Through the thick of the thistles
Y’all see through
To the U.P.
But take a minute,
Take a breath,
And see Forest County.
It’s more than trees. It’s more than bark.
It’s more than leaves.
Where do I start?
It’s my home: these twigs and branches.
Leave the woods,
And you’ll find ranches.
It’s classic cars
And Fall cash raffles,
Bowling alleys,
And lumber castles.
Anything you’d want or need,
You’d find in Forest
If not for the trees.
It’s only by the Grant
That the Mississippi
Flows strong.
The walleye leave
Only to yearn
For the Grant River song.
The cranes nest
And feed the Grant
And the Grant feeds forth
Toward the Big River.
The canoes not knowing
Where the water was born.
The Havarti and Brick,
Gouda and Cheddar,
Limburger, Swiss,
Go better together
With a mouthful of beer
From the neck of brew fairest.
So, tie me to the rear of a milk truck
Heading North to New Glarus.
The misnomer became apparent
When my eyes lifted from the beach.
They call it Green Lake,
But it sparkles blue to me.
And when the sun becomes bashful
And clouds take reign of sky
I can look into the rivers
And see trout swimming by.
The people here know it
And I’ve come to learn it, too:
Besides the pines and shrubby things,
Green Lake ain’t green, it’s blue.
Oh,
The sweetcorn across the border,
Through Grant,
tempts me
so.
Spotting Hawkeyes
and Cyclones.
I can see the tall pins in the distance
Marking steeples in Dubuque,
And west banks of the River
Glisten.
Beauty without refute.
But my home holds me here
In the emerald hills
Of the driftless southwestern
Nook of Wisconsin.
The compass points due north
To heaven:
Iron County.
The path is laced
With villas and pricey counties
But beyond you will find the
Bad, winding river
That may distract,
But don’t lose pace
For the magnet in your hand
Will guide you northward
Toward the gates.
And you’ll find it:
Heaven,
North of here.
This Jackson
Is not the Jackson you know.
Not the driver
Of generational sorrow,
But the driver of livings
For the people
Who now spit in the face
Of the name.
Often forgotten—
Passed over by planes and trains—
Lies the gateway to the West.
Through pastures and plains
Cars take for granted
The outposts placed here
By mothers before them,
Often steering clear
Of the road signs and door signs
Calling them to stay
In the communities built
Along the once unforgiving way.
But now it seems that Jefferson
Did little for the State
Besides blazing trails and laying rails
To get from place to place.
Here in Alaska,
We have gold!
And all the fish
You’ve been told
Of in this last frontier.
Do let me be bold:
The best Juneau
Is named after Joe.
Maybe!
But here in Dodge County,
We have it all!
Concerts and beer
And farms that sprawl
Across the county
So let me recall:
The best Juneau
Is named after Paul.
I see,
But here along the Wisconsin River
We have openness:
Pastures to prance through
And general hopefulness
So, gentlemen,
I tell you with solemness:
The BEST Juneau
Is named after Solomon.
Ripping through the riotous
Protests and pleas
For unalienable rights
And dignity
Is a speck of lead
Just a tiny speck
Instigating
By pulling flesh
From bone and bone
And meat from meat.
From separate homes,
But here they meet
Demanding change
As organs
Of the city beat
Inflaming the site of trauma:
The city streets.
This Is Just to Say 