Short Shots Poetry Reading Thursday, February 15

See you at Var Gallery this Thursday, February 15 at 8:00pm for Short Shots! This show features 7 poets including myself – and it’s free.

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Walking Between Classes at College – a poem

So often I think something and it seems unspectacular, but if it occurs to me many times I do something with it. This thought occurs to me every day I’m at school, so here is this brief poem.

#modernlife #technology #college #tech #poetry #poem #stoplightpoetry #iphone #yolo

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It’s interesting the things you notice and consider as a returning student with 15 years on most of your classmates. So many of my classmates spend any of their extra time gazing off into the anywhere else of their technological devices. I wonder where we are all going, if we can or will ever get there. If we do, will we know? This is such a strange existential time to be living in.

Milwaukee Music History From Turner Hall

This is one of my favorite pieces from my time as Pfister Hotel Narrator. Chef Concierge Peter Mortensen discusses returning to Milwaukee’s historic Turner Hall Ballroom, years before it was again open, to experience the birthplace of American popular music. We visited the space in the middle of the day and Peter described an impromptu concert with musicians Joan Morris and William Bolcom. I love how Peter’s voice sounds so large and encompassing in the space. Click below to listen. The Pfister is currently looking for the next narrator. If you’re a writer, maybe you should give it a shot.

 

Happening Upon a Plein Air Painter in Winter

“I’m out painting and people ask what I’m doing. I tell them I’m painting. They look at the canvas and they look at me and they look at the canvas. “Really?” they ask. I don’t know what else they think I’m doing. “Yes, really.” – Lynn Rix, plein air painter in every season

Elegy for an Uncle Grandfather

The first time we met

my mother’s father,

we were standing in our driveway

greeting them as they arrived

to our 4th of July party.

 

He’d come to visit

from Florida, along with

his second wife.

 

The adults spoke

about travel and directions,

a mediocre steak dinner in Tennessee,

other smalltalk you stumble at

when your father hasn’t visited

in years,

and after a lull

my little brother

proudly announced his first hello,

 

“Hi, Uncle Russell.”

 

“Well I’m not your uncle, Kenny -”

he corrected the child

with a wounded scorn,

“I’m your Gran-Paw!”

 

I was 9 years old,

and I wondered what kind of

ridiculous person

would move away

then show up and

scold strangers

for not knowing

who he is.

 

He died last night

after breaking his

hip and pelvis

in Florida

a few days ago.

 

Today somebody told me

with generic discomfort,

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

For something we all do,

we’re really bad

at death.

 

I didn’t really know what to say and

laughed a little.

 

Made me think of

apologizing to an archeologist

standing over the bones

of an extinct bird

no human has

ever seen.
– what loss?