Writer Vulnerability

I feel very vulnerable posting my poems online. I'm like an actor feeling stage fright. What if my little verse does a belly flop? What if it's not enjoyed? What if it's not even read? So it was with great joy (and humbled appreciation) that I noted that two of my most recent pieces have been viewed 50 times...each! Thank you, readers, whoever you are. I know that if I'm going to survive this world of publishing, particularly in the tenuous area of poetry, I'm going to have to grow some thicker skin. But until then, (if I ever even do) the knowledge that people are reading was a real pick-me-up for this thin-skinned gal. Be well. Do good work. Love, mar

Waterlily Rose Maiden

Waterlily Rose Maiden
Verse one from my sonnet to our infant daughter, Mary Therese Sachteleben who passed into the arms of Jesus on Jan. 5, 2001.

her eyes, green-gray still waters, do not cry
not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces,
guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy
in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces

  her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent
  rose petal fair and water-lily pale
  heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent

  fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale
  no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek
  no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid

  no companion shares nor solace does seek
  perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid
  Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold
  Never feels pain, nor mother-arms enfold.

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: Acorn benediction and Oak Leaf offertory

November fall leaf funerals

grampa in flannel coat and ear-flap cap

me in fur-trimmed jacket and pom-pom hat

big rake and little rake

26 trees in grampa's yard  

oaks with crunchy-crisp fall-down-brown leaves  

and thousands of acorns

kept us and squirrels hunting and gathering

grampa boasting with neighbor  

of how many bags each would offer 

on his autumn harvest pyre

each secretly sure his sacrifice would please most

On cracked cement altar  

leaves piled ceremoniously high  

consumed in flame under watchful eye  

of grampa against shifting winds

leaves to ashes, ashes to dust

pom-pom clad mourner bids farewell

rest in peace, rainbow friends

to nourish next year's soil

but acorns were not burned

acorns explode sending out soul sparks

that singe unwary watchers

their little selves spared, but only for autumn-greedy squirrels

close my eyes and i can smell

oak-leaf incense from ritual burning

hanging heavy-hazy under leaden November clouds 

sharp, sad fire-fall fragrance

summer oak bounty smoldering

on heaps of crimson and ash

tolling Indian summer death knell

somber scent of endings and good-bye