Frozen in concrete
Is life
And art
Forever confined
To a box
In northern Wisconsin.
Come
Witness
Frogs frozen
And encased elephant thrills,
Dogs’ paws paused
And banners waving still.
All these wonders,
Never to leave.
But you must come here
And risk
Being frozen here, too.
Born to a mom
(But barely a mom)
Raised by her mom
Protected from
The failures of blood.
Soon lost
In chemicals
Seminal
To leaving
But quickly gated
In detention for youth
Where a kid from Racine found
(And gripped tightly)
A semi-orange sphere
That could pull him from here
To Maine or Connecticut,
All over the league,
Finally at rest in South Beach,
Far from his state but
Not far from Racine.
The wheels’ weight rolling atop
The surface
Pushes through the grass
Into the soil
Exposing riches underneath.
Feet—
Trampling on future plants, trees,
Floors, and homes—
Pay no mind to the damage done to treasure.
This rich soil brought them here
And will keep them here forever.
The layers
Building up this body
Of land
Are made of
Sandstone
And limestone,
Orthoquartzitic
And exquisite,
Giving rise
To the three-dimensional
Parties raging
On the surface
That do more than live and die.
They grow and thrive,
Play baseball and drink beer.
For there are layers to this land.
The army of beards and flannel
March in step toward the tree line
To combat the wooden menace,
Leaving ladies and lookers behind.
The loggers line the limited plain
Between themselves and the trunks
Where tooth by tooth they’ll top the trees
To expose the sky far up above.
As limbs and branches crash to Earth
The ceiling starts to expand.
The sun that once was blotted out
Now bathes this unknown land.
“A circus for sure!”
That’s what the yankees say
As they trample our homes
With frolic and play,
Like elephants trumpeting
All around the ring,
But they have no Ringlings
On which to place blame.
We may be a circus
But that comes from our roots.
We‘re lions and tigers
(But not Bears,
That’s just rude).
We may be hoopers, magicians,
Musicians, and clowns,
But our big top still stands
At the center of town.
The cold weather embraces you,
And you embrace the cold.
The shivers shake and often quake,
And the chattering teeth grow old.
The wind, it sings,
Can even howl,
And at worse it slaps your face
To make you wonder why you left
The sun for this cold place.
But then you see
Just up ahead
A fire roaring loud,
Circled by friends huddled together,
Keeping warm for they are proud
To withstand the weather others can’t
And brag their skin is thicker, too
For they have not quit
On Winter Incarnate,
And it will not quit on you.
The Prince of Shawano
Is burnt by the sun in the fields
But more by the sun on the lakes.
He’s surrounded by friends that he buys
And those that he makes.
He bathes in Sun Drop
That he drinks by the bottle.
He sits on his throne
As the Crown Prince of Shawano.
Waving to Lake Michigan,
The dunes,
Piling years of sand
And earth
And history,
Mark the port of entry
For the Irish and German
Wanderers
Stepping into a place
They’ll give to their kids
And their kids’ kids
And their heirs who share
The same love for pilsner
So strong that
They’ll breed 3 sheep
Just to tap the keg.
Those dunes split just enough
To give them enough passage
To settle this lakefront land
Not far from their boats.
The flowing
Bubbly
River
Weaves from horizon
To horizon
All the while
Bubbling
In the face
Of its older brother
To the West.
This Is Just to Say 