August, 1945

artwork: ralph murre

August, 1945

by Peggy Trojan

When I was twelve

we stood around the radio

to verify the news.

Japan had surrendered.

The war was really over.

My mother wiped tears.

My father was quiet.

He wasn’t even

in the war,

having lost sight

in one eye at ten.

I rode to baby sit

in Mr. Anderson’s boozy Ford.

When he jammed to a stop,

all the beer bottles

on the back seat

crashed to the floor

in celebration.

~ previously published in Dust and Fire

New Year's Eve 2-for-1 Special

photoart: ralph murre

First

by Peggy Trojan

New Year's Eve

nine days before I was twelve

Tommy, visiting next door

came to visit me, baby sitting.

At midnight

he sat on the arm of the chair

and leaned to kiss me.

That's all.

No embrace,

no meaningless words.

Nearly seventy years later

I remember our surprise,

the silence,

how warm his lips were

and how soft.

~ first published in Boston Literary Magazine

photoart: ralph murre

REVELRY

by Bobbie Krinsky

Heading out under a moon

as luminous as last year’s Solstice,

my old dog and I ramble

side--by--side 

into the raw country wind:

Two old bitches taking  a stroll

beneath the stars,

minutes before New Years  Eve,   2003.

While I plunge through snow hushed  fields

flooded with silver, 

my girl prances like a pup

and paws through shadows

of winter’s trees splayed across  midnight’s

ice blue light.

 ~ first published in The Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Return Trip

artwork: ralph murre

Return Trip

by Peggy Trojan

                                                                                                          

Coming back always went fast.

We fell asleep on the rear seat

in happy tangle, and were home

before we wished it.

My father carried us 

to our beds, my younger

brothers limp and soft,

easily moved.

I was too old

for such attention,

and feigning sleep

I’m sure he knew.

He picked me up,

all dangling legs and arms,

my face in his shoulder

of tobacco and wool,

trudged up the stairs.

By hall light,

he put me down gently,

took off my shoes,

covered me up, clothes and all.

Then, tip toed out,

leaving the door ajar.

~ first published in Wisconsin People and Ideas  

Trilliums

photo: ralph murre

Trilliums

by Peggy Trojan

When snow melts

in the deepest shadows

of our Wisconsin woods,

white of wild trilliums

takes its place.

Though my father understood

the state has claimed them

as their own

and threatens fines

for anyone who argues,

he dared every May

to walk the south forty,

surprising

his sweetheart

with a large bouquet

of spring

offered in his wide

calloused hand.

~ first published in Rav'n

Pen Pal

Pen Pal                                                                                                  

by Peggy Trojan   

The Evening Telegram printed

names of soldiers wanting mail.

Mother chose Robert Smith.

Wrote, in teacher’s Palmer script,

of ordinary happenings

in our little Wisconsin town.

What birds were at the feeder,

the fox or deer she saw,

how much snow fell,

hoping he was doing well.

Nothing sad or troublesome.                        

She wrote often, all during the war.

Sometimes, a letter thanking her

would come from a distant battle place,

Italy, or France maybe,

with the military post mark.

A.P.O. 45, New York,

censored by army examiner.

War ended in August, ’45.

The following Christmas,

a card arrived

showing a black man

sitting by the decorated tree.

He was afraid, if she knew,

letters “from home” would stop.

It made no difference, she confided.

He was fighting for us all,

and she was his pal.

For more than fifty years,

his greeting was saved in her shoebox

with anniversary cards from Pa,

and fancy old valentines.

They didn’t write much longer.

He was back home then,

and that war was over.

~ first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

How to Make Blueberry Pie

photo: ralph murre

How to Make Blueberry Pie

by Peggy Trojan

Enter Quinton swamp at last year’s faded marker.

Keep up with Pa, in his eighties and leading.

Deep in woods, where berries hang like grapes,

powdery blue, warm, kneel.

Listen. “When I was six we took the horses….

water got warm and butter melted on the bread….”

Pretend you never heard of the 1918 fire.

“Dad put us eight kids in a circle in the field ….

My pet ram was killed because he was burned black…”

When your pail is full, blindly follow Pa

through brush slapping your face.  Have faith.

You come out right in front of the truck.

Admire the pickings. “By God, we did pretty good.”

Clean berries at picnic table under the pines.

Make crust while Pa makes filling.

Talk about how great berries were last year,

or was it the year before? “Man, it was just blue…..”

Let Pa slice it. “Gramma Uitto cut hers in four…..”

Put ice cream on your piece to cool it,

use a spoon for juice.  Smack your lips and laugh

when Pa scrapes his plate, says again,  “That’ll sell!”

~ first published in Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge

Saturday Night

artwork: ralph murre

Saturday Night

by Peggy Trojan                                                                                          

                                                                                                                  

We choose the top shelf where veterans go,

Sixty, in my prime, four, in his.

One hundred seventy degrees coaxes us to sit still,

adjusting to the heat.

We’d partnered before.  He knows the rules.

No clothes, no rough talk, no throwing water,

no obvious stares.  Church manners.

The room is small.  Lined in cedar, three tiers of bench.

Stove in the corner, topped with rocks.

Thermometer, dim light, water basin and dipper.

Birch bough switch for the penitent.

Having shed all visible signs of status at the door,

we sit side by side, equals.

Talk is sparse.  No chatter.  Quiet observation.

We sense the spirits of my parents, and their parents,

and parents before them.  We feel Finn.

We dip wash cloths in the basin between us

to cool our flaming faces.  Smile.

Talk becomes confident and wise.

“Did you ever notice, Gramma, that men and women

look the same from the back,

but not the front….?

Then dumps the communal water

on his head.

~ first published in The Finnish American Reporter

Life After Death

photoart: ralph murre

Life After Death

by Peggy Trojan

My father never gets

the hang of being dead.

He lived so long, so willingly,

he never accepts his life

is finished, done, kaput.

He appears at family gatherings,

presence comforting as wood smoke,

laughter swirling through the stories.

On trips out of town,

he grumps in the back seat,

now that he can’t call shotgun.

This afternoon, there he was

at the table by the window,

easing his back into the sun,

looking for a cup of coffee

and a cinnamon roll

~ previously published in Eye on Life Magazine