Happy 24th Evening of National Poetry Month!
Happy International Guide Dog Day!
Since I missed posting a blog last week, I will share two very short acrostic poems and then one long family history poem with you on this 24th evening of National Poetry Month. The three poems are from my continuing effort to write at least one poem a day for this special poetic month of April. To honor my Leader Dog Willow on this International Guide Dog Day (April 24, 2024), I wrote the acrostic “Invincible Value” (with the stem of “value.” Due to the April cold snap Milwaukee is experiencing, I share with you a wintry acrostic with the stem of “vanity.” The third lengthier poem (in free verse) is about my maternal grandfather whom I, unfortunately, never met.
Leader Dog Willow: Invincible Value
acrostic poem for the 22nd day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Velvet to the touch,
Alice’s eyes for almost eight years,
loveable and loyal Leader Dog,
utmost guide and gift
envelopes her heart more and more each day.
Hoosier Vanity—Left Behind
acrostic poem for the 22nd day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Various items were left behind in Indiana:
Alice’s vanity did not accompany her to Wisconsin.
No wool opera coat, no fashionable boots!
Instead—puffy, Polar Bear, down coats, full-length;
tams doubled and twin scarves with boots made for walking through snowdrifts!
Year after year, she realized pretty is not worth being frozen to the bone!
Kneading—My Maternal Grandfather, the Baker of Italian Bread
poem for the eleventh day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
With my long, piano hands
in the soft dough,
I knead the dough methodically, almost musically–
work the dough in kitchen rhythm
and recall my maternal grandfather,
born in Levone, Italy, on October 6, 1876.
Turning over the ball of dough,
I knead the mass more
and think of my grandfather’s bake shop,
behind the grocery store,
built around 1906.
My Grandpa Martino’s bakery
was one of my favorite places to play as a child.
Yet, throughout all of my life the bakery was dormant.
The aroma of the Italian loaves
did not permeate my play area,
but the huge mixer and the brick oven still lined the south and west walls.
During my childhood, the large room–a storage room for the grocery—
was filled with large boxes.
Tall windows graced the north side;
on the east end, one door led outside
while another door opened to what was once the grocery;
but in my day, this outer room was
another storage room, to the north of the store.
Doors in the wooden floor parted to a stairway
to the basement—a place where I never ventured.
The final door—north of the mixer–led
to the living quarters, behind the store.
Twenty-eight stairs above were
a parlor, a dance all, and three huge bedrooms.
In the Hoosier humidity, my grandfather toiled
to make his many loaves to crusty perfection.
Unbelievably to me, if a tray of loaves were not perfectly done,
he threw them into the wastebasket.
Satisfied with the feel of my kneaded dough,
I reform the dough into a ball
and then, with a pastry brush,
stroke the top with a little oil.
As I set the dough to rise,
I think of the grandfather whom I never met:
my Grandpa Store died of a cerebral hemorrhage
when my mother, his youngest child,
was in business college.
Much later, taking the shiny, golden-brown loaf
of braided Challah bread to the table,
I believe that my grandfather must be smiling
upon my bread—even though it is not Italian.
Perhaps, in Heaven someday,
I will knead dough with my grandfather;
and he will share with me his baking secrets
and, more importantly, the reasons he became a baker in America.
Enjoy the final week of National Poetry Month!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
April 24, 2024, Wednesday
A Different View of the Solar Eclipse for National Poetry Month
On the CBS EVENING NEWS on the historic April 8, 2024, I heard Bill Nye, the Science Guy, speak of “PB & J” as referring to “passion, beauty, and joy.” Of course, he was referring to the total Eclipse of the Sun. Nevertheless, I immediately thought of these letters representing so well how many of us feel about writing and poetry: “passion, beauty, and joy.” Thanks, Bill Nuy, the Science Guy for this lovely thought!
