Posts by Fleda

My Wobbly Bicycle, 136

Posted by on Apr 14, 2017 in Featured | 11 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 136

Jerry and I have been sick for a week. Not the flu—we were tested for that—but some bug that seems to be slowly responding to antibiotics. I haven’t felt this bad since, dare I say it, chemo. Wracked with discomfort: not nausea, but fever, aching and world-class coughing. I cancelled a poetry reading and a book club event. I cancelled everything. My father—who as you know lives just across our huge lawn—calls every night to check on me and let me know what he’s going to need as soon as I’m better (!)   The cough medicine with codine leaves me in a lovely haze, but of course...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 135

Posted by on Mar 15, 2017 in Featured | 3 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 135

Launching The Woods Are On Fire: New & Selected Poems tomorrow!  Today I offer you the tiniest poem in the book, from No Need of Sympathy (BOA 2013). I want to thank BOA for giving permission for me to use 20 poems from a collection that hadn’t been out all that long. That can cut into their sales, so I urge you to have a look at that book, also. This poem was one of a series of short poems I wrote in response to sculptures by the artist Bill Allen.  The poems and pieces were part of an exhibit at the Dennos Museum in Traverse City.  I wanted short poems so a person could stand there...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 134

Posted by on Mar 8, 2017 in Featured | 5 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 134

I went to Fayetteville, Arkansas, for my fortieth high school reunion thinking surely, after all these years, a lot of poems would come to me. But I only got a few. You never know. They’re all in Reunion. I could give you one of those here, but I picked a different one from that book because I thought it might give momentary comfort in these frightening times.   What I’m looking for in a poem has shifted these days. Every poem is political—I could talk about that at length!—but some carry with them an awareness of particular ways of seeing that help us, or at least help us...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 133

Posted by on Mar 1, 2017 in Archive | 12 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 133

How long Elvis has stayed alive! After his death, he showed up over and over. He’s still hanging around. There’s a new Graceland Hotel, bigger than the mansion itself. The mansion isn’t all that big, actually. I took the tour. I was on a research trip for The Women Who Loved Elvis All Their Lives, my fifth book of poems. This poem is in the voice of the first person to spot The King after his death. It was in Kalamazoo, Michigan, by the way. The image I have in my mind in this poem is the old Elvis, this one:           Mrs. Louise Welling Spots Elvis at...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 132

Posted by on Feb 22, 2017 in Archive | 2 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 132

Have you ever shared a standard-size mattress? They used to be, well, standard. In this poem, we’d just moved from our almost-cottage-sized house on the Elk River in Maryland back across the state line into Delaware. Bigger house, bigger bed. Sinfully big.   Buying The King-Sized Bed   I am already thinking of rolling around that expanse, tossing a leg without entangling. The way I am, though, I see all the possibilities for loss. I see us pillowed and billowed, supported in exactly the right hollows by ergonomically designed, pocketed coils, while beneath it all, the pea under a...

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