—Poetry by Michael E. Strosahl, Jefferson City, MO
—Pubic Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Pubic Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
LOVE SHACK (TIN ROOF RUSTED)
Mostly I remember the rain
as it pounded down the roof,
a bolt of lightning striking close,
cymbal crashing,
thunder rolling over the hills
then down into the valley with a rumble,
and we were woke wide,
praying for the storm
to calm and pass us by,
taking full pots to pour into the sink,
moving the pans to catch
another drip.
Mostly I remember the rain
as it pounded down the roof,
a bolt of lightning striking close,
cymbal crashing,
thunder rolling over the hills
then down into the valley with a rumble,
and we were woke wide,
praying for the storm
to calm and pass us by,
taking full pots to pour into the sink,
moving the pans to catch
another drip.
AND A CABOOSE
As children, we played railroad:
three engines, three cars
and a caboose.
The youngest preferred
life as a crossing signal—
blinking one eye,
then the other, back and forth
as his ding-ding-ding
brought the arm down.
We chugged the living-room miles,
wearing out carpet
as the old Rock Island Line—
three engines,
a flatbed, boxcar, tanker,
and a caboose.
Mother sent us outside
to lay fresh track through the yard,
around the tree,
but stay out of her flower garden.
The years have escaped us
as we found our own rails:
each engine,
each car
and the caboose.
The signal never left home,
still blinking,
still lowering the arm for us,
but only tumbleweed
blows across those tracks.
Today, we gathered
to bury my brother—
three engines, three cars,
and an uprooted signal
in somber procession—
mourning that trains today
no longer have a caboose.
As children, we played railroad:
three engines, three cars
and a caboose.
The youngest preferred
life as a crossing signal—
blinking one eye,
then the other, back and forth
as his ding-ding-ding
brought the arm down.
We chugged the living-room miles,
wearing out carpet
as the old Rock Island Line—
three engines,
a flatbed, boxcar, tanker,
and a caboose.
Mother sent us outside
to lay fresh track through the yard,
around the tree,
but stay out of her flower garden.
The years have escaped us
as we found our own rails:
each engine,
each car
and the caboose.
The signal never left home,
still blinking,
still lowering the arm for us,
but only tumbleweed
blows across those tracks.
Today, we gathered
to bury my brother—
three engines, three cars,
and an uprooted signal
in somber procession—
mourning that trains today
no longer have a caboose.
A GHOST IN THE SOYBEANS
The spirit of cooling waters,
a mist rises from the creek,
overflowing the banks,
haunting the floodplains of spring yet again,
though they now have grown green with beans.
The fog creeps slowly through the leaves,
dampening hidden pods,
whispering through fences
as if they were not there,
leaving a dew
glistening from the barbs of wire.
The moisture heals
worn leather of his shoes,
makes the old denim of his jeans wet,
loosening the stiff ankle,
the unbending knees
that once held him
to a limp through these fields.
He squats to rub his fingers
over the leaves and into the dirt,
deciding it will be another good year
before rising and catching the sun
at first glance on the rim of earth,
knowing it is time for the cloud to disperse,
time for moisture to
quietly return to the stream,
time for the ghost of old jeans and worn-out shoes
to go fading away into the beans.
The spirit of cooling waters,
a mist rises from the creek,
overflowing the banks,
haunting the floodplains of spring yet again,
though they now have grown green with beans.
The fog creeps slowly through the leaves,
dampening hidden pods,
whispering through fences
as if they were not there,
leaving a dew
glistening from the barbs of wire.
The moisture heals
worn leather of his shoes,
makes the old denim of his jeans wet,
loosening the stiff ankle,
the unbending knees
that once held him
to a limp through these fields.
He squats to rub his fingers
over the leaves and into the dirt,
deciding it will be another good year
before rising and catching the sun
at first glance on the rim of earth,
knowing it is time for the cloud to disperse,
time for moisture to
quietly return to the stream,
time for the ghost of old jeans and worn-out shoes
to go fading away into the beans.
