September 2018
Family and word wrangling are my life's occupations. I've tallied a third of a century as university editor, 40 years as a father (six years as a grandfather), and almost a half century as a husband. My home is Middleton, Wisconsin. You can view my published work at conservancies.wordpress.com.
Ghost Flight
Amelia Earhart has landed
to the safety of my crude runway.
I welcome her with flowers
she graciously accepts, inquiring
where she's put down. I admit
being lost, too, blown off course
by circumstance and left to my wits
on this remote stretch of ground.
Her helmet and jacket I hang
from a peg on my wall. She remarks
the barrenness of my dwelling
betokens someone loathe to settle in.
I accuse her of the same,
her puckish grin and sigh betraying
doubt another could exist
up to her rigorous skies.
We share a pot of bitter tea,
our feet restless on the boards.
A mere man bereft of wings,
dare I confess my abiding desire
to serve as her second,
lacing her boots, strapping her goggles,
soaring in the sky of her eyes?
But she reads me like a cockpit dial,
flashing that smile no man can resist,
pursing those lips no man can tame:
"The skies I fly are hostile to men
who measure their lives by the fuel gauge
and not by clouds to surmount."
Upon which a distant motor sputters,
then turns, her serene face like vapor
lifting to clouds my eyes can't fathom.
The Ferris Wheel
The world from atop the ferris wheel
lay beyond our fields of amber wheat
and green-glistened corn, our river
snaking slowly seaward, and our lone
highway narrowly escaping the valley
through a gap in the distant hills.
All summer our small town simmered
in the homespun wisdoms of the Bible,
sewing bees and the Farmer's Almanac
until the county fair marked summer's end
with blue ribbon cabbages, horse pulls,
baking contests, hawking carnies--
and that magical wheel overlooking
exhibition halls, 4-H barns, hot dog stands,
and our humble lives momentarily grand.
We spun through the wind, rarefied joy
filling our lungs, and when the big wheel
paused at the top, our feet dangling
in pure nothingness, we vowed to wrangle
from the world's vastness all its possibilities—
while wishing to spin on forever.
The ferris wheel always set us down,
and we were not yet our worldly selves
knowing the arms linked with ours,
pies freshly baked, warm handshakes
and anchoring hugs were the world's way
of keeping itself to a manageable size.
Amelia Earhart has landed
to the safety of my crude runway.
I welcome her with flowers
she graciously accepts, inquiring
where she's put down. I admit
being lost, too, blown off course
by circumstance and left to my wits
on this remote stretch of ground.
Her helmet and jacket I hang
from a peg on my wall. She remarks
the barrenness of my dwelling
betokens someone loathe to settle in.
I accuse her of the same,
her puckish grin and sigh betraying
doubt another could exist
up to her rigorous skies.
We share a pot of bitter tea,
our feet restless on the boards.
A mere man bereft of wings,
dare I confess my abiding desire
to serve as her second,
lacing her boots, strapping her goggles,
soaring in the sky of her eyes?
But she reads me like a cockpit dial,
flashing that smile no man can resist,
pursing those lips no man can tame:
"The skies I fly are hostile to men
who measure their lives by the fuel gauge
and not by clouds to surmount."
Upon which a distant motor sputters,
then turns, her serene face like vapor
lifting to clouds my eyes can't fathom.
The Ferris Wheel
The world from atop the ferris wheel
lay beyond our fields of amber wheat
and green-glistened corn, our river
snaking slowly seaward, and our lone
highway narrowly escaping the valley
through a gap in the distant hills.
All summer our small town simmered
in the homespun wisdoms of the Bible,
sewing bees and the Farmer's Almanac
until the county fair marked summer's end
with blue ribbon cabbages, horse pulls,
baking contests, hawking carnies--
and that magical wheel overlooking
exhibition halls, 4-H barns, hot dog stands,
and our humble lives momentarily grand.
We spun through the wind, rarefied joy
filling our lungs, and when the big wheel
paused at the top, our feet dangling
in pure nothingness, we vowed to wrangle
from the world's vastness all its possibilities—
while wishing to spin on forever.
The ferris wheel always set us down,
and we were not yet our worldly selves
knowing the arms linked with ours,
pies freshly baked, warm handshakes
and anchoring hugs were the world's way
of keeping itself to a manageable size.
© 2018 Darrell Petska
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF