Sandlot Sundials

Sunday at the grama grampa house

Was not complete without a walk

To the beach via Whitey's Wood

And a sandlot sundial

What is a sandlot sundial?

It is a not so fancy timekeeping piece

That we made with two sticks

To mark our time in the woods

Grandpa and I would walk to the Big Lake

(Lake Michigan) every week

In summer we would swim 

in Winter just walk

Grandma never joined us

When I invited her she said didn't swim

I said she could just walk. 

Grandpa said "your grandmother doesn't walk."

Then they laughed together

A big shared joke 

That I never got but it was nice to hear them laugh

And she never minded us going

We would cut through the neighbors' yard

To the vacant lot before the big hill

Before the back dune before the dune stairs

Before our beach trek to Mona Lake channel

Grampa would draw a circle in the sand

put a stick in the middle

And another on the edge of the circle 

Where the center stick's shadow fell

When we came back from the lake

We would check the sand sundial

To see how much the shadow had moved

The shadows matched the clock's big hand

And then we would know if we were late

And if Grandma would be mad

She was never mad just petting fat poodle Pierre

Who had gotten sick of walking and gone home

But she would always complain 

How we'd been gone forever 

And how even the dog had given up

(just to keep us on our toes i think)

I would explain about the sundial

And how we really weren't late

And she would humph in her Grama way

And tell me to go wash my feet

Then she would make us sandwiches

Because it was Sunday

And they were Dutch reformed

And did not work on Sundays

And then we would sit on the porch

Or by the basement fire in winter

And I would chatter myself to sleep

Dreaming of sand and sundials and such

Big Lake Anthology Poem: Sunday at the grampa-grama house

(memories, in verse, from my inner 5-year-old about life at the Grama-Grampa House on the Big Lake (Lake Michigan). Part of my Big Lake Anthology)








Sunday at the grampa-grama house
was boring because Grama and grampa were dutch reformed

they had a dominie instead of a minister
like i had at church

the Dominie, they said,
said they couldn't do anything on Sunday

Grama couldn't cook on Sunday
which was nice for grama

she made Grampa and me
a sandwich for dinner

we couldn't watch tv
which was sad for me

because the only tv i had
was at the grama-grampa house

i wondered why the Dominie
let us watch tv all week but not on sunday

mommy and daddy didn't have a dominie
but they never watched tv

we couldn't watch grampas home movies
on sunday either

on nights that were not sunday
he set up the super 8 movie projector

and showed old movies of us
on the side of the refrigerator

while we ate ice cream
it was fun even if there was no sound

the dog pierre always knew
when we were having ice cream
 
he came home from wherever he was
just in time to have a scoop for himself

i liked ice cream but wished
grama and grampa picked better flavors

spumoni and peppermint stick and butter pecan
are not as good as chocolate marshmallow

the dominie said we could play aggravation
on the porch on summer nights after my bath

and have a fire in the fireplace
downstairs in winter

which were probably better than tv
and just as good as home movies

or walks to the beach
and much better than going to church

A Limerick for My Great-Great Grandfather Andrew Kinney

At St. Patrick's Day Tribute to Andrew Kinney
My great, great Grandfather came from Ireland at 17 and immediately found himself in a Blue uniform. This is a poem that I wrote for him.
Read More

Big Lake Poems: The Good Ship Marguerite Louise

The Tale of the Good Ship Marguerite Louise
A tale of two ships on Lake Michigan on a cold November Night. For my father D. Jack who knows all there is to know about the ships of Lake Michigan and who likes a good story.