Throughout the month of April—National Poetry Month (NPM)—I am happy to coordinate thirty volunteer writers (and two alternates), as Poets-of-the-Day, each of whom posts on the e-mail list of my writers’ group (of 125 members) at least three writing prompts and at least one poem stemming from the given prompts. As in past years of NPM, our Poets-of-the-Day continue to inspire our fellow BEHIND OUR EYES poets. Each evening reading the post of the Poet-of-the-Day for the upcoming day and then, on the following day, reading all of the response poems to the prompts for the day bring that PB & J to which Bill Nye, the Science Guy, referred.
My happy gratitude goes to Trish, a fellow writer/poet, for, with her prompt “hope,” inspiring the following mostly unrelated five short poems, each of which is both a quatrain and an acrostic. The stem of each of the acrostic poems is “hope.” Additionally, you will find Trish’s prompt “handsome” in one of the poems and references to the Eclipse (another of her writing prompts) in two of the acrostics.
A Quatrain String of Hope Acrostics
five short poems for the eighth day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
__ First Hope Acrostic Quatrain
High on the tightrope with
obelisk on the other side,
performer points an impassioned gaze to
enchanted goal and steps on hope.
__ Second Hope Acrostic Quatrain
Harness up—you, handsome pup!
Objective: Leader Dog,
practically perfect,
ever at my side to love and guide.
__ Third Hope Acrostic Quatrain
How will this day develop?
Ophthalmologists wonder,
ponder unwanted
effects of eclipse on luxurious eyes.
__ Fourth Hope Acrostic Quatrain
Hovering Moon
obstructs Sun of our Solar System.
People applaud, cheer the corona.
Eventually, Mother Nature re-lights the afternoon of the World.
__ Fifth and Final Hope Acrostic Quatrain
Heavy construction, heavy heart.
Order of my day disrupted:
paths and routes we knew so well change again.
Embrace the new, unseen journey with Willow.
While I posted the above short poems on the e-mail list of my writers’ group on April 8–after listening to various media covering the Eclipse event–I posted on the e-mail list of my writers’ group the following very short, six-line poem on April 6. From the April 6 Poet-of-the-Day—Mary-Jo Lord, editor of our online literary publication MAGNETS AND LADDERS–I learned about a relatively new form of poetry called the “Fibonacci,” which like the mathematical sequence for which the poetic form was named contains poetic lines with syllable counts as follows:
Line 1: one syllable
Line 2: one syllable
Line 3: two syllables
Line 4: three syllables
Line 5: five syllables
Line 6: eight syllables
In the Fibonacci sequence, the third number and each number thereafter is the sum of the two prior numbers in the sequence.
Drifting Farther
Fibonacci poem for the sixth day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Come
here,
Driftwood,
take me too–
away from Eclipse
where sighted eyes toast the darkness.
For additional information about the writers’ group Behind Our Eyes, please visit:
https://www.magnetsandladders.org
Hoping you are enjoying a stellar week and National Poetry Month,
Alice and the PAWet Laureate Willow
April 11, 2024, Thursday
NOTE: On this third evening of National Poetry Month, I am waving my poetry pom-poms, tossing pink confetti, and sharing with you an alphabet poem including lines beginning only with the first thirteen letters of the alphabet. Thus, the poem is not an abecedarian which contains twenty-six lines—one for each letter of the alphabet. Since this week’s poem contains only thirteen lines, you will find the coined word “Half-abet” in the title.
As during previous months of April, I will try to post on the e-mail list of my writers’ group Behind Our Eyes, at least one new and original poem on each of the thirty days of National Poetry Month (NPM).
At last evening’s monthly Readers’ Workshop of Behind Our Eyes, I read the following poem.
Throughout the months leading to NPM and especially in April, I like to read books of and/or about poetry. From a small chapbook of poetry to a collection of the entire works of a poet, from a biography of a poet to a novel which contains some poems—try reading some poetry this month. Online, you may find a variety of poems read by a myriad of poets. Of course, you may introduce poetry to a child through some absolutely delightful rhyming books for children of various ages. Keep in touch with poetry this month!
An April Half-abet Poem
poem for the first day of National Poetry Month by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
April, April—mystical muse of this poetic season—
bestow on all my poet-friends
crystals of creativity,
dedication to the craft and artistry of poetry,
enough eloquent words for drafting elastic lines of poems,
fresh ideas to wax poetic for one full month of verse,
gauntlets to protect the writing hands,
havens or other peaceful places for writing without interruption,
inspiring content that will touch the souls and sod of readers,
joy while being on the Cloud 9 of Creation,
kindness in accepting both critiques and compliments,
loyalty in more fully understanding fellow poets and their poems,
magnolia blossoms to crown our Poets-of-the-Day until the month of May.
NPM WRITING CHALLENGE: Try writing a poem during the coming week. Perhaps, you will want to write a “half-abet” poem or the twenty-six line abecedarian. Whatever you write, I do hope that the experience makes you smile.
Best wishes for a Happy National Poetry Month!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow—the PAWet Laureate of NPM
April 3, 2024, Wednesday
What a Season! Following the Bunny Trail—from March Madness to Easter and National Poetry Month
By Alice Jane-Marie Massa
On your springtime WORDWALK tour, our first stop will be March Madness. Speaking of those non-Easter baskets, I will admit that my local station’s broadcasting some of those big games during the half hour royally reserved for JEOPARDY Is “March Maddening” to me—especially during the JEOPARDY INVITATIONAL TOURNAMENT JIT). The purposely unidentified local television station is perfectly fine with moving JEOPARDY to the 1:37 a.m. time slot of the following morning. Whose brain is ready for JEOPARDY at that time of the morning? Well, ultimate fans—like I. Of course, on March 21, the March Madness broadcast lasted longer so that JEOPARDY did not actually begin until 2:07 a.m. Thankfully, the following morning, the broadcast of the best game show ever was delayed only about ten minutes, beginning around 1:48 in the wee hours when good JEOPARDY brains should be at rest. Naturally, I, the self-proclaimed “Saint of Complaints,” did call the television station to log my annual complaint about the treatment of JEOPARDY fans; however, I heard the same type of response as in previous years. As a Hoosier and as a graduate of Larry Bird’s alma mater, I should explain that I am in favor of basketball and March Madness—just not during my JEOPARDY time slot.
Very fortunately, tonight, I was able to listen to my favorite television program—thanks to a phone call with my sister who lives in Colorado where the JEOPARDY was, indeed, shown at its normal time slot on another local network. Listening to JEOPARDY over the phone at a reasonable time is much better than the alternative.
Yes, I know you are ready to move on down the Bunny Trail of WORDWALK. At our next stop, you may notice the aroma of vinegar. A vinegar memory! The clean, clear, distinctive fragrance of vinegar easily comes to mind and nose. Whenever I am using vinegar to clean a floor, the smell of the vinegar reminds my senses of dying Easter eggs. As a child, I loved this magical, creative, artistic endeavor of the Easter season. Although the grocery store of my uncle and maternal grandmother did not stock too many items of the holiday fare, on the shelf behind the adding machine and near the enamel pan filled with farm-fresh eggs were the boxes of Easter egg dye. Inside the box, about five inches by five inches by five-eighths inch, were the tablets that made the magic soon after one of the tablets was placed in the bottom of a small bowl or cup and then covered with vinegar and water. Although I dyed Easter eggs in the 1950s into the 1960s, PAAS dye kits for Easter eggs were first sold in New Jersey in 1880 for five cents. Although I have always preferred pastel colors, the eggs dyed the outstanding orchid color were my favorite. My sister and I did not have plastic eggs during our childhood, we dyed and hid actual boiled eggs–until one of our parents deemed the eggs too smelly to hide any longer. I most recall hiding the eggs inside, so I imagine that many Easters of my youth were either rainy or cool for an Indiana spring.
My mother must have been a forerunner of the recycling movement because in the 1950s, she would place Easter baskets in the very high closet above the linen closet in our bathroom; then, when the next Easter rolled around, she took some of the used baskets from the closet and even recycled some of the pink or green cellophane grass, but did add fresh Easter candy and the newly dyed Easter eggs. I will not admit how many years passed before I realized my mother’s recycling efforts. I guess she taught the Easter Bunny a thing or two about recycling.
On the next stop on the Bunny Trail, you will find an Easter memory from my teaching days. During my first year of teaching, one of my students gave me for the Easter of 1973 a beautifully feathered duck whose feathers bountifully form a nest in which was a large candy Easter egg. The duck’s head is made of styrofoam with a pipe cleaner bill and a flattened flower atop her cute head. Amazingly, this Easter duck is the same orchid color that I so liked for coloring Easter eggs. Each Easter, I still set this feathered duck on one of my tables as part of a little Easter decor and remember those first two semesters of students. Today, that student (who worked after school at a grocery store because he was one of twelve children in his family) would be about sixty-five years old, and I imagine he would never guess that I still have the purple duck.
Keeping on the Bunny Trail, you will find that our next stop is my family’s kitchen window on whose sill rested—from my earliest memories until my college years—a vase shaped realistically like a cream-colored rabbit. Inside the small vase was a rubber plant that, despite sometimes being very dry, managed to endure throughout much of my younger life. Thus, throughout the year, we had with us a touch of Easter—spotlighted by the sun coming through the east window of our kitchen in Indiana.
Heading to Rockville–the county seat of the picturesque Parke County, Indiana–we find on the Bunny Trail of memories a local restaurant located on the town square. My sister, my first Leader Dog Keller, and I met Hoosier friends for a nice lunch and visit. My typically very well-behaved guide dog did not want to lie on the floor beside my chair at the table: she wanted to sit up at attention. Finally, someone explained to me that the wall paper was filled with pictures of bunnies and rabbits—which most unexpectedly grabbed the attention of my Golden Retriever. Eventually, I convinced her that she needed not be “on point” and could be at rest—despite the panoramic view of endless bunnies.
Rounding the block back home in Milwaukee, Willow and I walk beside an area that is well known for quite the hopping trail of many city bunnies. As we walk by the bunnies, my wonderful Willow rarely even slightly turns her head to take in a glance at the bunnies and rabbits. “Good dog, Willow!” One of the highlights of this Easter season was having Willow’s photo taken with the Easter Bunny at Brookfield Square. Willow posed perfectly with her new best friend—the Easter Bunny. “What a good dog!”
Back home, I continue to prepare for National Poetry Month—our stop on the Bunny Trail for the entire month of April. Please re-join us on WORDWALK in April for a special celebration of National Poetry Month.
Best wishes for a sunny and happy Easter filled with memories and/or chocolate!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
March 28, 2024, Thursday
What Spring Brings
For this week’s blog post, I could write about the first day of spring, World Poetry Day, or the thirty-fourth anniversary of my receiving my first Leader Dog—Keller, my Golden Retriever, on March 21, 1990. Of course, I could also write about the snowstorm which may bring Milwaukee eight inches of spring snow on Friday. Although my Keller stories are most precious to me, the hour is late; and I may be shoveling the springtime snowflakes tomorrow. So, I will quickly share with you two short poems—one acrostic poem of nine lines and one of only five.
What Spring Brings
acrostic poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
NOTE: You will know what spring brings Milwaukee if you read the stem of the acrostic—the initial letter of each poetic line.
Springtime in Milwaukee brings
Notes from Nature’s returning songbirds,
Overtures of warmer weather,
Wind that is better for flying kites than walking people,
Flowers that dare to play peek-a-boo with the season,
Leader Dog School memories that I cherish,
Anniversary celebration of 34 years with my four guide dogs,
Keller recollections of my first Leader Dog treasure,
Easter baskets filled with sweet treats and sweeter remembrances,
Snow that thankfully does not last too long.
Acrostic VERSE for World Poetry Day, 2024
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
NOTE: The word “Verse” forms the stem of the following acrostic poem: that is, the first letter of each poetic line spells “verse.”
Velvet, vivacious, or vindictive words
Enter into rhyme or not,
Realistically or unrealistically curve into content
Sprinkled with similes and metaphors which mingle, mingle
Eagerly into eloquent lines knighted “Poetry.”
Best wishes for a Happy Spring!
The JEOPARDY fans—Alice and Leader Dog Willow
March 21, 2024, Thursday
Celebrating My Tenth Anniversary of Writing Pi Poems!
How to Create a Pi Poem
for Pi Day, March 14
(with One New Sample Pi Poem)
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Are you ready for a piece of your favorite pie on Pi Day, or would you rather celebrate this March 14 (3/14) Pi Day by writing a pi poem? If you choose the latter or a combination of both, please read on for guidelines for writing a pi poem, as well as a sample of a new pi poem (also called a “piem”).
This year is my tenth anniversary of posting pi poems on my Wordwalk blog to highlight Pi Day. These posts for Pi Day have been among my most visited WORDWALK posts–evidently due to students, teachers, and/or budding writers finding my directions for creating a piem. If you enjoy word games–playing with words–you should give this poetic form a try.
My math teachers and professors would be quite surprised to know that I am still working with the mathematical pi (the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter). Of course, I am using pi for crafting a pi poem; and soon, you will also be using the mathematical pi to write your own pi poem.
On April 25, 2014, on a WUWM-FM radio broadcast of the program Lake Effect, I heard a poet mention this format for writing a poem. I was inspired and wanted to take on the challenge of crafting a pi poem. Simply, for each line one wishes to write, the poet incorporates the number of syllables according to each numeral of pi. Thus, the first line of a piem contains three syllables while the second poetic line has only one syllable; the third line is a count of four syllables, and the fourth line includes one syllable. (While I prefer to count syllables, some poets count words per poetic line to create a piem.) If you choose to take on such a poetic challenge, you may make the pi poem as short or as long as you like. Besides centering your title and byline, you may prefer to center all the poetic lines for a visual appeal on the printed or brailled page to give greater emphasis to the poetic form.
For a pi poem, only the number of syllables per line is important; the rhyming pattern or lack of a rhyme scheme is the writer’s choice. Dividing the piem into stanzas is also the decision of the poet (or “piemist”).
With 34 lines, the following new pi poem has syllables for each line based upon this portion of the mathematical pi: 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028.
To further assist you with the goal of creating your own pi poem, after the first presentation of my sample pi poem, the piem will be repeated with a numeral accompanying each line: the numeral at the onset of each line indicates the number of syllables in that poetic line. Therefore, the second presentation of my pi poem lets you know how I did follow the numerals of the mathematical pi to create my piem. The third part of this “how-to” article includes an important guideline which you can copy and paste into your new document. By using the syllabic guideline at the end of this article, you will find writing a pi poem very easy.
* * *
NOTE: When my Leader Dog Willow and I were on a long walk yesterday morning, I heard the first mourning dove of this year. This experience on the east side of Milwaukee brought forth the following pi poem.
The First Mourning Dove of the Season
pi poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Mourning dove
coos
soft memories
of
my Hoosier homeland,
my father, and my returning calls
(bird songs)
to pairs of mourning doves
on the edge of woods
And farm lands.
Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo.
Dove responds: “Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo”–
a song for the soundtrack of my life
as the turtle dove beckons:
“Listen, calmly listen. I am here–
quite near you,
with you,
still for you.
Midst the city traffic, I come
on the gray days,
on the questioning days
when you
need my reassurance
or my presence
of Hoosier
happiness
I bring to you on springtime notes.
You hear me:
you know
why I fly these many miles.
you translate the documentary:
Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo.
I fly,
but return for Hoosier moments.
* * * *
PART 2: Below you will find the same piem repeated with only the addition of a number in brackets at the onset of each poetic line. The numeral within the brackets indicates the number of syllables which the line contains. If you read only the numerals directly down the left side of the page (or screen), you will read the numbers of mathematical pi. The thirty-second numeral is zero. When you are crafting a pi poem and arrive at the thirty-second poetic line, you have the following choices to deal with the zero:
A. Skip the zero, and proceed to the next numeral which is 2.
b. Create the ending of your pi poem with line thirty-one or earlier.
c. Create a stanza break at the point of the occurrence of the zero.
d. Create a poetic line of ten syllables.
