Category Archives: Uncategorized

Astronauts on the space station

Float with their arms folded

During interviews

Because

If they don’t

Their arms float up

And they look like polar bears

Begging for food

And

Since there are no polar bears

On the space station

Astronauts fold their arms.

I think polar bears

Would love to spend a year

On the space station

Provided, of course,

That NASA keeps them supplied

With fresh seals.

The bears would be glad to get away from

Shrinking ice floes

Hunters

And Coca Cola ad executives

Bothering them with a drink

They don’t want and can’t use.

Astronauts fold their arms

Not to barricade themselves

From torments real or imagined

Or so they don’t look like

Polar bears

Or even to dance the hora.

No, astronauts

Fold their arms

To embrace the world

Beneath them

To reassure all of us

Here below

And to hold us close

In peace.

 

Dan Verner

March 6, 2016

“I won’t be docked for winter,”

The bookstore manager said,

Meaning she wouldn’t have

Her pay cut because

It was too cold to take a census

In the cemetery.

(I think, It’s not that hard to

Find those people

Although they are really slow about

Returning their forms. This was my thought,

Not hers. Maybe it is hard work.

It might be if it can’t be done in the

Cold.

I take back “not that hard” and

Substitute “challenging,” which it must be,

Or she wouldn’t have said what she did.)

Anyhow, she’s happy

And I’m happy, too,

Not because I have not

Been docked for winter,

But because I have

Been docked for winter

In the sense that

During blizzard and frigid cold

I stayed at the dock,

A skiff moored at anchor

Away from storm

And all manner of calamity.

Our dockings?

Quite different,

But then

So are we,

And that makes us

Happy.

 

Dan Verner

March 4, 2016

For the students at the bus stop beside our house

The school bus stop sits

At the intersection of Grant and Barnett

Beside our house

And this morning four students (all girls)

Gathered on the sidewalk

In the early March chill

Wearing neither coat nor sweater

Holding their books to their chests

The way no boy would ever do.

One lanky fellow ambles up.

They do not speak to each other

But study the concrete

Sleepy, yawning, no doubt wishing

They were still in bed.

The yellow behemoth lugs up the hill

Pushing a rattling diesel signature

Before it.

I go out to collect the Post

And wave at the kids

As I always do if I’m out

When they are.

They stare at me,

Wondering who this person is

Up at such an ungodly hour.

They do not know that they are my people

And that I spent decades studying them in

Their natural habitat

And I would still be doing so were it not

For high stakes standardized tests

And absurd administrative policies.

As I think these thoughts, one boy

Runs down the hill and I smile

Thinking that the boys are always

Last minute.

Then, the as the bus is about to pull off

Another young man,

A sophomore by the looks of him,

Comes up the hill that makes

Older walkers stop to catch their breath.

He glides like a ballerina

Or a gazelle on the Serengeti Plains

And I watch his beautiful easy motion

With appreciation for something that I

No longer have.

 

When I taught, I started each class

With a Poem of the Day

And I toyed with the idea

Of doing that with these students

At this early hour

But decided not to since they

Won’t even return my wave.

Still, the urge to read “Mending Wall”

Or “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death”

To them is strong,

And so I have written this poem.

It is for you, my people.

And I want to say that I miss you,

Your sense of humor,

Even your drama,

Your mood swings

And your beautiful minds–

But don’t worry: it will all work out

Except when it doesn’t,

But if you survived whatever it was,

Take a break and catch your breath

And have at it again.

These words are from someone

Who knows you and has been

Around the barn a few times.

I hope for you

A good day with good conversation,

Engaging lessons

And something you like on the

Lunch menu,

And somewhere in there

Remember the man

Who waved as he picked up his paper

And next time think about waving back.

 

Dan Verner

March 3, 2016

First one arm

Then the other

Seeking the unseen

And unknown

Silken lining of the sleeve.

The settling of the jacket

Begins.

This process is

A feat of acrobatic dexterity

A miracle of instinct

And experience.

The right sleeve,

Mme. la Manche Droite,¹

Received the arm easily

While Mme. la Manche Gauche,²

Her sister, is a bit more

Obstinate

Because she must negotiate

The watch on the left wrist.

Once sleeves are persuaded

To go where they

Don’t want to

Hands newly emerged

From their respective sleeves

Must attend the collar

Which perforce has to stand up

(No doubt in recognition of

The august personage

Donning the jacket)

And so, hands cajole

M. le Collier³ into

A folded repose.

That settled,

The time comes to

Encounter

Collier’s great-aunt,

Mme. Fermeture Éclair ⁴

(known to her friends

As Zippee from her days

As an acrobat in a small circus).

She is quite sensitive about her

Plastic nature and longs

For the days of her ancestors

When M. le Vicomte d’ Éclair,

Made of metal,

The first of that name,

Served Louis XIV.

