For Sure

Like many of us who grew up there, I’ve been thinking of better days in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota. Thus today’s poem.

In Brooklyn Center, Minnesota, in my day,
kids knew things for sure . . .
The Tribune was delivered on our doorstep
in the morning—the Star, evening—
by a neighborhood boy
who collected some Wednesdays
(periodically, with his tag-along younger sister)
Public elementary students changed schools about every year
Parochials didn’t have a choice
Catholic families attended church at St Alphonsus
Lutherans had lots of places
On Halloween the best houses gave out Hostess Twinkies,
carameled apples or homemade popcorn balls
Bridgeman’s scooped the most delicious ice cream treats
There was one neighbor who had a lawn we couldn’t touch
—even if a wayward dodge or baseball ball rolled onto it.—
Osseo Rd would not get a guy to Osseo
and France Avenue?—Forget it!
(Though, we could walk down any street in confidence
and freedom without our parents concern.)

But the most for-sure thing of for-sure things for us was this . . .
We could always find something good at Shopper’s City
—Our target before Target—
The northern suburb’s World’s Fair 364
(Closed on Christmas)
complete with carnival rides certain weeks in the summer
There we could:
Pick out our new dog as it tumbled and capered
with other pups in the pet shop window
(If parents wouldn’t allow that,
it had hamsters, turtles, fish and birds)
Watch a man from some old country repair shoes
with his own hands and ancient tools
(He’d even handcraft a whole pair of leather if you paid him.)
Play Hide-and-Go-Seek within the clothes racks
—til Mom hissed, “Stop!”—
Eat hot, buttered popcorn from red-white-and-blue, greasy bags
decorated with a smiling clown in a top hat
Buy groceries that rolled down a conveyor belt in royal blue boxes
at car pick up when our family was ready to go home.
Show Grandma exactly what we wanted for our birthday.
Enter a toyland complete with carols and holly
and the real Santa Claus at Christmas
Shopper’s City’s smell, so its own, enveloped us as we walked in
(even a blind person or newborn knew it)
little whiffs of everything the world had on offer
In the fluorescent lights merchandise glowed and beckoned
Sometimes we even recognized our neighbor Betty’s voice
making announcements over the loud speaker
about “lost kids” or weekly specials—
ever “for sure” we were safe there.

Like so many things from my day in Brooklyn Center,
Shopper’s City is gone now
—Just a memory in some old folks’ minds—
Soon they will vanish, too.
But in its day, it was the center of attention,
a fabled destination, hot spot, “where it was at,”
— in a world where a kid could be sure.—

Kathleen A. Dorholt
NAPOWRIMO 2021
April 14, 2021

Shetland

I must someday . . .

Set foot on your shores;

see for myself the true green

of your craggy fields

reflected off the bonny azure

of your boreal sea

while brine mists my face

in brisk salty sprinkles.

Stand where sheep dot the hills

(like daisies do rolling spring meadows

or roadside ditches in my home) . . .

where ponies the size of some dogs

parade children across pastures.

Hear wieldy waves hit

your harbor and

huge rocks jutting

from the base of high hills

broken by years of battering force.

Speak to those who live within

your rock-and-sea-bound borders

who cherish a life

more alone than most

as they bare their souls

to the beauty that binds them.

Understand their stoic resolve

of rejoicing in “balmy” days

still requiring a light jacket

and island-knitted hand warmers.

Listen to the accent of voices

molded by two ancient tongues

of separate folk

who bumped into the same

abandoned beach

—neither here nor there—

—a land between a destination—

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NAPOWRIMO

April 3, 2021

The Secret

The secret is that

every poem tells a secret

And the poet hopes 

by revealing it

someone will recognize 

the hard love it took to write

Because secrets are

more comfortable if they’re 

tucked away.

