 100,000 Poets for Change Sheboygan. It's such a beautiful day. We couldn't have asked for a more lovely day weather-wise. I want to thank Jeannie Gartman from Meade Public Library and the library in general for helping us today and putting this event on. It's a wonderful library. If you've never been inside afterwards, please go check it out. You know, this weekend, so this is the 11th annual 100,000 Poets for Change Sheboygan. And what does that mean? Well, 100,000 Poets for Change is a movement that was started in 2011 by two poets in Northern California, Michael Rothenberg and Terry Carrion. And they had this idea, what if we could get people all over the world sharing poetry on the same day, you know, can't exactly be at the same time because if you're on the other side of the world, it's probably nighttime right now. I reached out to Michael last night and I said, can you tell me some other cities or countries around the world where there are events happening? And I wanted you to hear this list because you can know that we're part of something much bigger than just us. So he wrote me back in just random order of what he could remember, India, Macedonia, Mexico, Albania, Italy, England, Wales, Vietnam, Panama, Nigeria, Colombia, Guatemala, Dominican Republic, Spain, Morocco and Egypt. And I'm sure the list goes on, but that is some, so that we're part of something much, much bigger. And at all the events, you know, we want to bring forth words and ideas about peace and justice and caring for Mother Earth and so, and caring for each other. So that's what we're here for today. You know, it's so important what we all do and that, and then I'm so glad that everyone's taking the time today to share some words. So thank you all for being here. And we're going to start with my dear friend, John Dahl, who's a local singer-songwriter to get us in the spirit of some, with some beautiful thoughts and beautiful music. So please welcome John Dahl. I think they'd be out at Whistling Straits. We've gone beyond the tipping point, we can't go back. We're blind now, we must see. We've gone beyond the tipping point into the black. We've done now, we must be. We've tried to make ourselves equal. We've tried to make ourselves free. The only other thing we never tried to do is to love each other unconditionally. We've gone beyond the tipping point. Where do we go from here? We've gone beyond the tipping point, lost in space. When do we go from here? We've gone beyond the running of this human race. Our course is now quite clear. We've tried to make ourselves separate. Just trying to make ourselves free. The only other thing we never tried to do is to love each other unconditionally. We've gone beyond the tipping point. The other thing we never tried to do is to love each other here. Love each other now unconditionally. We've gone beyond the tipping point. Thank you. Now I'm going to try another one with a different guitar. And it follows along with the same kind of theme. This one is called, this one's called Here and Now. When thoughts are crowding in a cloudy mass, like muddy river water in a drinking glass, relax, observe right now right here till the sediment is settled and the crystals clear. Planning and worrying, dreaming, remembering what has been and what may be. Breathing and focusing, feeling and listening. Hear them bird in a distant tree. Children dying in a dusty camp. A mother with a sign on an off-brand. All messiahs and presidents. Managed middle managers and mendicants. Every action leads to another one. Sometimes you see them. Sometimes you don't. Things you have coveted, fought for and won. Thinking they'd bring you joy often won't. Everything is connected. Everything changes right here, right now. Pay close attention. Bubbles rising in a forest stream, unbending. Curling smoke floating on a breeze. Wind, rain and snow blowing through the trees. Holding, releasing minute to minute. Touching a mist in the morning sun. Endings beginning all without limit. Losing and with everything is connected. Everything changes right here, right now. Pay close attention. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. In the spirit of that last song, I want to launch us off into the poetry part of this event with a poem of mine called Together Again. Some of you will remember that I wanted to have a theme for this event, and I said it would be Together Again, which we set that theme back in the spring when it seemed like Being Together Again was just around the corner. And well, here's the poem. Together again, creatures we are. We come with two legs, two hands, one heart, and minds that are infinite if we let them be. With ears that hear and eyes that see, we do things. Grow food, bake bread, feed our families, feed each other. We build buildings, pave roads, embark on journeys, return home. We teach, we learn, we sing poetry, we read to a child. Each one of us comes with a gift, but if we forget to give, the gift lies fallow and the tree withers and dies. So give freely, build with justice, find the ground of compassion, listen to each other. We say we are together again. When were we ever apart? Thank you. So we have about 16 poets here today, I think maybe some of them haven't arrived yet, but most of them are here. And our very first person to launch us off is Sue Blaustein from Milwaukee. Welcome, Sue. Come on up. No, that's fine. OK, it's a lot of responsibility. My place in the alphabet gave me. There's an old tavern that I pass walking in my neighborhood all the time. This poem is called See You on the Other Side. Even last summer, it seemed valance was set to close. Then the rona moved things up. In March, management taped an autographed picture of a young Aaron Rodgers in the window. Number 12, with his dimpled smile, veral stubble, cute. In Magic Marker, in a dialogue balloon on his right, it said, closed. Due to the Mar-a-Lago 19 virus, stay well. And valance says, thanks for the memories. On the left, see you on the other side. Is the other side an after? A future? A time or land or country without the virus? Would our quarterback in a Sharpie, a tavern keeper retiring, conjured a wilderness ahead? Crossings, things foreseen or not? Fairs for silent ferrymen and tolls? Maybe many. Where we sit now? Aaron Rodgers will host Jeopardy for two weeks. Aaron Rodgers isn't sure about his future with Green Bay. SARS COVID, a.k.a. Rona, thanks for the memories. We were all there. Aaron Rodgers played at his all-time best in 2020, even without fans in the stands. Thanks for the memories. And this second poem is called, thank you, rest in peace. For Scythia's come into bloom, then Magnolia's. This is the week it happens. Early evening, radio drive time. I head south on Holton Street. The ad on the back of the bus I'm following is called 411 Pain. That's easy to remember. 411 is kind of like 911. And PAIN, pain, is self-explanatory. The whole bus for this ad is a puke-pink. Puke-pink, 411 Pain. The bus and I cross our avenue where a Magnolia rules the northeast corner. Timing, the blossoms, the bus, the blossoms. Pink, puke-pink, pink. The tree fades in my rear view. I still follow the bus. Puke-pink, pain for my eyes, for my ears and tender heart. Drive time reports of celebrity deaths. An NBA legend's son lost at 33 from asthma. Asthma? Would all the drugs they have? Steroids, non-steroids, and halers? On TV, asthma is vanquished, or at least tamed. Then an actor. He was in his 80s, maybe old enough to go. Notable because, as the DJ explained, he played cousin It on the Addams family. Rest in peace, cousin It. The DJ spoke with respect, yet you could tell for him it was fun to say cousin It so solemnly. Blossoms, a puke-pink bus, 411 Pain for my eyes and for my ears and sore heart. Rest in peace, cousin It. It gentled an April afternoon. Thank you. Thank you, Sue. Thank you for puke-pink and cousin It. Whoop. All right, so our next reader. We are going in alphabetical order today is Ed Block. Ed is up from Milwaukee as well. Come on up, Ed. All right, I have four fairly short poems. You may remember the 2019 story of a man who stowed away in a Kenya Airways Dreamliner. Black Icarus, a poor man drops from the sky, falls into clatham south of London, food and clothes left in the gear well of a flight from Africa. Who persuaded him that he could live and breathe at 40,000 feet for half a day aloft? What myth that promised wealth or freedom drove him to escape? Ignore the facts of flight. You're all familiar with the dollar stores? This poem is from my collection, Shell Dreams, being published this month from Waters Edge Press here in Shavuigan. Dollar Tweed. Energy bars and juicy fruit, cut-rate condiments and flimsy foil, lighters, batteries, body wash, all cheap from China. The job sucks, life from staff and shoppers equally. Only the frenzied fury to bag a bargain animates the customers to seem lifelike and staff to fate the manners of the walking dead. This poem was about Malawi Central Africa, where I served in the Peace Corps. It was inspired by former Wisconsin poet laureate Margaret Rosgill's Wealth of the World, I call mine Wealth of Nations, hunched over their colorful claws in the dusty market of Nkata Bay. Bantu women speak to one another in high and sing-song voices as they smooth neat piles of peanuts, squash, tomatoes, and casabas set out for sale, or offer seeds and flowers with dark brown hands, seamed with lines of fate. They break into sometimes toothless smiles as people stop to inspect their wares and ask the price, and now and then to offer coins. One woman scoops a cup of peanuts into a cone, a rolled-up sheet of the Blantyre Daily Times. The wealth of the destitute engages all who pass. And here's an ecological poem about our own driftless region in southwest Wisconsin. In the driftless, homage to Ben Logan. The watercress stays green all winter in the valley