Mlok skvrnitý

see him writhing ’gainst the grain,

a fire salamander—poison glands

mean nothing to the roadway, and

little to my dog, sampling the known

and new on nature’s morning walk.

try to force the fauna there to talk,

invested, after all—anyone may own

the pre-tread paths they follow, and

poems, paw-prints, salamander hands

spill clumsily to justify a local pain.

Castilleja

The paintbrush is ubiquitous:

in the canvas of Cézanne,

leaving little spaces for passers to complete;

in the arias of Bach,

lifting each contrapunct to heavenly heights;

in the lines of Szymborska,

lovingly commiserating the fate of Lot's Wife;

in the dances of our grandkids,

           lithely aware, like lemurs, of complicated things.

Our grandpa painted prairie fire:

                        for the campus of conviviality,

            mowing meadow paths to circumnavigate;

                        for the melodies of yore,

            moving in and out and into Sunday mass;

                        for the poetry of evermore,

            mostly rooted in the great recall of Tevya;

                        for the guy wires of grace,

            ministerially in place and Holy Ghost maintained.

Indians adumbrate this flower: colonists accede its Nehemiahic power.

Missing Autumn

Missing autumn:
Morning skies of paintbrush coral reef,
Norwegian red, gold and ombre crackly leaves,
Brisk air, bird song heights.

He lies hospital abed, barely seeing, not eating.
What if?
What if?
And I hear the response, the
Serif, the
Seraphim,
Who proclaim
God is in this world
This world of seeing and swallowing.
He's got this covered!

       by Marilyn Jaeger

Origins, beyond our own beyond...

 Loving that a) we still celebrate, b) we have archives to honor and re-delve, c) assignments at school are still pristine and not jaded from politicized 'no child left behind', 'common core', and other such 'backward' design (the origins of THAT concept, it should be said, is not so un-benign...) Here is Emma's 5th-grade poem about 'where she is from':

I am from a roll of film that rolls onto a new story.

I am from a small town with a forest hugging all around.

I am from a family of many different languages,

the heads of strawberry blonde.

I am from the sound of my dog pleading for a walk.

I am from a taste of zmrzlina, preferably stracciatella.

I am the smell of the past, a cottage home well before Božena

(who lived before our babička).

I am from a room where the morning sun tickles me awake.

I am from the books covered in dust that want to be read.

I am from a messy basement below my feet ,which dance

upon the living room rug.

I am from bedtime stories and lullabies from dad and mom

and hours of fun with Joe and Ben.

     from all of these, Amen.

From Marilyn Elstad Jaeger

Greg and I decided that this anonymous poem deserved to be in the Symposium.  It was found among our father's effects and there is no indication whether it was written in Plentywood or Denton, Montana or Hallock, Minnesota - a range of years from 1927 to 1952.  Obviously his most handsome years, whatever!   Except that it was written in a very small, precise script with black ink on 4-hole notebook paper, I reproduce it here verbatim:

                                     A Students Prayer

I do not remember assignments
   Of tedius measures and acts;
I only remember your gestures,
   Too complex for me are the facts.

          I don't comprehend explanations
          Too lengthy are they, oh so long
          I only remember your voice, dear,
          As it goldenly ambles along.

Your movements, your actions, your gestures,
And your sweet winning smile to the last:
Are the factors supreme and important,
That accounts for my liking this class.

         Perhaps, George, if you were a teacher
         All homely, all wrinkled and fat;
         I'd really learn more about History
         And wars, an' rail-roads, and that.  

Let me suggest something, Darling
(Will you pardon my being so blunt?)
I'm not just trying to be Funny
But I simply can't "sit up in front".

No, I can't sit where I do, Hon,
I'll quickly tell you "The Why",
Too many tongues, too many ears,
Too many thoughts and eyes.

          Oh, here's a much better reason
          I'd rather not show the pack--
          How much I think of Geo. Elstad -
          How soon can I move in the Back?

Really, I'll sure pay attention,
P.A.D. -- I'll get it with ease!
So listen just once, sweet"Patoodie"
Move my seat in the Back, woncha, please?