DISAPPEARING INTO THE LOBBY
I could not help but notice
the old man in the chair by the elevator,
how the years have collected
as a hoar frost he combs over
to hide the many gaps in his memory
and the stories once told vivid
are started again and again,
only to trail off,
his voice dropping to no more than
a whispered discussion within himself—
mumblings of a life
even he is not sure anymore
ever existed.
I could not help but notice
the old man in the chair by the elevator,
how the years have collected
as a hoar frost he combs over
to hide the many gaps in his memory
and the stories once told vivid
are started again and again,
only to trail off,
his voice dropping to no more than
a whispered discussion within himself—
mumblings of a life
even he is not sure anymore
ever existed.
A BAD DAY FOR CASEY
(inspired by the sculpture,
“Casey Stengel” by
Rhonda Sherbell)
The kids out there today
could be his,
could be his grandkids,
thinking the Old Perfessor
just doesn’t know,
just doesn’t understand,
in spite of all the years
patrolling the outfield
with Brooklyn
all the way to the series,
Pittsburgh, Philly, Boston,
at the Polo Grounds of New York
where he played the series
two more times with the Giants,
winning in ’22,
then leading
the Dodgers, Braves, Yankees,
and seven more championships
as the skip before
getting stuck
with these lovable losers,
these Amazin’ Mets—
no, the old man
just doesn’t know,
just doesn’t understand.
The hands,
deep in back pockets,
holding himself back
from running to the mound
to yank the pitcher
who knows it all—
who knows nothing—
and fed a steady diet
of grapefruit fastballs
to their slugger
until one was crushed
and its seed became a bullet
squirting down
the right field line
for a stand-up double
and two more runs.
His stance,
leans toward the field—
always toward the field—
as the player inside
still longs to play,
still fights his old bones
for another chance
to get on the field
and who couldn’t do better
than these kids?
these know-it-all kids?
Can’t anybody play
this here game?
Maybe it is time to rest,
to leave the bench
to someone younger,
someone they will listen to.
Maybe it is time,
because these kids
just don’t know
and today,
he just doesn’t understand.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
FRESH PAPERS
—Michael E. Strosahl
When I get them,
they are still warm,
with fresh ink pooling
into clever headlines,
shocking scandal,
last night’s scores and
Beetle Bailey running
from the Sarge—
down the newsprint,
across the fold,
drying into a little box
on page B-7
_______________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Michael! Michael E. Strosahl was born and raised in Moline, Illinois, just blocks from the Mississippi River. He has written poetry since youth, but after moving to Tipton, Indiana, he participated in a poetry reading on a dare at the Barnes & Noble in Westfield, Indiana, 2001. From there he became very involved in the Indiana poetry scene, becoming involved in what is now known as the Poetry Society of Indiana and traveling the state in search of the small groups that met in living-rooms, upstairs library groups and coffee houses, even starting groups in communities where he found none. From each he grew, and hopes he helped others to try new things with their talent. He served the PSI as Membership Chair and eventually as President. In 2018, he relocated to Jefferson City, MO, beginning his search anew for kindred spirits to inspire and draw energy from. He currently co-hosts a monthly critiquing group in the capital city. [If the name, Jefferson City, sounds familiar to you, that’s because we have several other SnakePals there, including Michael Brownstein and Kimberly Bolton.]
Michael’s work has appeared in The Tipton Poetry Journal, Bards Against Hunger projects, The Polk Street Review, PSI projects, several projects for Poetry Contests for a Cause, and online at Project Agent Orange, Our Day’s Encounter, Indiana Voice Journal, Poetry Super Highway—plus on several city buses and in a museum.
Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Michael, and don’t be a stranger! Isn’t it interesting to hear about those lives in poetry that other people have led in other places??
_______________________
—Medusa
Michael E. Strosahl
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