If we’re lucky enough to have a mid-term election next year, remember to place your X where it will do the most good. I wrote the following five years ago long before Gannett pulled me from our local paper. I was going to trash all my columns but decided prior…
Folks, during these trying times you might want to bury your head in the sand at least for a little while. I suppose that’s not a bad thing to do as you pull yourself together. I have a suggestion. If you’re tired of all the noise, the uncertainty of where…
I wrote this tribute to Dad a long time ago. To read the entire story, here’s a link where you’ll find newsstands that carry the UP Magazine or where can order an online version: https://www.up-porky.com/copy-of-subscription
Dreaming of lost places I awake yearning for one last walk through beige painted rooms where once I roamed freely. I ache to touch the walls, to run my gnarled fingers over the wallpaper with green roses, to trod the uncarpeted floors and smell coffee as it perks— its pungent…
I sat in the haymow and watched the sky gather black clouds until the rain came, and then I climbed down the ladder and ran barefoot through the fields of my father. The grass clung to my feet as I ran through buttercups and purple clover. I ran faster and…
I can’t imagine having my sister or brother taken from our family when we were young, but it’s happening today. I can’t even begin to imagine what will happen in the next few months if the last few have been more horrific than anyone could have believed possible. Is this…
By the time I graduated from MSU, the SDS had splintered into various factions and I was done with it. I joined the Peace Corps despite Mum’s absolute refusal to agree to my going. She worried where I would be sent and the potential physical danger I might be in….
I am a woman. That means I become half a person when I marry, a mere extension of my husband. A nameless, faceless, mindless entity born to endure his needs, to become slave to his wishes, entombed in a kitchen mop in hand dreams underfoot. I am a woman. That…
The spring of my broken ankle soft breezes blew through my bedroom window’s lacy white curtains. Fifty times a day I listened to Pachelbel’s Canon in D major as it drifted through my room. Waiting for my body to heal, my restless soul left me meandering meaninglessly through the fields…
Belle’s soft, low moans travel underneath the barn door into the cold mysterious night where nocturnal creatures scout for food, where stars sparkle in the icy sky, and God watches over every living thing. The air hangs still and light as a lace curtain, and Belle’s moans penetrate its lightness,…
Soft summer breezes dance through green trees. Leaves dip and bow. There’s no hurry now. In their movements time rents a generous space, fills it with your face. I loved you that summer of cloudless skies, unending wind, early morning mists melting time present into time past. I loved you…
We don’t need a brilliant mind to understand what’s going on in Washington. It’s clear that a non-military coup has been accomplished. How did this happen? Why didn’t we notice the poison as it dripped into our collective psyche? Why did we ignore it? I have a theory: We demanded…
The 9:02 a.m. ride to the 25th floor of the Penobscot Building in downtown Detroit goes slowly. I glance around and realize I’ve been spotted. The office bookkeeper nods a curt greeting while mentally noting my tardiness. Third time this week I’ve been late. I know she’ll make a note…
I am old now. Lines crisscross my face in no particular pattern as if some half-crazed spider forgot how to spin her web. Each morning brings more bad news. Just when I get used to the lines burrowing deep within my jowls giving me a Charlie McCarthy appearance, age spots…
Rex fell in love with me the summer I was ten. His attention made Mum awful mad. Every evening after the milking was done and the cows put out to pasture Rex rode his bike down the road to our place. He’d take the front steps two at a time,…
I have no idea who’s singing the song I wrote but my brother thought it was worth paying someone to record it. I liked it then. I like it now. What prompted me to write a song? I figured if I threw in a broken-hearted fellow, some whiskey, & a…
A rusty old nail sticks out of a post Sticking out of the ground in Dad’s field. Its work is done, the cows are gone Yet it refuses to yield. Does it recall its younger days When it was tall and strong? And kept the cows from wondering Where they…
When I was sixteen, Mr. Buckley, my tenth grade English teacher—a portly, middle-aged bachelor who wore thick, black-rimmed glasses over his dark eyes, shabby shirts and jeans, and a black tam over his balding head—brought a grocery bag full of paperback books into our classroom and dumped them on his…
I’m a sailor on the Edward L. Ryerson. A ship called the Queen of the Lakes. I work every day in the engine room. I work as my broken heart aches. We sail from Superior to Hamilton. We pass through the famous Soo Locks. I stand on the deck of…
Purple light filters through sharp barbed wire fences holding two spotted ponies captive to their own loneliness and the whims of man. Freedom descends at twilight, steps from the sky, reaches a welcoming hand through the fence, beckons them to join her. Their flight is fast. Bucking the day’s heat…
Once upon a time, many years ago In a faraway land that most of us know Lived Maureen O’Neill, a poor country lass Who had golden hair and a doll made of glass. The doll was her friend she called Rosaleen Whose name had come to her in a dream….
I close my eyes and see my future. Like a rubber band, miles of years stretch before me. I see horses hitched to plows turning over the rich earth. I see full seeders making the length of the fields and waves of ripe grain awaiting harvest. I see winter’s gentle…
I have a little voice That goes ’round and ’round in me. And sometimes I don’t like it For it makes me mind, you see. It tells me when I’m being mean To others in my path. It tells me when I lie or steal Or refuse to take a…
The 1970s did me in. All my troubles began with the seventies and their strobe lights and burned draft cards and 99 cents a gallon gasoline and the relentless Viet Cong who didn’t know they were defeated but just kept coming and coming, garbed in twigs and mud, too stupid…
The joy of my youth was picking berries. Summer brought strawberries, blueberries, raspberries. The fields around my house were abundant. When dew left the grass, I grabbed a glass, Ran out the door. Ran to the fields. Not to pick fast, but to savor each moment. To dream of days…