In my sample piem, I chose to skip the “0” and went on to the numeral “2” of pi to craft a two-syllable line for my piem.
* * * * *
The First Mourning Dove of the Season
pi poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
[3] Mourning dove
[1] coos
[4] soft memories
[1] of
[5] my Hoosier homeland,
[9] my father, and my returning calls
[2](bird songs)
[6] to pairs of mourning doves
[5] on the edge of woods
[3] And farm lands.
[5] Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo.
[8] Dove responds: “Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo”–
[9] a song for the soundtrack of my life
[7] as the turtle dove beckons:
[9] “Listen, calmly listen. I am here–
[3] quite near you,
[2] with you,
[3] still for you.
[8] Midst the city traffic, I come
[4] on the gray days,
[6] on the questioning days
[2] when you
[6] need my reassurance
[4] or my presence
[3] of Hoosier
[3] happiness
[8] I bring to you on springtime notes.
[3] You hear me:
[2] you know
[7] why I fly these many miles.
[9] You translate the documentary:
[5] Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo.
[2] I fly,
[8] but return for Hoosier moments.
** ** **
PART 3: Guidelines for a 19-line (or less) Pi Poem
DIRECTIONS: Before you begin writing your pi poem, copy and paste into your new document the following syllabic guideline pattern for a piem of nineteen lines or less. (If you wish to create a longer pi poem, just refer to the mathematical pi.) Craft the desired number of poetic lines of a pi poem by writing a poetic line on each of the following lines, each of which begins with a number in brackets to indicate the number of syllables you should write for that particular poetic line. After you have written your desired number of lines according to the syllabic pattern, delete the numerals and brackets at the onset of each poetic line. After selecting all of your document, use the “center” feature so that each line will be centered to appear better on the page or screen as a pi poem. Remember to title your pi poem; then, polish and proofread your piem!
[3]
[1]
[4]
[1]
[5]
[9]
[2]
[6]
[5]
[3]
[5]
[8]
[9]
[7]
[9]
[3]
[2]
[3]
[8]
NOTE: If you have any questions about writing a pi poem, please e-mail me at:
Enjoy creating a pi poem! Happy Pi Day!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
March 14, 2024, Thursday
NOTE: Although the news is our roller-coaster weather, I still have one more poem from the poetry workshop which I attended. Nevertheless, before the poem, I will share with you the weather report. After a record high temperature of 74 degrees yesterday, February 27—not just a record high for the day, but for the entire month of February—the temperature today, as I write this blog post on February 28, 2024—is 18 degrees with a wind chill of zero! Even though a little dry snow and some ice on metal handrails and rocks came in the wee hours of this morning, we are enjoying abundant sunshine with these quick-chilled temperatures.
Now, back to poetry! The poem is a memoir poem, written from the perspective of the table that was in my parents’ home in Blanford, Indiana, and has now been in my home for a little more than two decades. At the February poetry workshop of the writers’ group Behind Our Eyes, the facilitator Cindy Bousquet Harris, editor of the online publication SPIRIT FIRE REVIEW, gave us many prompts throughout the four sessions. I chose the prompt “If tables could talk” for writing the following poem. I think this table could share many more stories.
The Hoosier Table’s Tale
poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
I am a transplant
from that sunny, window-filled room
of the house on that Hoosier hill,
beside the gob pile of Blanford.
After all my favorite people left,
I was unceremoniously moved out of my beloved abode,
hoisted onto a Mayflower van,
squeezed into a very dark place
for a very long ride.
I could not see the road,
other vehicles, scenery.
In this crowded confinement,
I felt so alone, so frightened
by my lack of knowledge.
Interminable hours later,
the doors opened.
Light again! Sunshine and cries of seagulls greeted me!
After substantial movement around me,
two strong men grabbed me and lifted me
off the Mayflower.
