned and scribbled her name, then gave him relief.

"Yes, I met her, and asked for an autograph. She gave me two.

It is only right that I keep one, and give the other to you."

The mentally challenged fellow meant no harm, and as such,

prized possession in his hand warranted, "Thank you so much!"

That night, she mused, there is a song here, to be found,

and write she did, on the way to Boston, in that Greyhound.

She envisioned Mystic River, fourteen hundred miles to arrive,

thinking, "Hope we don't get lowed bridged on Storrow Drive."

A wake up call from the desk, all is not as it might seem.

Here in Hollywood, California, Aoife awoke from her dream.

At his final Prairie Home Companion, Garrison's reprieve,

She says to Keillor, "I've a story, even you won't believe."

Michael Todd (2016)

Disclaimer: Aoife O'Donovan is a favorite singer of mine. I saw a video of her, and in it, Sarah Jarosz mentioned the song she was about to perform was one she learned from Aoife, early in her career, at a workshop. Aoife responded with something along the lines of "Y'all come to fiddle camp." Well, she probably did not say "Y'all" but you know I tend to embellish. Anyway, that is where I got the idea for this poem. As for the rest, it just all fell into place. 

Aoife was onstage with Garrison Keillor, for his final Prairie Home Companion appearance, in July. That part is real. Also real, is her website, which can be found here...

http://www.aoifeodonovan.com/

Petition (Sonnet for Heather)

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Petition (Sonnet for Heather)


How can it be, on the surface perceive,
easy to forgive a perfect stranger,
and so hard to forgive a friend? Reprieve
therein lies, estranged; in truth a danger.

Heavy is a heart, predisposed to grieve.
Elusive bonds, chronicled, and as such,
resigned to resort to wear heart on sleeve,
missing motions, glances she once could clutch.

Bury the stillness of a starless eve,
recalling a place in time, he wasn't here;
afford measure of solace, side bereave;
gone, seldom forgotten; dim what was clear.

Extent of waiver, granted final, pure,
relies on her buying in, steadfast, sure.


Michael Todd (2016)


Sonnet written for Heather Brager.

Acrostic written to Heather M. Brager.

You can find Heather at her site, Touching The Art ...

heatherbrager.blogspot.com

Hill to Die On

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Hill to Die On


Rodney sat behind the wheel of his souped up Chevrolet.
Becky leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek for luck.
"You can take him, Hot Rod," all he needed her to say;
For a second, he ignored the revving engine of the truck,

The one poised beside him, the one he was about to race,
The one who had never lost on this makeshift drag strip,
A rural two lane on the outskirts of town, this place;
Soon "mark set go," steering wheel clenched in his grip.

Speed shifting was a thing Rodney did well, call it skill.
As they approached the finish line, up above, on a grade,
Rodney glanced, saw the truck slacking, time for the kill;
He shifted down into overdrive, seeing his opponent fade.

In an instant, clear as glass, he heard a still small voice,
"Is this the hill you want to die on" was what it relayed.
Losing his concentration, or call it nerve, then by choice,
His foot disengaged the accelerator, his speed delayed.

The truck sped by in a flash, then swerved into his lane,
A successful move avoided a head-on with a blinded raccoon.
Thanks to Rodney, neither driver, or critter, was slain,
No one but that driver saw, but never said, by light of moon.

Seeing his life flash before his eyes, brought sense of relief;
Hearing the cheers of the crowd. that was soon pushed aside.
Hot Rod's shot at teenage glory, as well as Becky's belief,
Vanished in that night; and overlooked, he might have died.


When production comes to town, the locals tend to not stray,
Rodney found good factory work, drawing a machinist wage.
A wildcat strike emptied the factory; Rodney was on his way
To join in with the dissenters, most caught up in a rage.

This all came about by a slacker, being justly taken to task.
Rather than face the music, he chose to disrupt and incite.
He misled his cohorts, seeking to hide behind a union's mask.
In time word spread throughout the plant. It was time to fight.

Taking time to stall his lathe, made Rodney last in the chain.
Soon he found his way to a bay door, above the parking lot.
Something came over him, looking down on this sea of disdain;
A feeling once known, but over time set aside to be forgot.

"Is this the hill you wish to die on, choice yours to make?"
This was all it took to give him pause, and choose to halt.
As violence erupted before him, he did not make that mistake.
Even though he knew some coworkers would condemn his fault.

The police were called to the the plant, security force's aid.
Mob rule succumbed to clubs and steel cuffs on random wrists.
The union failed to sanction the protest when truth was said.
The voice of reason, on this occasion, beat the rule of fists.

Rodney lost some friends that night from a word to the wise.
Deep down, he knew, true friends don't put you in harm's way.
With new positions to train, Rodney was a choice to supervise;
His just reward for maintaining his cool, and not going astray.


For a night shift worker, a family diner is a favored haunt.
Often, Rodney would treat himself, rather than pack a lunch.
A meat and three, with dessert and all the coffee you want;
For a late night fellow, the want of coffee packs a punch.

This was a typical evening, sounds of ironstone and silverware
Tempered the sounds of voices, passing time, enjoying a meal.
The bandits came unnoticed, until one said, "Hands in the air!"
Within seconds, the room went silent, at this scene surreal.

As one man rushed the counter, the other guarded the entrance.
Demands were made to open the register, with a pistol to show.
Rodney had his own, concealed, waiting for his proper chance;
Seeing nervous eyes guard the door, his nerve began to grow.