springs. Along the ridges, prehistoric cliffs that around more recent mounds, the birch and alder grow. The railroad ran through here a dozen decades in the past through tunnels, over bridges, carrying grain, and cattle, passengers, and crew. Now the fog hangs heavy over sand mines, machinery dealerships, and fewer farms. The streams still flow and trout still swim, but now the storied past is less than a dream. The hill country was full of voices when horses pulled the plows and women churned butter in the shade of milking sheds. Out here a year is an arbitrary thing, unlike the changes of the moon, the coming of the snow, the coming of the spring. Thank you. Thank you, Ed. Thank you very much. Next up from Cedar Grove is Sylvia Kavanaugh. Welcome, Sylvia. Thank you. Can you hear me fine? OK. Awesome. I'm a high school teacher here in Sheboygan, and I wrote this poem for the theme of the day together again. Homecoming. It's homecoming. It's high school. Brisk autumn air and new outfits. Football players sport team jerseys in class, laugh loudly, tossing jokes across the aisle. Girls flirt and mid-drift tops are back. It's homecoming time, and the kids are back in school. The big dance is Saturday, and all will sport fine, style, and class. All classes will attend the homecoming dance, and there will be no touch down there, because now it's time for the homecoming dance PowerPoint with seven slides showing inappropriate dresses not to wear to the homecoming dance. A homeroom boy stands up, fist in the air to protest the dress code, but girls down the hall, their fingers smartly flying over phones, beat him to it. It's homecoming, and time to debate the homecoming dance dress code. It's a 1920s theme this year, and Jason bought a pocket watch with chain, and now chains are banned, along with short dresses. Protests are discussed at lunch amid school spirit contests, and sign up for powder puff and powder and come paint a poster after school. Strains of the school song, still strained, but getting better, seep into the Science Hallway fourth hour, its fourth down and a field goal. The new kid from Chicago joined the football team. Football players practice after school in rain and wind when everyone else goes home. See the cheerleading stunts and jumps at the Friday afternoon pep rally with rivalries between grades over who will be loudest as rhythmically stomping feet almost take the bleachers down. The seniors always win. Its homecoming with themed dress-up days all week, Monday is pajama day. Football players huddle over geography textbooks, plot latitude and longitude, and argue amongst themselves over which one of them could maybe be a teacher one day. It's homecoming week, it's high school, and we've all come home. Thank you, Sylvia. Homecoming together again with homecoming. So now I'm going to ask everyone to come together again with your inner child, because we have a special treat from Charmeder, who's going to share a book that she's written for children. So welcome, Charm. Hello. OK. Hi, everyone. As Lisa said, my name is Charmeder, and I live in the Sheboygan area originally from Detroit. And I wrote this book, My Happiness Counts, because it's really important for little ones to know that their happiness matters every day and every way. Happiness is everywhere, just waiting to be found. I take a moment to look within and to look around. One big smile for mommy, two match mine. Two thumbs up from daddy as I cross the finish line. Three special words in my family are I love you. Four seasons to enjoy, each offering something new. Five mindful minutes, breathe in, breathe out. Six plants to water, I sow the seeds, then watch them sprout. Seven days a week to explore. Each day is an adventure from the start. Eight amazing colors of paint. I use each one to make beautiful art. Nine letters in the word happiness. My happiness counts every day. 10 friends join me to count again. Help me show them the way. Thank you. Thank you, Charm. Yes, my happiness counts. And so does yours, everyone. So thank you for that. Our next reader is Heather Hanlon. Come on up, Heather. She's got her family with her. Welcome. You should let us know where we can get the book, yeah. Because I have my eight-month-old here, and I should let her know that her happiness counts every day. Value that. I told my husband that my poem is going to be about werewolves, but it's not. And I'm so sorry. But I want to echo something that Lisa was saying about how weird it is to have that theme together again. And it's almost October. And I was flipping around that theme in my head, thinking about what I wanted to write about for it. And I just kind of felt sad. And I felt sad that I'm still afraid of togetherness. And I felt sad thinking about the emptiness, some of the emptiness that we are probably all having from the last two years. And an image that I thought of that really captured that for me was those empty store shelves from