Then, they carried me into ,
what they called, a “townhouse.”
As I was placed under a meager chandelier,
the men removed a blanket that had mostly covered me.
Oh, the joy! I saw my Alice—
the girl who had grown up at my table-self.
Where was I?
Oh, no matter, I once again was with
at least one person of my family!
Despite a little covering of dust on my face,
I was beaming with delight.
She gently touched me. I sighed.
Then, my maple chairs were placed around me.
I wondered about the other family members,
but at least Alice and her guide dog were here.
I was content again.
I was as happy as any Hoosier table could be.
Later, Alice whispered to me
that I have a new home in Milwaukee;
and she polished me with that soothing Orange Glow.
I was rejuvenated. Could life get any better?
The next day, after I had soaked in all of the Orange Glow,
I guessed what was coming.
Oh, yes, the red-and-white checked tablecloth—
one that had graced a table at her Aunt Zita’s Italian restaurant—
embraced me.
As Alice arranges the flowers in the vase,
We remember
the blue-and-white cloth that covered the large cutting board ,
placed in the center of my table-self.
We recall in vivid memory
Alice’s father sprinkling a little of the dry cornmeal onto the cloth.
Then, with the hot, heavy pan in hand,
he dumped the perfect polenta onto the cloth.
Amazingly, the polenta oozed over the cloth,
but only to near the edge.
With all the family around my table-self,
the Sunday dinner of polenta and all the Italian trimmings
were served midst all the chatter and love.
How I cherish those Hoosier days!
Now, I wonder who all will come to sit at my table-self
In this new place called Milwaukee.
–May your table be topped with good food and frequently surrounded with family and friends!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
February 28, 2024, Wednesday
NOTE: Once again, I am sharing with you a new poem which I wrote for the poetry workshop which I am enjoying on each Saturday of February. The following new poem is in response to the prompt “If the rain knew my secrets.” Poet Cindy Bousquet Harris, editor of the online publication SPIRIT FIRE REVIEW, is facilitating the workshop for some of our members of the writers’ group Behind Our Eyes, Inc.
Rainfalls of Secrets
poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
A wise woman told me,
“The rain knows your secrets.”
If this were true,
I would never live in New Orleans nor Baton Rouge
where the average rainfall is over sixty inches each year.
There would be a saturation of secrets
to the depth that no one’s secrets would be special.
If the rain knew my secrets,
I would travel to that little stop-on-the-road,
somewhere off Route 66 in New Mexico
where we spent part of one afternoon
to observe the making of geometric-patterned rugs
on two looms, large enough
to fill one sizeable room on the side of the gift shop.
After we watched the crafters and shopped for a while,
the locals became very happily excited.
“It’s raining! It’s raining!”
they announced to one another and to us.
Returning outside,
away from the adobe building to the desert,
we witnessed only a few countable drops of rain—
barely a sprinkle to us,
but a rejuvenating rainfall to the locals.
They treasured those few raindrops,
appreciated them as a true gift from Mother Nature.
Thus, if the rain knows my secrets,
let my secrets come in the raindrops
over the desert in New Mexico
where each will be held as precious.
Thanks for dropping by WORDWALK!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
February 21, 2024, Wednesday
NOTE: On each Saturday of February, seven other participants and I are enjoying a poetry workshop. One of the prompts we were given after the first of four sessions was “If the sidewalk had ears.” Thus, you will read below my poem in response to this prompt. I created the poem with the point of view being the sidewalk. In the poem’s title, you will find the number “53202” which is the zip code for my area.
POV: Sidewalk 53202 (AKA Sidewalk of Milwaukee’s East Town)
poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
I hear her coming,
coming down the stairs of her townhouse.
Oh, there she is with her guide dog.
How I love to feel those nails of her Labrador:
they tickle my cemented face and make me smile.
That person named Alice
is the one who sees with her feet:
she has memorized my entire face.
If only other pedestrians paid as much attention to me,
they would not be tripping on me
or falling all over me.
Ouch! The words I hear at times!
