July 2017
I’m both honored and thrilled to serve as Wisconsin Poet Laureate for 2017 and 2018. As part of my WPL term and in addition to public readings and school visits, I’ve been working with poetry and dementia and various Memory Café programs throughout the state. I’m the author of A Theory of Lipstick (Main Street Rag: 2013), winner of a Wisconsin Library Association Outstanding Achievement Award, as well as Grief Bone, published recently by Five-Oaks Press. Grief Bone recently won and honorable mention in one of the Eric Hoffer Awards. Currently, I serve on the boards of various writing entities in the state and happily teach poetry writing at The Mill: A Place for Writers in Appleton, Wisconsin. www.karlahuston.com
AT 79, MY FATHER
gets pulled over by a county cop
for speeding on Highway M,
his MINI Cooper a streak
of light on those country roads.
Oh, dear, I say. Oh, Dad,
as I find the warning on
official paper. What were you
thinking? I was thinking,
as I sorted through his countless
saved pages, his myriad stacks
which ran the path from his office,
to bigger stacks on his bedroom floor,
creating tunnels between them.
As a teen he worked gathering rocks
to clear a railroad tunnel. He said
the scariest part was getting
out of the way of the train—
there was no room—
as it rumbled through, him
jumping to the side, the grumble
of the engine, the searching
yellow light from the loud
stone walls to warn him.
PANCAKES
Those almost round beauties,
those stacks of happiness
that seemed to hover on the plate.
They’re weighted by sunny pats
of butter and syrup,
maple—if you’re lucky—
liquid sugar puddled
and dispersed, drizzled
into pools, pancakes
like small rafts
floating in the blueberry
lake of your plate.
KITCHEN QUEEN
after "The Farmer’s Kitchen"
Ivan Albright, 1934
Old woman, you’re tethered to a chair
sitting among busy prints and tired geometrics,
your apron a different calico than your dress
with its red cherries anchored in a sea of blue
while wallpaper bouquets drift in pink,
the weight pulling you into the mire
of work and worry. What are you thinking
as you trim a fist full of radishes, your knotted
knuckles red from gripping bowl and knife?
My grandmother measured her days by chores:
Monday—sheets push-pulled through tubs
and wringers. Friday—twenty pounds of flour
beaten and stretched into bread,
the endless days between. Here you sit,
queen of your realm, something caught
in the pale of your eyes and repeated--
a memory of an old love or an old promise.
You are somehow grateful for today, the blue
granite bowl filling in your lap, the warmth
of the stove, soft light, your kitchen reign—thankful
the Lord still has something useful for you to do.
after "The Farmer’s Kitchen"
Ivan Albright, 1934
Old woman, you’re tethered to a chair
sitting among busy prints and tired geometrics,
your apron a different calico than your dress
with its red cherries anchored in a sea of blue
while wallpaper bouquets drift in pink,
the weight pulling you into the mire
of work and worry. What are you thinking
as you trim a fist full of radishes, your knotted
knuckles red from gripping bowl and knife?
My grandmother measured her days by chores:
Monday—sheets push-pulled through tubs
and wringers. Friday—twenty pounds of flour
beaten and stretched into bread,
the endless days between. Here you sit,
queen of your realm, something caught
in the pale of your eyes and repeated--
a memory of an old love or an old promise.
You are somehow grateful for today, the blue
granite bowl filling in your lap, the warmth
of the stove, soft light, your kitchen reign—thankful
the Lord still has something useful for you to do.
©2017 Karla Huston
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