Mme. Éclair does her duty

At the behest of a single hand

Singing a song of old Paris

Before the war

As she slides up into place.

And once again

The jacket is settled.

 

Dan Verner

February 24, 2016

¹Right sleeve

² Left sleeve

³ Collar

⁴ Zipper

 

Here’s a post from my friend and phenomenal writer Colleen LaMay about being towed while in a strange city. Colleen funnels her outrage at the situation into her writing and yet recounts the events and describes the, uh, interesting people she encounters along the way. “Road Trip Whee!” engages the reader with Colleen’s tale in the classic American road trip genre. We hope for many more posts in this series, Colleen! Keep on truckin’!

Visiting a big city can be brutal if you don’t know the rules of the road, and on this trip, I found a gaping hole in my knowledge.

Source: “Hey Cassandra, who hid my car?”

This morning, dawn played out

Against a pristine wind-scoured sky,

Shading from faint salmon

Along the horizon,

Stealing upward through

Layers of virginal white, champagne cream, and

Powder blue clouds,

The color growing deeper and

Deeper at the apogee

Climbing to true sky color,

And then

The sun appeared–

An ancient monarch rising so

All her earthly subjects rose as well–

Slate cloud banks near the horizon,

Her spreading wings

Amid regal roseate bands of

Atmosphere.

 

Dan Verner

February 12, 2016

 

 

 

 

A key, taken

From pocket or purse

Accepts preparation

For its purpose.

It’s as simple

(and as complicated)

As that.

Keys must be held in readiness

For what might lie between car door

Bus stop, sidewalk or helicopter pad

And home.

Two fingers hold the moment’s key

At the ready, prepared to either

Fit into the keyway

Or punch into an attacker’s sclera,

Vitreous humor spurting like filling

From a squeezed cream-filled pastry

The key striking like an enraged raptor.

This key is violent.

But there are others.

Some keys are prepared by ink laser-fed onto

Paper designated by symbol and alphabetic name:

A, Bb, D, F#, G and up and down the staff

And around the circle of fifths.

This preparation serves

A greater good: is freeing these keys from

Paper or mind or creative impulse to sound,

As tenuous and transparent as filmy absence

But as real and solid as granite

And again:

Keys as the absolute way to resolve difficulty

And become clarity

With codes, puzzles, essays, sports plays and cells of

Life.

And yet:

Key players, keystones, key situations, key states and key to the heart:

These are the keys and they are necessary (if not absolutely

key) to so much that, without them, we would not be.

It’s as simple

(And as complicated)

As that.

 

Dan Verner

February 10, 2016

          Song for My Father

I swear

Pandora is

Out to get me.

It has played

“The Leader of the Band”

Twice this morning,

The song that I quoted

In the eulogy I wrote for

My father

A year ago.

I can’t hear the song

Without crying

As I am now

As I write this.

Music is

As Mr. Monk would say

A blessing

And a curse

And yet I feel blessed

To have known him.

 

Dan Verner

January 25, 2016

This morning, as part of my preparations for the Blizzard of 2016 (aka Jason, although I hope it will have a hip name such as Snowpocalypse or Snowmageddon) which really weren’t much in the way of preparations since I just needed a few things from the grocery and some OTC medications from Walgreens. As I walked toward the door, I saw a small car with a bumper sticker that read, “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” Those of you who know me know that I am a student of World War II and have the greatest admiration for those of the Greatest Generation who prosecuted the war both overseas and on the home front.

I figured the survivor wouldn’t be too hard to spot since most vets are in their late 80’s or early 90’s. I saw a gentleman in a blue baseball cap who looked to be about the right age, but he was talking on a cell phone with someone, and I didn’t want to disturb him. I got what I needed, and saw him still in the pharmacy section, apparently trying to find something. I went up to him and said, “Excuse me, sit, I saw a car outside with a ‘Pearl Harbor Survivor’ bumper sticker. Are you the survivor?”

His face brightened, and he said, “I am. How do you know about Pearl Harbor?”

“I have an interest in World War II and have even written a novel about it. My dad was in the war and so were a couple of uncles. I want to thank you for your courage and sacrifice.”

He looked troubled. “It really was difficult.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Then he took on a more lively look. “I have that bumper sticker on my car and hope that someone else who was there would come up and talk to me.”

“I hope they will. You’re the first survivor I’ve met, and it’s an honor.”

“I’m honored that you know about it.”

“Thank you. Would you mind if I took a picture of us?”

“Not at all.” He held up a flip phone. “My kids are after me to get one of those fancy new phones, but this is all I need.”

“They do the job, all right. ”

I took the selfie of us, and asked him name. “It’s Steve,” he said.

I said good-bye to him, but then he murmured to himself, “I need to find the aspirin.”

We were one aisle over from that, so I showed him where it was, and took my leave again.

