Linda M. Fischer
While my three children were young, I wrote just enough poetry to give me an inkling that I might have an aptitude for it, but I wasn’t brave enough to throw my earning potential aside until my family was grown and I’d worked for a number of years. As time went on, I came to regret not having devoted myself to writing much earlier in life. The “now or never” decision came about 20 years ago—my late-in-life career—and the process of creating a poem still gives me enormous satisfaction. I’m gratified that my poetry is widely published in the small press and equally gratified by becoming part of a larger community of writers. For my publishing credits:
(Garrick at 5)
At the moment of creation, we reach for a blank sheet
of paper as vast as the known universe. What
you can draw with ease—save robots, you tell me—
is the solar system. Quick to point out the disposition
of the four inner planets, you recite the mantra
earth is the only planet that can support life
and begin with the sun (in yellow), then make
ever-widening arcs to represent the orbits
before arriving at the asteroid belt, which, for the less
well-informed, separates the inner planets
from the five outer planets and must here be included.
As we put our heads together above the curve of the kitchen
table, bathed in the sun’s generative light,
we advance from Jupiter and its rings to tiny Pluto,
farthest and smallest of all the planets, and finish
by labeling everything—unless, of course, we decide
to throw in the Andromeda Galaxy for good measure.
What he has yet to fully grasp is that he
is the center of my universe and I the planet
revolving around one fixed point: his golden
head—the brightest star in all the firmament.
-first published in my chapbook Raccoon Afternoons
we ranged the far woods
for jack-in-the-pulpit, toad
lilies, a robin’s egg.
Sneaked up on bullfrogs,
trapped grasshoppers in lidded
jars, and caterpillars. Chased
fireflies in the dark, resisting
the call to pajamas and bed.
Awoke early to spy on
birds’ nests or neighbors.
Scattered dandelion seeds
for wishes, honked like geese
on stout blades of grass.
Lolled below clouds, reading
their shapes like tea leaves—
the future as remote as a star.
-first published in Bellowing Ark
©2016 Linda M. Fischer
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