Journal

Daily Pleasures

Today I can’t get around so well.
I must take my pills and walk.
It’s gray and rainy and cold and damp.
I ache and fret and mutter and groan.

Daily pleasures stare at me.
I am blind to them, the ones
that Yogi Berra knew about,
see-able by “just looking.”

So look, stay close to home.
Cracks in sidewalks, not Grand Canyon,
moss on trees, not Old Growth.
wonder at my own hands,
my own breathing, my ability
to tangle and untangle words.

Peter Burke is a retired HP and OSU engineer and a Corvallis resident since 1983. Long-time technical writer, he is new to poetry.

Field Trip to Konza Prairie

Today’s lesson is grasshoppers.
Collect them with nets and put them in jars laced with dimethyl ketone.
The eight graders stumble out of the yellow bus.
They wear tank tops and short shorts.

Collect them and put them in “kill jars,”
the docent demonstrates the correct method.
The children in their tank tops and short shorts
never stood in the midst of the prairie before.

The docent demonstrates the correct method.
She sweeps a net in figure eights through tall grasses.
The children never stood in the midst of the prairie before.
They jitter and whine about itches and spiders.

The girls sweep nets at the edge of the grasses.
“I’m not going in there,” Tyesha grabs Lashonda.
They jump together and squeal about spiders and snakes.
The docent says follow and walks into bluestem.

“I’m not going in there,” but Tyesha comes along
Lashonda runs ahead, shouting “Kill, kill!”
The docent follows, bending the bluestem
to collect enough grasshoppers, put them in the jar.

The girls run through the bluestem, shouting and laughing.
They stop, look across open prairie.
There are enough grasshoppers in kill jars.
They smell the wind on the grasses.

They stop, look across open prairie.
Eighth graders far from the yellow bus,
they smell the wind on the grasses.
Today’s lesson is grasshoppers.

It seemed like some sort of destiny when Judith Edelstein moved to Manhattan, Kansas.  She lived there from 1987 to 2006, longer than in any other place.  After retiring from the public library in 2001, she volunteered as a docent with the Konza Prairie Environmental Education Program and set about studying poetry.  She now lives in Corvallis, Oregon.

Missing My Sister

It’s like calling your friend’s new phone number
after she moved out of state, only to hear
“This number is no longer in service.”

It’s like caring for your tender geranium, the only one
with those unusual wine-red, velvety blooms;
you are too late–one cool fall night does it in.

It’s like trying to start your beloved, but stalled companion
of a car, first using jumper cables, then a push in neutral,
but nothing can get it going again.

It’s like pulling up your winter pants,
so loose-fitting they almost slide off your hips;
last year you lost–not knowing how–pound after pound.

Brigitte Goetze lives in Western Oregon. A retired biologist and goat farmer, she now divides her time between writing and fiber work. Her web address is:  brigittegoetzewriter.com. 

Evergreen

wick in the forest

oblong clearing gives air
enough gripe to paint fire here

saved from one blaze a hemlock
destined for your casket will be stripped

of its skin and cut into lengths
for intentional burn

loggers on a taco break
lean against their rigs

or climb onto a sheepskinned bench
to chug a cool one from the tote

they hoist and set the hemlock
return home to their fires

this evergreen
how long ago it was planted

to furnish and frame
the last best house for you

Quinton Hallett writes and edits from her rural property in Noti. She has three chapbooks and her first full-length collection, Mrs. Schrodinger’s Breast, was published by Uttered Chaos in 2015.