Sitting calmly at his table, while slowly reaching behind,
That same still voice, he recognized, came to calm his hand.
"Is this the hill you choose to die on? You may soon find,
Innocent lives might well be lost in a fatal foolish stand."

Rodney snapped back to reality, placed his hands on the table,
By this time, pick pocketing was now part of the robber's plan.
He piled as much loot on an empty table cloth as he was able;
When he frisked Rodney, feeling his gun, he turned and ran.

Once out the door, the villains never made it to their ride.
Police had gotten word of the robbery from a passing stranger.
No shots were fired. When "Hands up" arose, the men complied.
Relief came to all, especially Rodney, at passing of danger.


Some men go through life, known as average, if that, at best.
To the average man on the street, no deeds to be revered.
Their comings and goings never noted, or granted manifest.
To some, but not all, a life between shade and shadow feared.

Not all are destined to lead a parade or to win a vaunted race.
Rare is one who leads a revolt and stands above to persevere.
Few ever feel the warm effects of a hero's welcoming embrace.
Valor is its own reward, though seemingly never made clear.

Is the destiny of all accomplishments, great or small, to fade?
Or, are all worthy endeavors subject to a level of acclaim?
Many such exploits go unnoticed along life's passing parade,
But as such, are recorded, for all of those who this way came.

In this scene, we find Rodney, resting in a state of recline.
Lately, it has become a struggle for him to get up and walk.
He is surrounded by friends and generations of his bloodline.
With closed eyes, he tries to hear all said, as they talk...

"Taught me to ride a bicycle, wouldn't hear of training wheels."
"To the lake, would not stop until I caught the biggest fish."
"Showed me how to swing a bat so I'd know how a home run feels."
"Christmas Day at his house was always my best holiday wish."

Such reverence in reminiscing, brings a smile to Rodney's heart,
Interrupted by a still small voice, he's known before them all.
"Is this the hill you want to die on? If so, time to start."
Quietly without fanfare, he sees the gate, his final call...


Michael Todd (2016)

Passion Pit

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Passion Pit



Characters:

Boris von Staadt ... Conductor

Melonie Davis ... Boris von Staadt's Niece

Clancy ... Violinist / Assistant Conductor

Linda ... Violinist / Unfaithful Wife

Genevieve ... Violinist / Linda's Bestie

Doc Stanley ... Himself


Passion Pit


Closing night for the season, time for the final curtain to fall.
My, how time flies, from the time of the initial casting call...
Just for good measure, stage area cleaned by a professional crew;
It would not matter next night, for a movie, but for this adieu,
Stage floor so polished, rolled ice leaves not even a water crawl.


Tonight's proceedings will be afforded an informal added caveat.
Boris von Staadt will conduct for the final time; this sought:
His finest hour to stand at the podium, and wave his magic wand,
In hand. On hand, the finest stationary musicians, set to respond;
That his niece is performing the closing song, adds to the plot.


Members of the press and public dignitaries mingle with the cast.
Backstage in the dressing rooms, pictures taken, questions asked,
Are reserved for the stars to be framed by an overhead spotlight.
While not all the cast would move on to bigger things, tonight,
Each was prepared to render a closing performance unsurpassed.


Meanwhile, down in the orchestral pit, our story set to unfold;
Perhaps, there is a veritable multitude of stories to be told?
Hidden, are those who provide prologue, overture and interlude,
Below the stage, at minimum wage, always present, never viewed;
Casual patrons take them for granted, might they ever be polled.


With it hours before the show, Linda can access the threshold.
Her husband offers enthusiastic well wish. She leaves him cold,
for no apparent reason; would have been better had she conceded.
She nudges the door by the booth. There is no ticket needed.
For Linda, the story is a complicated one that runs twofold.


Linda sees Genevieve, sitting patiently in their string section.
Weaving along, encounters an errant cello bow in her direction.
She was an unintended casualty in a childish mock sword fight;
Cliff and Norton, acting like third graders, neither very bright.
Linda growled disdain, making her way through the intersection.


Requesting a report, Linda passed along a look that implied,
Her fears warranted; according to her doctor, the rabbit died.
"Does your husband know this? How did Clancy take this news?"
Linda replied, "Hubby no, and you won't believe Clancy's views;
He is moving on, and it is a good thing I am already a bride."


Clancy was big in their band, and the most eligible bachelor.
Each season, he was wooed by the women; Linda this year's score.
"When I told the news of the child, he refused to take the blame.
He laughed it off, said I could not prove it was his to claim."
Fact: For Clancy, this was a rite of passage, extending his lore.


Performance impending, each member had an assigned seat to sit.
From strings to horns to percussion, arrangement a perfect fit.
Once each member of the local theatre orchestra's home was found,
Several went into mock practice moves, in silence, no sound...
Such as it is, here in the hidden world of the orchestral pit.


The crowd filtered in, dressed to the nines, veritable potpourri
Of all walks of life, to enjoy acting, singing, and symphony.
Bootleggers, gangsters, constables, lawyers and judges of laws,
Came together in peace for an evening devoted to a common cause.
A homemaker wonders, "Is that the mercantile owner next to me?"


Prologue set to commence, Boris front and center, baton showing,
Those in front take notice, he is overcome, his tears flowing.
From section to section, each musician joins in the music flow,
A subtle beginning, dueling melodies cascade, rousing crescendo;
Finally, rumble of drums ceases, as stage dialogue is commencing.