the beginning of 2020. And I remember looking at them and thinking, boy, I sure hope that when I knock on the doors of my neighbors, because I couldn't get these groceries that they would be open to sharing with me, even though it's some disconnected stockpile in someone else's house in Sheboygan, down the street from me with our grocery store over in Sheboygan for everyone. But I didn't want it to just be a drab poem, because the point of the theme together again for me was also to be uplifting, to be a point of hope. And so I also wanted to consider the people that did share with me. And that was my family. And this is called A Poem About Food. COVID started with shelves lonely for flour, yeast, rice, meat. I would look around the store and think, no one is here, but everything is gone. I should have taken my garden more seriously. I should have made that corner space into a chicken coop. I crumpled away the plastic bag around my dinner. I scraped the bottom of the paper box with my silverware, and wonder out loud to my husband, when will I remember to tell the server we don't need those plastic forks? He offers me the last pour of coffee for the day. And I consider my great luck to have him. At work, I open my notes and find myself listing groceries I miss. As I write, I am hunched over a breast pump, the machine shivers for my warm milk, and somewhere my baby is having her bottle. Tonight, I will offer her my last moments of the day for one more gulp. I may get the last pour of coffee. I am thankful for a family that eats or starves together. For us, each meal is a world. Thank you. That was beautiful. Oh, of course. That was beautiful. Thank you. All right. Next, I want to welcome to the microphone Hannah Harder. Welcome, Hannah. Hi, everybody. Can you hear me in the back? OK. My name is Hannah Harder, and this is actually an unpublished poem. I have a collection out on Amazon called A Woman in the Wilderness, a foray in poetry. And you can't tell from this medium, but this poem is actually going to be illustrated with watercolors, this new book. So I'm also an educator and environmental scientist. So I have some homework for all of you. If you are not familiar with the word phenology, I think one of the ways that we connect most with the world around us is learning the names of the things in our backyard. So this poem actually is taking us back to the very beginning of spring. And one of the first flowers to bloom then. Hopefully I can see it. So when you are home, you need to look up what the flower bishop's cap is, if you don't know. And then next spring, be looking for it. There are super tiny, tiny little flowers to give you some hope for spring coming again. So this is called a lexicon of love. Others pass on bikes, but you drop everything falling on your aging knees to investigate each bishop's cap, each sprinkle of snowflake flower. Such reverence, this praying, like the kissing of short-tongued bees, this naming of things, this following her into the mud for decades. It will leave you limping, but transformed, holding a lexicon of love. Oh, I have one more announcement. I'm also previewing, beginning a podcast in collaboration with Mead Public Library, and it should be out in a couple of weeks. It's called The Unsalted Sea Life on and around Lake Michigan. So you can be looking for that on their website too. Thank you, Hannah. Yes, the mention of podcasts, I should also put in a plug for Poetry on Air. So we've had many people in the audience here today have actually been part of the podcast. Dasha, who we're gonna hear from in a little while, and Sylvia, and we've got other people lined up. Georgia's gonna be next year, but it's an opportunity to, I interview a poet and ask them what has inspired them and what moves them when they read a poem. And so we learn about their poetic practice, and Ed was on the show, yes. So it's a cool thing. You can go to the Mead Library website and look for the community radio, and that's also where Hannah's upcoming podcast will be as well. So our next reader is Emily Cayman. Emily, take it away. Yeah, I think so. So this poem also goes with the theme of Together Again, and of course it doesn't have a title because I don't name anything. So here we go. I am an introvert. There's nothing I love more than burying myself in a book in my room under a blanket and shunning all human interaction for days at a time. But even I reach a point where these walls constrict, close in, because choosing not to talk to anyone is only fun when I'm supposed to be talking to people and am not. You can't get the rush of canceling plans if there are no plans in the first place because if we do meet up, we'll get the plague. I never thought I'd long for busy streets, for packed farmers markets, for going out to eat, for getting some coffee, but here I am having missed nothing more in the past year or so than this. Thank you, Emily. Let's see. The next person on the list