The man Steve noted that there weren’t many survivors of Pearl left. Indeed, we are losing vets from World War II every day. I’m just glad I had the opportunity to meet a Pearl Harbor survivor in a most unlikely encounter.

 

This is an excerpt from the unpublished novella Mata’s Story. I imagined what would happen if I could sit down with Otto Kerchner’s sister Mata and have her relate what happened to her and Otto over the years in her own words and from her point of view. I also imagined interviewing Mata last year, when she was 90 years old. Each chapter of the book covers a month of the year and her memories of them. I hope you enjoy this New Years gift to you, and I hope you enjoy it. Happy New Year, one and all!

(Note that the opinions expressed by Mata are strictly hers and not mine. You know.   ; ^ ) )

Mata talks about what happened to her in January, 1953:

I always liked New Years. Every year it signals for me as a person, wife, mother, sister and daughter, as it does for so many people, a new beginning, a fresh start, and a chance to begin over again. Now, I’m not one to be much on resolutions—I have certain “projects” I’m always working on through the year, as Otto would tell you if he were giving this interview but he’s not so he loses out on his chance to give you his version of things. And so you’ll get my version. And he does have his version, as we all do, but this is my show, so to speak, so I’ll just continue. You must get tired of my endless babbling on—you’re a very patient man, aren’t you? I can tell—I’ve been around men all my life, and I think I understand them pretty well. I think women understand men better than they understand us—it’s just how we are, and the good Lord created us like that—different, you know, and we need to honor those differences. I haven’t told you this, but my granddaughter Marion “came out”—is that what they call it?—last year, and that was just fine with me. She said, “Aunt Mata, do you still love me?”

Well, I teared up and hugged her and said, “Of course, you silly goose. You’re still the little girl I first held in my arms so many years ago. You were my Marion then and you’ll always be my Marion forever and ever, amen!” Can you believe there are people who reject their children because they’re different somehow? What fools! Excuse my strong language, Mr. Verner, but I’m sure you have known a few gay fellows and women in your time. Didn’t you say your wife was a church musician? Churches across America would have to shut their doors if there weren’t any young fellows and girls to play the instruments and conduct the music. We wouldn’t want that, now, would we? I thought not. I’m sure you agree with me, and you’re no fool from what I’ve seen so far. You might prove me wrong, but we’ll see.

You’d think the New Years I would remember best would have been one I celebrated with Pete, my first husband. I’ve talked so much about him, I’m sure you’ve gotten tired of hearing about it. But the New Years with him, while special in their own way, are not among those I treasure the most. I do think of them and of him often, but the New Years that I cherish most was the first I spent with my second husband, Tom Durham. He was the FBI agent who broke Pete’s murder case wide open. We grew close during the investigation, and he later bailed Otto out of some serious trouble in South America a few years later while Betty and I were not speaking to him. So in a sense I owe having my brother around to Tom. But I digress, as usual.

Tom proposed to me in the most romantic way as we went walking in the snow after Christmas Eve services in 1957. When he asked, I was so happy! He got down on one knee and I remember thinking how absolutely gorgeous he looked with the light from the house shining in his eyes. I of course said “Yes” immediately and went to hug him before he got up and we both went sprawling!   Betty didn’t say that she saw that (she was watching through binoculars from the house, much to Otto’s chagrin) or she was too polite to mention it. Anyhow, we recovered quickly and spontaneously started dancing right there in the snow. I didn’t feel the cold, and I could have stayed out there forever. We came back in and everyone was so excited and full of congratulations. Christmas was certainly special that year.

I still had a warm glow from that evening when New Years rolled around a week later. Betty and Susan (Tom’s sister) and I had spent the day shopping in St. Paul after Otto flew us down there with Tom as co-pilot. He was taking flight lessons from Otto, and wanted some cross-country experience. We had dinner in a nice restaurant downtown and were home by ten. We played Monopoly with the girls (they were allowed to stay up after midnight for the first time that evening) and rang in the New Year with ginger ale toasts and the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” I have to tell you, Otto is the worst singer you have ever had the misfortune to hear. Everyone else went to bed shortly afterward, but Tom and I sat up with some coffee and talked about our dreams and plans before the declining fire. We fell asleep and kept each other warm the whole night, awakening only when Betty got up to put coffee on the next morning. Now, nothing happened then, and didn’t until we got married, thank you very much. I’m certainly not that kind of woman. I think you know that. If you don’t, maybe you are dumber than you look, and I shouldn’t be wasting my time talking to you. Remember what I said about proving yourself. You’re still on trial here, mister, and this judge has not rendered her verdict.

So, as you see, this special memory is much like so many of my others. It was a simple evening but one filled with such warmth and affection I will never forget it. I hope you have had such evenings yourself. You must know how rare they are, as are the people are we share them with.