As Boris von Staadt steps away from the podium, time to dismount,
He falls down to the floor, out like a light, down for the count.
As the entertainment plays on the stage behind, in the music town,
Real drama is underway, a tragic scene of real life is going down.
Finding someone in the medical field takes precedent, tantamount.


Hush whispers begin to permeate, "Is there a doctor in the crowd?"
Old Doc Stanley overheard, and he had his bag, as fate allowed.
He eased out to the aisle and down a ramp, his summon a success.
Seeing Boris, his initial assumption was a matter of his chest.
Doc stood for a moment over Boris, then appropriately bowed.


He had them move the maestro over to a makeshift cot, out of view.
Clancy saw the opportunity before him, knowing well what to do.
Stepping from the keyboard seat, made a bee line to the lectern;
Having studied for years there was nothing left for him to learn.
Getting their attention, "We've music to play before Act Two."


"Do it for Boris," Clancy offered, but really, was for his acclaim.
To the unknowing throng in attendance, it was really all the same,
But to those in the pit, they each played as though possessed.
Of all their performances this season, tonight's would be best;
Caught up in this glorious moment, Clancy unaware of Linda's game.


She had reached into her bag of tricks, and under her shawl,
She extended the open end of an oboe, designed to make him crawl.
She waved a Clancy, eventually getting the rounder's attention.
She pointed what he saw as a gun, at his part we won't mention.
Pointing her free hand as if pulling a trigger, caused a fall.


Clancy crawled in panic, avoiding the shot, to who knows where.
Norton whispered over to Cliff, "Must be something in the air."
Norton must have been a prophet that night, little did he know,
Doc Stanley concluded Boris had an allergy. He was good to go,
With antidote in the form of a shot administered to a derriere.


It seems the stage floor cleaning sweeper had an errant plan.
Rather than scoop debris, he swept to edge then over the span.
The sly old doctor, a bastion of calm, saw grime on a trouser,
Deduced it was dust, and administered what was an arouser.
The entire orchestra was spared, due to a faulty electric fan.


Now picture this: Clancy hiding under a tarp, toward stage right;
Boris' rise from the ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in plain sight.
Clancy was so sure von Staadt was destined to lie under clover,
The same place he was heading, if seen by a scorned former lover.
Even as his moments seemed numbered, he could not feign contrite.


The hall then grew silent as wind on a distant sparrow's wing.
This was the time in the show for the conductor's niece to sing.
Melonie von Staadt, whose stage name was Davis, took spotlight.
She wanted to make it on her own, this was her time for flight.
As violins droned, her voice engaged. Boris' tears now were real.


"Quarter moon lights my path, down this trail I know so well.
Clutching your old love letters, I dare not fear the knell.
I pray your safe return from foreign shores, Dearest Friend,
When, as then, we'll walk hand in hand under Sycamore Wind."
She held last note for half an eternity, followed by a quell.


Granted, it had taken the girl an entire season to get it right.
But, all who witnessed were in unison, a star was born that night.
No adult in that room had been spared the ravages of that war,
Be they good, bad or indifferent, all had a time and place where,
A loved one fought Over There, whose lamplight burned bright,


Not a dry eye in the house, theatre rafters shook like thunder,
As with Beethoven's "Battle of Vitoria," hats flew like plunder.
As an aside, Clancy chose this moment to poke his head curious;
A sailing derby smacked him in the eye, as fate was dubious.
In his warped mind, he'd been shot, and tragically going under.


The stars bowed, the audience countered with a final ovation.
The stars had shone, especially Melonie, overnight sensation.
The lights came up, and the partisans vacated, along their way.
The season was over, and for all intents, what a final day...
Orchestra members gathered their wares from respective station.


Linda made it a point to kick Clancy in the groin, fatal shot,
In a cathartic move, and it worked. She was a little less fraught.
"You're dead to me now. Do you understand, you worthless bastard?"
Never underestimate the power of getting in the final word!
At least she'd not be the only one to deal with a lesson taught.


In time, she would confess to her husband, and he would contend.
By the next season, he would be dating Genevieve, her best friend.
Linda would move back to Des Moine, to her judgemental mother.
Clancy would apply for head conductor and be told, "Don't bother."
Good night for now, from Terre Haute, Indiana, in 1930. The End.


Michael Todd  (2016)

Eliza Anne's Coffee Calamity

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Eliza Anne's Coffee Calamity



It was a chilling day in November, along about dawn,
Eliza Anne went to the cupboard, plans to make brew,
A sad surprise befell her, her coffee maker was gone,
Just a shell remained, dormant, nary a drop to accrue.


Not one to calmly stand idle, and admit to a defeat,
She opened up her lap top, and went shopping online,
Placed an immediate order, went to cart from her seat,
Glanced toward her kitchen counter, mourning her shrine.


Springing to her feet, she searched for a tea kettle,
Filled with water, placed on the eye, setting it to ten,
Placed grounds and filter in a colander, intent to settle,
Soon crisis would be averted; she would not want that again.


She recalled a porcelain percolator, blue speckled kind,
Stored above, in a random box, somewhere beyond a ceiling,
She dragged a ladder to the hallway, hoping there to find;
At the top step, opened the door, darkness was concealing.


To her surprise, she was now face to face with an intruder,
A mask wearing bandit was staring her down, with demon eyes.
Losing her footing on the platform, dreading weight transfer,
The raccoon lunges, Eliza dodges, and down to floor she flies.


Coming to, on the floor, the raccoon queried, "Are you okay?"
Her subtle nod gave way to gaze, "Almost had a heart attack."
She said she was sorry she gave him a scare, as there she lay,
Sensing nothing was broken, "Help me get up off my back."