is Tracy Ludvik. Is Tracy here? Oh, good. I didn't see you back there, Tracy. Come on up. It's such a beautiful day. We are so lucky. And yeah, here she comes. Welcome. It's good to see you again. Can read too. Oh, great. Yeah. So a lot of people are talking about COVID and obviously that's been on a lot of people's minds. And so I thought it'd be a good time to remind people that whenever we have a serious illness or in society to remember our indigenous people, who usually suffer the most with those things and their numbers are already dwindling and the COVID has taken a lot more of them from us on every reservation. So this is a poem about, not about that because I wrote it before, but it's related to reservation life. It's called Off the Map or Nightmare in Landier. American massacre abruptly severed from well-tended earth. Human roots grew deep through millennia. Remaining spirit, aimless bereft as tumbleweeds caught between small weather-beaten shacks, little shelter from cold whistling winds glaring sun. No language remembered, so thought no longer born. Worn eyes, no reason to meet. Dirt swirls in all four directions. Quiet figures blend into fruitless scape. Sometimes eat from government tins labeled salt and it doesn't really matter. I got that one line wrong because I wasn't looking at it closely. Let me read that again. Quiet figures blend into fruitless scape. Sometimes eat from government tins, seasoned with arsenic labeled salt and it doesn't seem to matter. And this one is called Truth of the Mayan. The Mayans didn't disappear into a shroud of cloud one mystical day. Broken and spent from centuries of erecting monuments, climbing ziggurats, listening to potent tongues betray them. Finally fled, jaws of imperialists to hide pulsing hearts, brawny backs, gold in their teeth. Protected by night, taking nothing but bones, stole to uncivilized hills, seeking lost souls. Here the people heard parrot sing, took food from willing trees, found spirits waiting to weave prisms into warm woolens for hundreds of years and still do. But now look over their shoulders toward roar of the caterpillar, closing in at a steady pace and this time there's nowhere left to go. Thank you. That's okay. It was great. Thank you, Tracy. All right. So is Tay here? Tay Moses, where are you? Okay, maybe he will be here and we'll save him a spot. So, oh, who's next on the list after Tay? It's okay. This is why I need my piece of paper. Thank you. Oh, it's you, Georgia Ressmeyer. See, she's got the list memorized. Awesome. Thank you. I like it close. Yeah. One of the story poems from my new chapbook called Leading a Life, which is about, first half is story poems about clients I represented as a public defender in Milwaukee in commitment, he defended them in commitment hearings for 18 years, which was really the best job I ever had. I really, really liked it. So the story poems are about clients, client encounters that happened like 35 years ago. And these are some favorite clients and the book is dedicated in fact to my clients. This one is called Queen of the Courtroom. She was queen of the courtroom, dispensing her bounty with grace and warmth. She glowed and spread good shears and compliments like butter on a slice of just baked bread. Some smiled to see her slather up the room, shaking everybody's hand, flattering them about their teeth, their eyes, their obvious intelligence. A few, the ones who knew her best, returned her winks. The nursing students sitting in on court, blank faced, thunderstruck, visibly shrank in fear when she approached their group to say how pleased she was that they could come. She claimed to be a modest woman, then raised her hospital gown to show them bruises on her upper thigh, inflicted she said by two of the petitioners in the case. During the hearing, she interrupted every witness, yelling, lies, you're under oath or tell the truth. She tried to cross examine some of them herself, including the psychiatrist who'd labeled her bipolar and manic. No one could silence her. We lost the hearing although my client never lost the rapt attention of all present. Afterwards, she refused to leave the courtroom until she'd shaken every willing hand, wished all a happy holiday, and told a few how beautiful they were. For the court commissioner who ruled against her, she had a different message, taking that reluctant hand my client said, I do a lot for humanity. And so she did, especially for those of us in thankless jobs who occasionally enjoyed our court hearings sunny side up and our rare praises laid on thick by the queen of the courtroom whenever she deigned to favor us with her presence. Again, the book is Leading a Life, and it's published by Waters Edge Press, just came out this month. And I have some postcards with information about it if anyone is interested, also a few books. So just see me in the back row over here if you're interested. Thank you. Thank you, Georgia. Thank you. Is