An other-world wanderer's lament

Am I the weirdo here?

I reminisce of things I never knew

is that experience common 

or something only I do? 

If I'm the oddball how is it 

I can so stark-sharply recall 

times I never lived in and

places I've never been at all? 

to storied lands I traveled

through the ancient mariners' door

on meandering slow train to

unknown known days of yore

my vehicle being dreams 

mysterious yet not mystery

it's then I see most clearly 

olden era and locality

but what I view bright shiny

what's shown in eye of  night

becomes confusedly shrouded

in dawn's early morning light 

as wave on sand recedes my

waking ken slowly ebbs away 

like fog my clarity fades to

tattered fragments of grey 

why unfamiliar days and ways

and foreign geography  

seem so familiar I know not

am I a freak or visionary?

curious and curiouser are they

nightmare, shade or prophecy?

something or nothing at all

perhaps fathoms deep memory?

I don't always know my dreams

have happened in history

collective conscience recalling 

or some omen or augury? 

It's also not been revealed

if for better or for worse 

I'm just night tripper or on

my funeral carriage hearse?

there are less pleasant ways to die

it's not worst way to go

a hobo on Dreamland Railroad

swinging chariot sweet and low

one thing I know for sure

as I ride the midnight train

That to those far-off shores 

I'll return and return again

Thanks for reading. With love from the weirdo world wanderer

 

My country tis of Michigan

June juniper jewels glow

Wind plays on hemlock lyre

Spice spruces bow down before

evergreen queen's final pyre 

Her driftwood fir campfire

Lights up a summer night

Pull your lawn chair near and 

Commune with lady firelight 

Winter wood light is chill

As Frost rime winks at me 

First snow garlands twinkle 

On wild grown Christmas tree

I'm lakeland limber lost 

In my own memories

Was lost and found again

in dear old back dune trees

summer sun bleached beach sand

stark sparkles in moisty mist

silica quartz bits chum 

with specks of mica schist 

I spoke of Sunday in

the grama-grampa time

I endured boring church

to wander in woods mine

to kneel in lakeside pew

by the Gitche gummee

on our rain drenched bench

just my granddad and me

My mighty Michigan 

I worship at your shrine

in dear little hut with gramp

carved out of jack pine

how I love lake goddess

My heart home tis of thee

And I will sing forever

of thy divine
majesty

Bog berry memories in an ambrosia state of mind

Smell recollection runs deep

goes right down to my core

muscle memory scents frame

my backstory timeline lore

Some I recall by name

others by their fragrance alone

shrouded but diamanté clear 

as if embedded in my bone 

a few boisterously noisy

stay robust to the root

like the used car salesman 

in a loud checkered suit

other scent reminisces

hide in subconscious hem

Try as I might to reach

I always just miss them

Been haunted since 5 by

a primordial memory cologne

smelt in Alaskan swamp where

a moose and me played alone

I see burnt tree cremains

in my young eye of mind

from ancient forest fires

their skeletons left behind

we are told that from

purgative fire, ash and rain

come new plants and creatures 

old growth swamps live again

What I smelled in play

such magnificent perfume 

I have vague recollections of

bear and baby whale plume? 

(but how could whales be in swamps. They couldn't BUT I did see them in the bay and I WAS ONLY five, so reminisce-ories get jumbled..)

It was a berry I guess 

whose scent told me deities

on Olympus dined quite well 

upon scrumptious orbs like these

Never smelt such heaven 

since then until this day

my bog bear, moose, whale 

and Alaska went away 

But once, I think I caught

whiff of my beloved scent

oh frabjuous day to nose 

food of angels, heaven sent

Where did I smell it and

from whence did I get traces 

of my vermillion goddess globes

at Ikea of all places! 

Alas there's no mystery to 

my tantalizing fruit so lush

In Sweden as in Alaska 

grows the lingonberry bush

I will say it loses a lot in 

Ikea's cardboard carton of juice 

as opposed to ripe'ning in swamp

all wild, unboxed and loose 

And I prefer mystery to 

some prosaic marketing ploy

Forget Ikea's Swedish-ish shtick

I'll go back to me old bog with joy!