Making her way to her kitchen table, what we'll call home base,
Nursing herself with a cold cup of java, the elixir of life,
The raccoon, admiring surroundings, had never seen this place,
Cringed at the sight of Eliza Anne, fondling a carving knife.


She told him of her plight, said, "I have no coffee, Mister."
The raccoon put two and two together, then out the door he ran.
Eliza left to run some errands, unaware of his plot twister,
She returned that afternoon to view the results of his plan.


Her table held a dozen coffee makers, some worn, some shiny,
The bandit's chest swelled with pride, at her look of surprise.
"This is just a start," he boasted, "No one out steals Quiney.
Raccooning is a thing I do well, no matter the style or size."


Quiney payed little heed to her scolding, such is tough love.
He was more interested in her packages, "So, what's for lunch?"
She tilted a bag his way, showing carrots, gave them a shove;
Thanking goodness for small favors, for his well played hunch.


"I don't often eat these, as I'm dumpster diving. They're awful.
Not that I do not appreciate your kind gesture, really I do.
What really brings me to my knees, is a syrupy frozen waffle."
She said, "You are in luck." Going to the freezer, "One or two?"


Dropping them into the slots, she engaged her electric toaster.
She saw no red glow, there were no kitchen smells permeating.
She said, "I can't believe my luck today." He calmly asked her,
"Do you think your problem might be a circuit breaker failing?"


Turns out, he was onto something. The current was back to flow.
She burned the first batch, more focused on her coffee brewing.
Not a problem, she had an entire box, "You are good to go."
She went online. He quizzed her just what she was now doing?


"I am going to see if I can cancel my order, no longer needed."
To her surprise, a message appeared, she was a lucky customer.
Her initial thought to kill the deal would now go unheeded.
As their one millionth customer, "Choose whichever you prefer!"


A vacation cruise, a new living room suit, or perhaps a new car?
Those were some of the options before her, spoils of winning.
The furniture suited her, as she had no real desire to go far.
Quiney, taking this in, amused, nothing like a raccoon grinning.


Eliza Anne rushed into the next room, envisioning her new decor,
Overwhelmed at all the good fortune what was coming her way.
She inadvertently tripped over a rogue ladder, lying on the floor.
Hearing the haunting sound of a tea kettle, she drifted away...


Outside her door, hearing a loud commotion, her postman, Jay,
Made a quick call for help; a hook and ladder nearby cruising,
Within minutes, the firemen were on the scene, to save the day.
Eliza Anne was revived, no bones broken, just some bruising.


She knew her name, correctly gave her address, as well as the day.
"All I wanted was a cup of coffee, things just went downhill."
Jay ran toward a local bistro, her coffee was now on its way.
"Best I could do, cream and sugar, from Dave's Bar and Grill."


They left her alone, on her living room sofa. She was reclining.
As her fog was lifting, she wondered, "Where is my raccoon?"
With her front door left ajar, a crow flew in and saw shining.
"Do I want this carving knife or perhaps this silver spoon?"


Two days later, Jay arrived, with a doorbell ring, left a parcel;
By the time Eliza opened the door, Jay was running in the distance.
For all that was a dream, this new coffee maker was all too real;
Time to build the first cup; her spoon was missing, at a glance.


Michael Todd  (2015)

Distant Bell Tower (for Ann)

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Distant Bell Tower (for Ann)


Roadside flowers, all taken for granted,
Unnoticed, east to west, (hands on the wheel),
Fronting rolls of hay, randomly planted;
Shadows cast, outflank the colours appeal.

Melodies cascade from a distant shore,
Passing through, beckoning my heart to steal;
Bring my heritage, on wings, to my door;
How to discern what is whimsy, or real?

I might have had a friend, had fate allowed.
We had one shared friend between, in common.
I could better have served both, had I bowed.
I'd gladly have settled for apportion.

Like the sound from a distant bell tower,
She passed me by, like a roadside flower.

Michael Todd (2015)

Missing (Medley)

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Missing (Medley)


I. Should You Miss Me


Should you conclude, you miss me, and come around,
I'd likely ask you to corroborate, and expound.
As a general rule, what we had, I tend to re-live.

Still, I'd indubitably question if this is bona fide;
not to imply this is spurious. I can't say you ever lied.
If I appear nebulous, I don't know what I have to give.


Knowing you, as I do, I can't surmise you would waffle.
You are tentative, on your best days. I know the drill.
At this conjecture, I may not be so open to allegation.

To miss me at this stage, could be apocryphal or sincere;
a precarious situation, as I ask myself, why you are here,
and should I be equivocal, to the time you were the one?


II. Might I Miss You


If circumstances warrant, falling back into that phase,
tenable. Temporary break taken from a never ending maze,
like any good hamster, worth his oats, I miss the wheel.

Freestanding, I am prone to settle for low hanging fruit
from low end providers, (easily convinced to follow suit.)
Too rustic to be provincial, I turn and run... full heel.


Hovering, hesitant, viewing both ends of the spectrum,
conceding, my comfort zone was always, under your thumb.
Concealed among your travel luggage, along for the ride,

concomitant, eventual excess baggage, like a back order,
caught up in customs, dutiful, stranding still, boarder
placed to the side, no where to run and no where to hide.


III. Missing


The real truth be told, I am at fault for apprehension.
Coming unraveled at the seams, for me, is convention,
with no one here to talk to but myself. Time to disperse

nonsensical notions, unfounded, coveted by these voices,
in order to afford clear thought, to make better choices;
a mind uncluttered, in hopes of better as opposed to worse.


