I am originally from Springfield, Ohio, and currently live in London, Ohio. I write poetry to make sense of the world and my place in it.  I have been fortunate to have my work accepted for publication in several print and online magazines.  

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At My Grandfather's Cabin
Ontario, Canada 1985

After tending the wood-stove at dawn
you pack bologna sandwiches 
with pepper, mustard and onion
and a couple bottles of Molson's
for lunch.

Hinged screen door banging shut behind us,
we load the boat and push off
under a cool gray morning sky,
and race toward Mosquito Bay.

The tackle and gear
bouncing and jiggling in the spray,
our lungs awakened
as you open up the outboard
just off the pine and pudding-stoned shore
of that Canadian island.

Later, trolling for pike
dragging the weed-beds
with daredevils
and red-eyed wigglers, plagued by false alarms
the sudden thrill of a “fish on!”

Hooked and shaking
like a growling canine
at the other end of an old sock
you play the big pike
with finesse and experience
in the crystal-clear water.

A low-flying flock of honking geese
v-in and veer-out
over our boat, wings swishing hard
as I net your catch. 

The pike picked up
as the late season weather
took a turn for the worse,
raw clouds turning dark
blowing rain and sleet.

We filled up our stringer
with the thought of open water
still fresh on our minds.

But you skillfully knifed
through the threatening swells
rising and slamming
as we headed cautiously back
to the shelter of your cabin.

After securing the boat
and all our gear
we began cleaning the fish
on a newspaper covered table,
warming ourselves by the stove
with a Coke and Black Velvet.

All the while Grandma breaded
and turned the fresh fish
in a big iron skillet,
the carcasses of our dinner
still flip-flapping on the table.

As the gulls gathered
at the water's edge
waiting on the remains
for an easy feast.


-first appeared in Blue Lake Review