They like hiding in dark

basement corners behind

boxes and whispers

Under stair steps

guarded by cobwebs

and silverfish

They’re favorite sound

is “shhhhhhhhhhhh”

They sabotage a writer’s

fingers; make them struggle

to form basic letters.

Distract the brain with

alluring outside sounds,

annoying earworms or

the last of the shortcake

waiting in the frig.

I understand if you

struggle to write

poetry.

Secrets don’t like

being naked in

honest, exposing light.

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo 2020

April 26, 2020

Fish on Fridays Blues ( In Memoriam)

The prompt was to write about something from your childhood that is no more. I wrote a blues poem in memory the now-defunct Catholic rule about not eating meat on Friday.

Fish on Friday Blues (In Memoriam)

It’s the tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Said, tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Glad that day’s gone by the wayside.
I was gonna turn to booze.

The Church said, “Don’t eat meat on Fridays
to get closer to the Lord.”
Sacrifice was good for our souls
For our faith to be restored.

At sixty-six hundred we ate tuna.
It was fish we could afford—
Not salmon or shrimp, or lobster
Or sea trout from a fjord.

It’s the tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Oh, the tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Glad that day’s gone by the wayside.
I was gonna turn to booze.

Tuna tasted old and moldy
‘Cause it came from a tin can
And contained some bits of rat hair.
It was more than I could stand.

No way to make it appetizing
Try from now to equinox.
It will always be sand gritty
And taste like some worn-out socks.

It’s the tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Oh, the tuna fish on Fridays blues.
Glad this day’s gone by the wayside.
I was gonna turn to booze.

How I ever survived tuna
Is a mystery to me.
So thankful for that pope’s decision
To make my life so tuna free!

Kathleen A. Dorholt
NaPoWriMo 2020
April 22, 2020

Orchid Twilight

It’s orchid in the twilight orchard

from a certain angle, an angel

on a sunbeam curtain

might wander in, as you wonder

at the presence of the holy

glow nature presents

in its waning—

A sole soul benediction

from the setting sun.

 

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo 2020

April 11, 2020

New Grown

Unmown grass budding spring green

Begowns the slope to the goose pond

No longer the brown of longing

Bursting from seeds sown in secret

Windblown by autumn’s gust and flurry

How nature reawakens me each April

With its crown of constant color.

 

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo

April 8, 2020

Taffeta Midnight

Midnight marched in wearing a taffeta ball gown last Saturday.

While streetlights poured psychedelic colors onto

The cement sidewalks throughout the city,

white pines and hawthorne bushes sparkled with dewy mist.

A distinct scent of vanilla and lilacs teased the late breeze.

All the townsfolk drank dessert wine with melted chocolate

while singing “Stairway to Heaven” in perfect-pitch harmony,

then snuggled into their fluffy cashmere wraps

and breathed the stars from behind the clouds.

The Mertz couple on Filmore Road

drank beer instead from tumblers.

(Such a high-class neighborhood.

No one suffered synesthesia

Crossing their fingers made them immune.)

With a sheep’s eye and a licorice tooth

the Cosmos sisters of companionship

Filled the crowded streets with emptiness.

I greeted them without make up

Mrs.— she’s so fickle and predictable,

She’ll have something to say about it all.

Even a bawdy pixie in a red pointed cap

Can ramble and still stay hom

Her Magic

Her magic arms form

a cuddling cocoon

so like a

serene summer day

for a broken heart.

Her dreamer lips a

dusting of sudden silver.

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo 2019

April 29, 2019

Candlelight

Wandering candlelight trembles

in the rhythmic evening breeze

and melts with the fire 

that touches it

in long slow licks

as the silent summer night

burns with a whispered wish

for uncharted romance 

and simple surrender.

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo 2019

April 24, 2019

At the Sink

A single girl at the sink

wondering where the day went

as the warm water swirls

through her shriveling fingers

her mind lost in

the melancholy music of remembering.

 

Kathleen A. Dorholt

NaPoWriMo 2019

April 22, 2019