I miss you making hard line stands, then asking what I think;
how when you are feminine and clingy, takes me to the brink;
your sincere queries, mostly the one, "How've you been?"

I miss when you have blind faith in me, to persevere,
but little patience when I persist, with my way not clear.
Mostly, I miss the here and now, not being as it was then.


Michael Todd (2015)

Peonies

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Peonies


Jefferson and Matilda, scanning menus for a choice,
Long time work mates who became partners for lunch,
No buffets, at a Tex Mex, you must pick and choose,
Jefferson struggled for subtle ways to leave her clues.


They were comfortable enough with each, to double dip,
To both's surprise, thinking aloud, he let it slip,
He's turned in his notice, a full two weeks tendered,
Jefferson, waving a veritable white flag of surrender.


Matilda showed calm to the core, though quite confused,
A part of her was in panic, but show it? She refused.
He explained, the no fraternization policy was the cause,
The one they sign with the firm; deep breath and pause...


"Soon I will be able to ask you out, on a proper date."
This was his way to avoid the problems that would create.
The entrees arrived, server warning, the plates were hot,
To the server, "More dip, please." To him, "I think not."


Different table, same place, two weeks had passed away.
Hostess overheard her congratulate him on his special day.
Sarcasm in her tone, tension building, she's about to break,
When panic ensues, what with singing and a birthday cake!


Restaurant people carry on like they hate singing that song,
But they are found to be smiling when time to sing along,
Jefferson silently cried "Foul," whipped cream to his face,
He had the attention of all but one person in that place.


A quick trip to running water, what could make this worse?
Matilda, laughing, "I can't believe you had dessert first."
He saw an opening, a potential opportunity to be seized;
He asked her on a date again, again she was not pleased.


He asked one good reason, thinking, "I hope she doesn't."
Her swift reply, "It would be like dating my first cousin."
A pause, neither saying a word, then, "Pick me up at eight."
Not knowing what possessed her to concede, "Don't be late."


For weeks, Jefferson pitched and wooed the prize he'd won.
It seemed every date was like starting over, not a lot of fun.
A normal fellow would have seen this all as cause for alarm;
Not Jefferson, who's only resolve was to turn up the charm.


This brings us to a very special evening, anniversary bind;
To show up with gifts, hearts and flowers, was in his mind.
In advance, on a lunch break, he visited a florist to find,
They did not have his chosen flowers, none the right kind.


He called in to the office, asking for the rest of the day,
His wish granted, they were not busy, off to find a bouquet,
Looking past his car, he spied a tavern, thinking libation,
In moderation, would open revolving doors of inspiration.


Those fruity drinks, served in tandem, in frosted glasses,
During what they call a happy hour; my how the time passes;
A glance at the door as it opens, afternoon sun streams in,
He recalls where he is going, won't remember where he's been.


He drives away, at a time he should not be behind the wheel,
Mere blocks from his house, his bumper lays a lick on steel.
The poor innocent mail box, leveled, taken down to the post,
It never saw him coming. He drives on, the mail box a ghost.


Pulling into his driveway (only requiring two or three tries),
Staggering from his vehicle, one might guess what he spies,
Much to his good luck, or perhaps this will be his misfortune,
He sees a garden full of flowers, and chooses to pick them.


Before hitting the shower, tossing them into the deep freeze,
So they don't wilt, as wilted flowers would surely not please.
An hour later, he is looking good, feeling better, time to go;
Reaching in for flowers, he discovers they're covered in snow.


Frosted flowers are not in order and today, will not suffice.
He eases back to the garden, and proceeds to pick them twice.
Seeing Mrs. Clancy wave, he drives away. They won't be missed.
She's not waving at the floral thief. She's shaking her fist!


Coming to her door, she greets Jefferson, hands behind him.
He offers her the token, once thought out, but taken on a whim.
Doubtful she smelled them, over alcohol on his baited breath,
He stuffs some in a water glass, the rest fall to their death.


She feigns indifference. Knowing better, he calls her bluff.
He offers an enthusiastic "Happy Anniversary," off the cuff.
Clueless as to what he was implying, to her it meant nothing.
Her smile not forthcoming, truth be told, scowl was scathing.


This moment he became broken, too much weight on his shoulder.
For the first time, he had little or no desire to hold her.
It was not as though he'd killed someone, or shown disrespect;
She never considered, his melt down, a result of her neglect.


Rolling of her eyes was the final straw, he could take no more;
She turned her back for a moment, he opened and closed the door.
He made it home intact, wondering all the while, what went wrong.
He was rudely awakened on a Saturday morning by a siren's song.


He was greeted by a constable, with a warrant in hand to serve.
A complaint was filed, for stealing prize peonies by the curb.
Routine run of his tags showed he was the local mailbox culprit.
He was hand cuffed and put in the back of a squad car, to sit.


Bail was set low, so he gained his release with room to spare.
He did not miss time from work, until his court date to appear.
No one ever guessed that the boy had been falling down drunk.
Nothing was found in a routine going over of his cab or trunk.


The judge might not have made an example to her fullest powers,
Over a single (okay, there were two) transgression of flowers;
As fate would allow, her brother made a living delivering mail.
Still, she was lenient, to the point, Jefferson avoided jail.


