Hauser - Hallelujah

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There’s Something About A Cello

Cellos are resonant. It feels to me as if the bow were playing
right across my heart rather than the strings. Talk about a cello in
your poem, or if you don’t love the sound of a cello, let your poem
speak about delight in another instrument.
Peeling a Potato
Pablo Casals should see me now,
bowing this fat little cello,
peeling off long white chords.
I am not famous like Pablo,
not yet. The amphitheater
of the kitchen sink is nearly empty.
As the notes reel out,
I hear only the hesitant clapping
of a few moist hands.
I am playing the solo variations
of J.S. Bach. Wonderfully,
I sweep with my peeler. See me lean
into the work, tight lipped,
the light in my hair. Inspiration
trickles over my handsome old hands.
Ted Kooser
in Weather Central
On Bach’s Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor


I am not my body…


A Deck of Pornographic Playing Cards

We were ten or eleven, my friend and I,
when we found them up under a bridge,
on top of a beam where pigeons were resting.
Someone had carefully hidden them there.
On each was a black-and-white photo,
no two cards alike. We grew quiet and older,
young men on our haunches, staring at
what we feared might be the future.
The pigeons flapped back to their roosts,
rustling and cooing. The river gurgled
as it slipped from the bridge’s cool shadow.
There were women with big muzzled dogs,
women with bottles and broom handles.
Stallions stood over the bodies of others.
The women smiled and licked their lips
with tongues like thorns. We grew old.
We were two old men with stiff legs
and sad hearts. We had wanted to laugh
but we couldn’t. We had thought we were boys,
come there to throw stones at the pigeons,
but we were already dying inside.
Ted Kooser
in Weather Central



Jeanne Poland in 2019


I am not my body

but holy outrage too

passionate beliefs-

that straddle the universe

golden light –

from my third eye to the tip of my toes


that renders me eternal and able to transform

my body is a humble servant-

loyal for generations and sculpted by my tribe

Jeanne Marie Margaret DeLoca  Sr Virginia Mary of Christ  Poland  Smith







Weather Central
Each evening at six-fifteen, the weatherman
turns a shoulder to us, extends his hand,
and talking softly as a groom, cautiously
smooths and strokes the massive, dappled flank
of the continent, touching the cloudy whorls
that drift like galaxies across its hide,
tracing the loops of harness with their barbs
and bells and pennants; then, with a horsefly’s touch,
he brushes a mountain range and sets a shudder
running just under the skin. His bearing
is cavalier from years of success and he laughs
at the science, yet makes no sudden moves
that might startle that splendid order
or loosen the physics. One would not want to wake
the enormous Appaloosa mare of weather,
asleep in her stall on a peaceful moonlit night.
Ted Kooser
in Weather Central


set the part

braid the tail

ring the saddle

ride the trail

by Jeanne 4/2/2018

Definition #148 (Jeanne from Queens #20) Interesting

Jeanne 2007

Jeanne 2007

Edward Albee
“If you’re willing to fail interestingly, you tend to succeed interestingly.”

A Person of Limited Palette

by Ted Kooser

I would love to have lived out my years
in a cottage a few blocks from the sea,
and to have spent my mornings painting
out in the cold, wet rocks, to be known
as “a local artist,” a pleasant old man
who “paints passably well, in a traditional
manner,” though a person of limited
talent, of limited palette: earth tones
and predictable blues, snap-brim cloth cap
and cardigan, baggy old trousers
and comfortable shoes, but none of this
shall come to pass, for every day
the possibilities grow fewer, like swallows
in autumn. If you should come looking
for me, you’ll find me here, in Nebraska,
thirty miles south of the broad Platte River,
right under the flyway of dreams.

“A Person of Limited Palette” by Ted Kooser from Splitting an Order. © Copper Canyon Press, 2014. Reprinted with permission.

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