Here's a short tale of the

girl who sniffed out a berry 

the nosy parker and swamp

live only in my faded memory

Maybe I got it wrong 

it wasn't even a lingon

but it's my story and to

that party line I'm clingin'  (don't judge! you try finding a rhyme for lingon!)

What I know for sure is

to that bog again I'd go

in a heartbeat just to smell

my berry of red Day-Glo

This verse began about scents

the forgotten and the known

funny how the half-recalled 

stay mine and mine alone

The teacher in me can't 

help asking you each and all

what glorious smells can 

your ownsie self recall?

Reach deep, it's so important

and I know that you will find

mythical magic reminisces in

an ambrosia state of mind

Love you all, 

Teacher Omi (who believe it or not was once five. In a bog. With a moose. This reads like Dr. Seuss. My next poem?) 

The Sucker Punch Sweet By and By

What I would write on a postcard from Lake Michigan in fall...

had a fine pine time

with the evergreen queen

and the fir campfire

prettiest ever seen

went a walkin' we

amid the spruce and loon

sung us a juniper jolly  

Michigander tune

waved to the seagulls

in squadrons on the beach

to weather out the storm

in perfect formation, each

nibbled wintergreen berries

that taste of  Clark's gum

us TV age kids don't know

the fruit came first, by gum

we went inside a teepee 

that Mr. Edlund made 

Whitey was his name 

makin wood stuff was his trade

collected flotsom bits and bobs

from God and from man

the good stuff was God's

the litter was from man 

got me a nice rock

wanted some black sand

but with rock and a feather

it wouldn't fit in my hand

he wouldn't carry it

though his pockets were deep

I don't blame him

it probably wouldn't keep

fine, inky silica

of quartz and hematite 

mining waste he said

I call it magic magnetite 

He did carry home

some driftwood we found

small for the rock shelf

the big on the ground

climbed the dune staircase

then a quick rest to take  

watched from a bench

our melted glacier lake 

more fine Whitey products

what a good soul was he

but then I recalled how

he and grampa fooled me 

Had me pee over the bench

when I had to go potty

said it was a special toilet (!)

grama said they were both dotty

(But then she stayed home and would not have wanted to use the woods "convenience" if she had come and wouldn't have known where to take me either. So I guess all's well that ends with relief. Grampa was severely chastised by me when I caught on. But in truth, I'd not have had a better idea. Ah such are memories. Dear God why do those honeyed arugula aches still glow so dull and strong? And I wouldn't write this next on a postcard. 

while benched, we wondered

about Ice Age and Indian

did they walk our same trails

these native folk back when?

talked of ships big and small

boats being favorites of mine

of frigates, canoes and Chris Craft

a Greatest of Lakes timeline

one subject led to another

as talks with your Opi should do

so much to say, so little time

I think our grandkids get this too

Who's Opi? It's gramp and Omi

is grama in Dutch (that's me!) 

we're all important branches

this thing called family tree! 

I call my grandparents theirs (the grands)

and list the greats so they can see

that who is who has a place 

in their own special history

I know mine would like being

known as their great Opi and Omi

when my next gen ask why

I say cuz it's YOUR family

But back to my bench (toilet)

so many moons ago

to bring then and now full circle

so that they will all know

I'm  61 now (how did that happen)

I want them to meet little me

when I was still sitting (maybe not that part)

and peeing over my bit of tree

I want to take them all back

all 12 of them if they could but see

how joyous it was for us then 

God, I can't even make me see 

(key change sexy riff)

It's an Irish thing to be lavish

and I'd give all I owned 

to be with Omi and Opi (OG)

does nothing else rhyme but stoned??

and it really doesn't matter 

cuz they'd scoff at the expense

they couldn't imagine how I'd give 

life's wages to see them past tense

He liked how we pondered

for a few footsteps in time

we were part of that great march

of mankind and maritime. 