Now, Matilda drives by his work and sees his car in its place,
But she never sees it in his driveway; gazing at an open space,
No idea he repairs pot holes on gravel roads, who could guess,
The result of receiving one hundred hours of community service.


By the time Jefferson had personal time, he was not to be found,
Unless one might spy a cabin house, on the outskirts of town.
It seems he met a lady on a county road, in a vehicle, stranded.
He came to her rescue, was cordial; she found his wit candid.


The last time Matilda cruised by his house, sign said was sold.
She surmised, Jefferson had gone off the deep end, life on hold.
Hers was sure in order, a new man in her life, no sense of loss,
Workplace dalliance can be overlooked, when it is with the boss.


That Clancy woman finally took home a ribbon at the county fair.
No one had ever seen peonies with such shimmer, sheen and glare.
She never shared, the secret of her success was a killer frost.
She almost did not enter, counting this year's crop a total loss.


Who would ever have thought, frozen flowers could do the deal?
Had Jefferson only known, he might not tossed his into a field.
Those folks with the fallen mailbox, rented a box, lock and key,
At the local post office, their names on front as the addressee.


The judge failed to win last election, and here is how it went:
She was seen as soft on crime. It was said she was too lenient.
Now she writes a column for the local paper. She is good at that.
A paperboy's bike rolls a sheared metal post. His tire goes flat.


Michael Todd  (2015)

Weeping Willow Walk (for Lainey)

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Weeping Willow Walk (for Lainey)


You are attracted to the moon when full,
in whole splendor, grandest scheme display,
holding at bay, where rolling tides will pull,
securing all grandeur it might allay.

Not my way to be so bold, to assuage;
I would manage to gauge, measure esteem.
The slightest sliver completes my collage,
complimenting my reveal, night sky gleam.

No need to diverge, or be crestfallen,
dawn's consent orchestrates resolve in weight;
shade and shadow emerge in tandem, twin;
our world scene in order; it's a clean slate.

So much to say, a perfect time to talk,
hand in hand, on a weeping willow walk.

Michael Todd  (2015)

The Girl in the Swing

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The Girl in the Swing


Just this side of a coulee, on the outskirts of the city,
We find ten year old Helen, in a new tree swing, sitting.

A gift from her grandfather, bought new in a box, dangling
from a prime tree in the pasture, capable host for hanging.

She is timid at first, getting used to the feel of strand,
Squeezing the cord accordingly, in the palm of her hand.

In time she will ascend to heights unsurpassed, in flight,
but for now, she takes in stride, the ride, future bright.


Over the years, she would be found there, floating aloft;
Drifting, dreaming winsome at times, perhaps in deep thought.

On the day she turned eighteen, she became of age, an heir,
At the apex of thrust, seeing civilization, just over there.

She had a plan in motion, had consulted a trusted adviser,
Only this confidante knew her intents, no one else the wiser.

This would be a gamble, a big step to take, to subdivide,
What began on a hunch, the numbers crunched, on this glide.


Her scheme, on the level, as level as the turf they surveyed;
In no time at all, gravel was spread, then black top laid.

Utilities in place; word on the street, lots here for sale;
Initial pricing steep, then descending, on a sliding scale.

Phases One and Two served to settle, recoup her investment;
The third and final were put in a vault, serving as profit.

Within weeks, all the lots for sale were gone, save for one,
The prime lot, the ground her willow tree proudly rested on.


From her perch, over time, she witnessed neighborly things.
The seasonal comings and goings a divided commune brings.

Families milling about, in the warm months, a barbecue glow,
When the winter cast its spell, taking turns shoveling snow.

More and more, inhabitants spoke of the girl, in hushed tone.
Her time to stay varied, as she appeared daily, always alone.

One can only surmise, what all, curious onlookers had to say.
From the looks some cast, they seemed to wish she'd go away.


One day, fate intervened, as fate will do, on the path to walk.
As several neighbors gathered, one approached, needed to talk.

True, he had received a new job option, requiring he relocate.
False, he nodded toward the empty swing, intent to insinuate.

In an effort to keep up with the Jones, he put on a facade.
The others did not take in stride, or see through his fraud.

He made it official the following week, house on the market.
Within weeks, similar signs cluttered yards, like a blanket.


To everyone who played the real estate market, a big surprise,
As each house sold on the initial showings, very first tries.

With offers to assume mortgages "as is," owners sold cheap.
Most got out while the getting was good, took the same leap.

In time, all the houses sold went into rental service mode.
There was only one family unit left to hold onto their abode.

The renters came in a hurry, fine houses in an area perfect,
A full time maintenance firm in place, zero property neglect.


The new dwellers never noticed, (transients are just that way)
The girl in the swing, who was still found there every day.

They never judged or cast aspersion, even on a lark or whim.
She had every right to be where she was. It was fine by them.

None of them knew, she was their landlord, did not presume.
There was nothing about her that gave them cause for gloom.

At first sign of spring, the first barbecue, she was invited.
She respectfully declined, but took note, she was not slighted.


When they left her, she could not resist a turn and smile.
She thought aloud, saying, "I might join them in a while."

She was brought back into the present, by a gentle voice.
A little girl of nine to ten before her, spoke by choice.

She and her mother were the only home owners to not leave.
The mother scolded the child, and was told, no need to grieve.

The youngster spoke boldly, when apparent opportunity arose,
As the girl in the swing gave her the floor, in full repose.


"I was just wondering, if sometime I might sit in your seat."
Hearing this, the mother cringed, wanting to take to the street.

She arose from her throne, with a natural glow on her face,
And hoisted the child, spun and put her secure, in her place.