Back to a sweeter topic–that guide dog’s name is Willow;
and when she wears those cute little blue boots,
I can hardly hold my laughter.
A-ah, but that intelligent Willow
stops at each of my cracks
to alert her handler.
Yes, I am admitting I do have cracks,
chips (but I need no dentist),
uplifts—but I do not complain to my buddies the Oaks
that try to be my good neighbors
(despite their always pushing me).
Did you hear that?
Alice, the handler, said,
“Willow, find the bumpies.”
I was so perturbed when those workers from DPW
stuck all those pimpled metal plates
upon my beautiful face.
However, now I have learned that these tactile markings
on my beautiful face
are amazing markers
for Willow to let Alice know that they are at a curb—
well, what used to be a curb.
Now, I just gently roll right into the street
to assist people who use wheelchairs, walkers, and other such items.
Oh, no, I hear pedestrians talking about predictions of
a snow or ice storm!
Oh, no, here come those little machines
spreading that terrible salt
too thickly—all over my beautiful face!
Where is my friend Alice
when I need her?
She is the self-proclaimed “Saint of Complaints”
and detests this salt as much as I.
Once again, my cracks will widen;
chips will expand to potholes!
Oh, the blemishes this salt causes!
Should I try to explain to you how abrasive the salt is on my face?
Please tell the DPW workers:
undoubtedly, by the fall of next year,
I will need a facelift!
Concretely yours,
Sidewalk 53202
- Thanks for strolling down this WORDWALK sidewalk!
- Alice and Leader Dog Willow
- February 15, 2024, Thursday
NOTE: Two hundred years ago, fifteen-year-old Louis Braille put the finishing touches on his tactile system of reading and writing which we call “braille” in his honor. On February 15, 1819, Louis Braille and his father (Simon-Rene Braille) took the four-hour stagecoach ride to Paris so that Louis, at age ten, could be enrolled in the school for blind children. The following poem is from the perspective of the mother of Louis Braille—Monique Baron Braille, who was 49 years of age when Louis left his home village of Coupvray to attend the school in Paris, France.
After pondering this poem for decades, I finally wrote it on January 29 and have been revising it over the past ten days. Last evening, using a French accent, I presented the performance poem to the monthly Readers’ Workshop of the writers’ group Behind Our Eyes. Very thankful for their positive reaction to this poem, I hope that you also will be pleased to read my poem here on WORDWALK.
A Love Letter from Louis Braille’s Mother
a historical-fiction poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
Waving goodbye, waving goodbye—
Watching, watching the stagecoach until I could see it no more.
On the fifteenth day of February of 1819,
I—Monique Baron Braille, age 49—
watched my dear son Louis and his papa
leave our little village of Coupvray.
As my frail, but brilliant youngest child set off for the school in Paris at the age of ten,
I waved and waved my hand—
a hand he could not see,
a hand he did not ever remember seeing.
As he could not see the tears falling from my eyes,
he could not see how my heart was breaking—
breaking, breaking with each turn of the wheels of the stagecoach.
Suddenly, I realized I was trembling, trembling—
not from the cold, but from the loss of my precious son.
Then, upon my shoulder, I felt
the weary, but wise hand of the village school teacher Monsieur Antoine Becheret.
He said:
“You and Simon-Rene have made the best decision for Louis.
Madame Braille, I know You are doing what is right.”
“Oh, Monsieur Becheret, can it be right
for a mother to give up her young son
who is blind,
to send him forty kilometers away—
so far away?”
“You are giving him the opportunity to learn,
to live the best he can be.
You must believe
our Louis has more than the destination of the school at Paris.
God has a greater plan for your son.
Let your faith mend your heart, and believe in Louis’ gifts.”
Waving, waving my hand—I take heart
and believe in my son.
Throughout the next long, hard minutes, hours,
days, months, years—
the words of Monsieur Becheret echoed and echoed in my head:
“With those little hands you have held and loved for ten years,
Louis Braille will learn to read.”
- * *
Happy February!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow
February 7, 2024, Wednesday
alice13wordwalk 