And grama plays her part

in my longing for yore

it hurts so much that I 

can hardly bear to open that door

(Is this a retake on Carrickfergus?? Jesus, I can hear that damn Van Morrison version playing as I read this. No wonder they added the line about needing a drink!  It fits! Hallelujah I'm Irish, pass the booze. The only part I resonate with. Not really. Why did I say that? I hate that they're called Irish Car Bombs. Bobby Sands??? Pour me another. So less Irish than originally TOLD BY 23andme. But hey, never believed the stats anyway. How could a girl with one Irish granda on the distaff side be 43%, yeah, no. Unless that girl's Dutch relative somewhere...no too tired to figure that one out. Wait till you hear what 23andme says about my Andulsian and Maltese roots after amending their stats in some long headed nonsense I  don't understand. NOW I'm not 43% but only 20% Irish WITH Scots and Welsh WTactual? Well easy Eire easy go. And I like being mostly Netherlander anyway, so, where were we? Sorry... this part is serious and you should be too.)

I've only just managed to 

hush my O's during sleep 

their dear sweet voices calling 

nearly sent me over the deep

Such a lost little girl was I

so lonesome, lonely and alone

they were my world my all

theirs was the only home 

Jesus it hurts so much to recall

the sucker punch sweet by and by

I could easily drown in memory

it wouldn't be the worst way to die

But I won't because I remember

that I'm a wife, mom and Omi too

and I owe to all my loved ones 

our days in Lake Michigan blue

So let's pause to raise a glass

to the Opis and Omis gone before

thank you for the wonderful days

putting our footprints on the shore

 

Trust the toast and the Aqua Velva Man

There's a sense I should rely on

my useful ability to sniff

our noses can teach us much

if we would just take a whiff

The messages in certain smells 

both the vile and very nice

I like how nice ones linger on

while nasties are gone in a thrice

But on the subject of trusting

our noses always know

who can and who can't be 

and to me will always show

when I met my forever him

he was a lovely scented bloke 

of minty breath and Aqua Velva 

and leathery tobacco smoke

I've an addiction to smelling

and to that I must fess up

I study men's odors and read them

like tea leaves in a cup

I judge a man by his fragrance

can't help this kneejerk habit 

it's not his cologne nor perfume

those just confuse or disquise it

there is a je ne sais quoi in

how the air smells around him

I can't explain how nor why 

it's vague but not a whim

Some smell in ways that feel

like a cozy, safe protector

of campfire, printer's ink or toast

or a Super 8 movie projector 

Lake Michigan beach scents

of sun and sand and pine

I trust Gitche Gumee with secrets

I know that she'll keep mine

But then some smell of things 

that hit memory blindside

Old Spice, Basic H, Shaklee Vita-C

And I want to run and hide

it sounds superstitious, I know

my horoscope of smells

but my nose is uncannily

accurate about what it foretells

morning coffee and Coast soap

and his Aqua Velva blue

Say he's kindly and cares

if not he'll reek of that too

it's not a stink exactly 

but it's potent just the same

it jars me to places most scary

too scary to give a name

bullies give off in their smells

a loud danger pheromone

warning me to get out

and leave them very much alone

like a snake's marking tells

if he sports red against black

he's not a safe fellow 

you should stay away from Jack

My ken goes below human sense

this instinctive alarm in me

I  guess like a dog I'm wired 

when scent-sirens sound to flee

Then some smells misled me 

Made me think I could trust 

Jean Nate and Avon Lilac

found too late they were bust

I didn't heed them before 

much to my hurt and dismay

I didn't run when I should have 

I was taught to heel and stay

But I'm learning to scent read 

the writing on the wall

to get to safer high ground 

before the levies fall

The safe scents were there

But I didn't trust what I should

not that I even knew how

or that I actually could

So I'm learning to smell

peace in the coffee can 

to trust the toast and toothpaste

and the Aqua Velva Man