stranglehold cold wind and rain

mute dull foghorn moan

rising banshee storm shriek

drowns alarm's warning groan

feeble fading lighthouse beam

struggles, fails and strains

in fog clogged unlit night

and driving, blinding rains

freighter D. Jack out on the lake

as November gales begin

headed for the haven

unaware of the danger within

no beaming light across the water

nothing seen in darkning drear

no moon marked rocks to alert

around us sail and not too near

nothing heard in dead cold fog

of steady, sounding alarum gong

muted bell tolls a death knell

of disaster 'fore ere long

searchlight flickering fizzling out

tempest waters dead ahead

no saving beam on empty sky

close the book and mourn the dead

blame the deadening pea-soup fog 

blame the storm that tossed night

blame the winter for coming too soon

blame the waning of the light

sing the song of blinding dark

mourn the D. Jack's ending doom

lament the brave ship dashed and torn

finis, death, in the drowning room

But pause a moment this tale's end

hold a bit the death bell knell

consider a mystery, too low for heaven

but just as much too high for hell

old ship Marguerite Louise sits in ruin

safe within dark deadly walls

invisible beneath the foggy shroud

silent under deafening squalls

then occurred the thing so odd

something in the very waves

woke Marguerite Louise from her slumber

to save those men from watery graves

Warn them, Marguerite and make them hear

bang your moorings, jangle your chains

Raise a ruckus above the storm

Drown out those roaring killer rains

She answered the call, the D. Jack was saved

she was heard on down the coast

and clear across lake Michigan

so the old ones loved to boast 

Now she sits still rusting and silent

but what possessed the old ship night

shades of sinners or visions of saints

dark demons or heaven's saving light?

Sailors lost are nevertheless gone

however varied be the clime

Do some come back to warn others

just in the nick of time?

Big Lake Poems: Pink Pickable Ladyslippers

Pink Pickable Ladyslippers
This one is from The Big Lake Poems anthology. The Lake Michigan dunes flora decorated my growing up and has inspired these poems. This one is about lady slippers, childhood and big life choices.

i wasn't to pick the lady slippers

that much was clear

but they are so pickable and plus i WANT to

i whined to grampa

as we walked to Lake Michigan

through the woods of the backdune

where their precious lady slipper

grew just to taunt me

let them grow he said

if you pick them, no one else can enjoy them

i didn't see that as my problem

there was no one around to see them anyway

Besides he said they are protected

its illegal to pick the lady slipper.

illegal, humph i scuffed my feet and scoffed

(not really seeing that as my problem either)

pick up your feet, you'll ruin your shoes

he smiled over his shoulder 

to where I lagging and still slightly scuffing 

Also if you pick the lady slippers, they can't grow.

he had me there

other people not seeing flowers

did not in the least bother 

a selfish four year old girl

going to jail for picking a flower

did worry me a bit

not about breaking laws

only whether i could bring my toys

but to be responsible for the murder of flower?

now that was troubling

if i should pick her

she would wither and die

her pretty pink blossoms shaped like fairy pointe shoes?

little flowers that never hurt anyone 

whose sole job was to make the forest nice

i decided to leave the lady slipper to her work and announced this to grampa

grampa in his plaid flannel coat

took his less-selfish little girl's hand

in his big printers ink stained one

and we walked home, we two, content in our company

The Grama-Grampa House Smell: Fresh-wind Lake-green Pine-time

Fresh-Wind Lake-Green Pine-Time
More from the Big Lake Poems anthology. I wish that I could make you smell the way my grandparents' house near Lake Michigan smelled. Or that I could smell it again. Maybe this poem will help.

The grama-grampa house

was not on Lake Michigan

but you could smell the big lake 

in their house

as the crow flies grampa and I could walk

to the big lake and we did

at least once a week every week

of my life since birth give or take

except when we moved to Alaska

or during my years in college

until I moved away

but i came back and walked with him

he took my kids for walks to the beach

our oldest three that is

he wasn't getting around too well

when the youngest came

the lake inhabited the grama-grampa house 

in scents of sand and wind

wood and rain

and an indefinable fragrance signature of Lake Michigan alone

I smelt it first and best

coming upstairs third step from the top

of the cool yellow speckle- tile basement

where I was sent to fetch canned cherries

from the cedar wood pantry

that grampa built for grandma

for a dessert called

Cherries in the Snow.

we saved some things

from the grama grampa house

in a box sealed tight

to preserve the wind-fresh lake-green pine-time smell

for awhile if you sniffed soul-deep

there was a whiff of it

wind-fresh lake-green pine time

but now its all gone

i can evoke scent-memory a little

with feel-think smell- remembering

i can conjure up the grama-grampa house

but only a little and its fading fast