Speaking in mock admonishing tone, said to hold on tight,
As she got behind, and gave it a push, with all her might.

To the mother, she offered, "Don't feel I've been taken to task.
For so long have I waited... She is the first to ever ask."


Michael Todd  (2015)

Sleeping On a Train (sonnet)

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Sleeping On a Train (sonnet)


Try though I might, I can't sleep on a train.
Not enamored with the sounds of those wheels,
No magic in coarse, rhythm-racket refrain,
Ghostly frightening, to senses' appeals.

Claustrophobic, stretched out in this slim berth;
Hands in corpse-fold; attempts vain, at slumber,
Humming dead-train songs, for all they are worth,
Such as, "Wreck of the Old... (pick a number.)"

That cow catcher can't divert a whole herd.
Loose coin to flatten, and we jump the track!
We'll meet our reward without warning-word;
Can't bear a thought of tunnel's fade to black.

Give me winding roads, grant me wings to fly;
Anything but rails, where I'm sure to die.

Michael Todd (2015)

Find the Time

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Find the Time


A touch of morning, new year: realize,
Customized to-do lists, spread around;
It really should not come as a surprise,
These tasks I could do, while still above ground.

Pretty pictures, snapped and framed, hung to view,
Afghan crocheted, preferred colors, size, style,
Antique table repaired, new stain, screws, glue;
Unique one and only's, from this strewn pile.

Send shout outs to shut ins, along life's way:
Comfort and solace, or leave them laughing.
Give flowers to the living, brighten their day;
Risk versus reward? Free, what I might bring.

I own the lamp post, where I tie my horse;
These tasks in hand, planned; I'll do, in due course!

Michael Todd (2015)

Disclaimer: This is not so much about new years resolutions as it is about directives. It is about time management and obligations, both to self and others... I got the idea for this, following a conversation with Paula Dawn Lietz. In the exchange, she pointed out that everything takes time, and we just need to find a balance.

Snow Angel Suite (for Paula Dawn)

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Snow Angel Suite (for Paula Dawn)


I. Snow Angel (Prologue)


Up well before dawn, that light at break of day;
Snow ceased in the night, another round on the way;
Batteries fully charged, loaded; clean the lense,

Glance out window, too fogged to see the night sky;
Last night's apple crotata and coffee, on the fly;
Out she goes, her intent to shoot some old friends.


Making her way to the gate, gauging snow, ankle deep;
Scan shadows from front porch light, thorough sweep;
One deep breath for good measure, a dizzying effect.

Making a mental note, let that serve as a wake up call.
Pulling up her scarf, disguise serves to hide a scowl;
In untypical fashion, she's knowing not what to expect.


II. Snow Blind


Three hills and three valleys successfully trekked;
View crest of a pine ridge, sun rises at it own pace,
An old familiar place, but she's never felt so alone.
An arcade of animals is what she has come to expect;
Hillside barren, yields nary a track in snow to chase.
Where are her animals, she asks. Where have they gone?


She muses to herself, "Maybe I have gone snow blind?"
Resigning herself to make it up that hill, to the top;
If she spots no willing participants, she will recede.
Setting forth on a clear path, all the angles aligned;
In motion, all is symmetrical, toward a place to stop;
Hope is in sight, allowances vanish, that she concede.


III. Summit on the Ridge (Part One)


Black Bear, basking in the shadows, flat of his back,
Groundhog twitching, muttering to no one in particular;
Cougar says, "You cannot assume credit or take blame."
Marmot says, "He's not listening. He enjoys the flack."
Gray Fox concludes, "For all his predictions, I am sure
he is sincere, and not just about seeking the acclaim."


Squirrel and Chipmunk shadow boxing, to Stoat's delight;
Porcupine plays, off to the side. None will get near.
Gray Wolf circles, alone in near distance, by choice;
Rabbit runs about, proclaims "She's coming into sight."
Stoat flashes warning, "Be quiet, lest she might hear."
Within moments, she's close enough, they hear her voice.


IV. Snow Angel


Arctic winds appear, in a flash, swirling, as if on cue,
She resigns, she could leave empty handed. That won't do.
She feigns indifference and spins, falling on her back.
She will create an image in the snow, since others lack.

As the girl shimmies and twists and windmills all about,
The animals in hiding, curious, can not figure this out.
Once her perpetual motions subside, she's come to rest,
Knowing full well, her snow angel will be her very best.

Hearing a cracking sound, she looks to see a projectile;
A tree top gives up the ghost, descending like a missile!
Reflexes take charge, she rolls away from impending harm,
Ever thankful to her mother earth for sounding that alarm.

A treetop falls in the forest. Only she can hear the sound.
She takes her cue as time to be on her way, homeward bound.
Glancing down at her camera, she got nothing on this trip.
She pirouettes, takes single shot, no focus, from the hip.

As the blizzard intensifies, she searches for a landmark.
Any will do, but here at midmorning, it feels like dark.
She found a barbed fence, or it found her. Call it fate.
She was in too big a hurry to guess which way to the gate.

She grasped the strand, sliding down, cutting her arm.
Sliding under, tore her pants, certain cause for alarm.
To avoid sliding into the pond, last obstacle to defeat,
Which she did; Smelling wood smoke, her journey complete.


V. Sermon from The Mount


One by one, each animal emerged from its hiding station.
As the girl was making her way down the frozen grade,
Lynx proclaimed, "We were wrong." Do not create rumor,
when face to face; go that route with an apparition,
down a road, where truth and innuendo merge and fade.
"It was she who taught you to have a sense of humor."

One by one, each animal froze, looking at each other.
The voice that spoke, not one of their own, that tone
came from one that bore feather, one who looked down.
"She led you to a place you can't go back, don't bother
with the how and why, or dwell on a time that is gone,
when you cast glance of aspersion, in fear or frown."

A the voiced boomed, each looked up toward the skies
to see a Great Gray Owl secured, regnant, in a birch.
"Witnessing your transformation, you never noticed me;
She speaks, you gather her message and all it implies."
They all nod in approval, at the sermon from the perch.
His departing last words, "Sorry I broke your tree."


VI. Summit on the Ridge (Part Two)


Fox said, "Owl made some good points. She is sly as I,
and I am sure I can speak for us all, a collective,
we all owe her a debt of gratitude, we can't repay."
Rabbit said, "Sure, but that is no reason to not try.
What I learned from her, not to take more than I give."
He wished she was still here, and had not gone away.

Bear said it was best if he followed, to make sure
She was safe. "When she left, she seemed... shaken.
While I am gone, you all be on your best behavior."
Bear took notice of Wolf, eyeballing the mule deer.
"Harm that deer, Sir, it'll be your last step taken.
I will feed you to the fishes, to even that score."


VII. Hearth and Manor


Later, that very same evening, a chapter comes to close.
Sitting alone in the manor, a time to reflect, suppose;
One who many would proclaim to have been annointed,
Is dealing with a bout of melancholy, disappointed,
At the puzzling events of the day; only Heaven knows.

She walks about the room, gazing at paintings on display.
Stirring the blaze in the fireplace, poker keeping at bay,
Hand on a hearth that has stood one hundred years,
Resolve engaging, as her mind is shifting gears,
Recalling a potential visual clue, hidden in her cache.

She sits on the sofa, with a needle and thread, to sew
her demin disaster of the day, torn pants in the snow.
Her arm is a little tender, from a barbed wire scrape,
No major call to alarm, but it does impede her grip.
Turning them inside out, a good ruching, it won't show.


VIII. Shadows Blend


All of her chores of the day are done,
her focus now devoted to just one end.
Unsheathing the camera to look for one
image of the day, where shadows blend.

She peruses the picture taken in haste;
stroke of luck, not grainy or blurred.
Over shot her errant angel, a wasted
click; no disaster, and nothing furred.

She plays with the image, resolution,
snow and trees, ridge line inclined.
Still life bearing witness, confusion;
one last glance. What does she find?

A single set of eyes, the gaze intent.
Magnifying glass removed from drawer,
Maybe this wasted day, time well spent,
She confirms another set, then one more.

Why would they see her, choose to hide?
Thought of prank never crossed her mind;
For sure, each set of eyes was open wide.
She over zoomed the image, only to find,

The eyes melded with snowflakes, in pairs,
Wild ravages of winter mix, animals tame,
Whirling and tumbling ice, frozen stares,
Dispelling myth of no two flakes the same.

Too late to consort with brush and canvas,
she knows to not commence, fighting sleep;
hating to put it down, knowing she must;
Clenching her fist; hold images, to keep.

Calls it a night, laying head on a pillow,
Reasoning, not all she saw, is as it seems.
Likening to classic design, blue on willow,
she sees her painting, complete, in dreams.


IX. Portrait


Pairs of snow flakes in perfect unison,
all laid out on display, for us to see;
under auspice of science, art; as one.
Look at how they float, defying decree.

Are there skeptics? None are stating their case;
doubters among throng, concede, it is true;
absolute, symmetrical, points in place,
with nary a blemish in sight to view.

Never before witnessed by eyes of man,
leaving nothing to confound or dispute;
in plain sight here, no way to spin this plan;
each detail of tandems, found resolute.

Two snowflakes just alike, no room for doubt;
zeal yields for those who can't figure this out.


X. Snow Angel (Reprise)


First day of April, she steps out, no thought of risk.
Unseasonably cool this year, winds are up and brisk.
She sets out, in the direction she found a ploughshare,
in search of a new image capture, not a worry or care.

Turned around, (to look at the sun would be cheating),
taking advantage of opportunity, as these become fleeting.
It may take a little longer to get back, to traverse,
but you will always find her trusting in her universe.

She happens on a storm cellar, all that's left of a domain.
Stepping down, inside, curious as to what might remain.
Shining a light, seeing all four walls, forlorn and bare;
from where she is sits, see could see all of nothing there.

An epiphany falls, as epiphanies tend to do, if we wait.
She realizes she is sitting squarely atop a wooden crate.
Prying it open, she finds, in mint condition, dinner ware,
a full set of weeping willow dishes, packed with loving care.

She recalled her dream, on the evening she caught a vision,
when painting the snowflake eyes became her life's mission.
Mon espoir est la vôtre à part. Je vous attends pour commencer,
on a note that fell from between plates. When did this occur?

Translation, "Love is in the air. I feel it in my heart."
She concluded, "Seems someone was off to a pretty good start."
Packing the dishes, with care, she pressed the lid secure.
Climbing from the cellar, she mused, "This concludes the tour."

Making a bee line for her house (she was never really lost),
"Some discoveries are just not for sharing. Consider the cost."
For all the words and works of art she chose to put on display,
Countless more, only seen by her... She's just made that way.


Michael Todd  (2014)


Written for Paula Dawn Lietz. Her Website is...

http://www.pdlietzphotography.com/