Willie Schauer here? That's okay. So then next is Scott Schmidt. You're on. I'm so glad when I saw you walking up. I'm like, yay, he's here. Welcome, Scott. Thank you. Good to see you. Hey, how are you doing? I think so. It looks like it'll work. Cool. Hey, everybody. Thanks for being here. Lisa, thanks for doing this. So I'm going to read some untitled stuff today. Just a couple. I'll keep you short. But I don't know why it's untitled. Lack of inspiration, maybe. I don't know. But this one is written from a father to a son, to my adoptive father specifically, who is a Lutheran minister. So you sat in your chair, that I remember, with cigarette smoke dancing rings around your head, the light catching your glasses just so. Notting off now and then, your legs slightly twitching, shallow breaths becoming deeper as seconds tick by, that chair was your respite from all that surrounded you, though I was a boy and what did I know? You always returned there, its shape so familiar, it knew you better than I. You stood in the pulpit that much I remember, your arms waving wildly making way for the truth, the light catching your glasses just so. How your heart would go into the hymns you would sing, always louder just slightly than all of the rest, that pulpit was your freedom from all that besieged you, though I was a boy and what did I know? You never stopped going there, its peace so familiar, he knows you better than I. You ruled on the chessboard, I'll always remember, your brow wrinkled down as you thought out each move, the light catching your glasses just so. You're gonna watch TV or play, you would ask me, as I fumbled my way through another futile move. That board was your bridge from a son to a father, though I was a boy and what did I know? You'd beckon me back there that we'd be familiar. I should have, I could have known you better. I stand in my front yard and hope they'll remember, the deep-bellied laughter announcing my joy, the light catching my glasses just so. How I carried all four of them up the front porch steps and wiggled my ears till their eyes filled with tears. My yard is my instrument to lay their foundation, for they are but children, how much do they know? We'll keep coming back here to love so familiar that they may always know me. Got time for one or two more? All right, so here's a couple short ones that I was messing around a little bit with some alliteration. This one you might catch on, I was in or near a graveyard when I wrote it, but it's short so hang in there. The green grass grows elusive, and the gardens gather stone. Their granite graveyard markers, grace once garnished hills alone. The guest house gates and gutters, incongruent angles gone, now greet with great regret the ghosts who grapple with the dawn. So gather, slow, ungrateful thought, grieve gently for your gain. Ill-gotten yields from long ago now generate the shame. And this one was on a night when the moon was just so, and there's a tiny little star hanging right next to it. She hangs a single sliver, a slight portion and a star. Her alabaster skin a single spin without a scar. Serenity, simplicity. She speaks without a sound to serenate men's souls when sultry summer nights abound. And Seraphim sings softly, swaying slowly at her side. Sweet harmony surrendered, seek to swell celestial tides. In spirit and in substance, her soothing song is sent, a sav to strengthen soured hearts, sustaining passions spent. Thank you. Thank you, Scott. Oh, I'm kind of in a dither. Okay. Next up is Tom Singleton from Appleton. Give him a big hand. Welcome, Tom. I think I'll be able to hang on to this in the breeze too. So this is a two-pager that I had to pair down because I had to be within three minutes. Sorry. Not only that, it's a take on Walt Whitman. We'd go on for, like, books, right? Sorry. Anyway, with that said, with a nod to Walt Whitman and his song of myself, I'm going to read, I sing a song of man and earth. I walk the world observing keenly its mighty ways and many equal both for without the seed there is no tree. I connect with a stranger who has his own story to tell a story unique and yet with a yearning common to all to love and be loved. I see myself in the mirror of the family passing by father, mother, child, I smile, they smile. I salute them. They do the most important work on earth. My heart overflows with love and gratitude for all I experience. The love of a woman, the friendship of a man, the gummy smile of a baby, the parents who raise their voice to their child mostly in song, the farmers at the market who plowed and planted and picked our sustenance, the makers in the Ford shop hammering the white hot iron into something of use, the teachers who love to see the flame in their students, the flame they kindled, the heroes of the hospitals who care for the sick at their own peril, the differently abled, formerly known as disabled, who pour out their love without inhibition, the policeman with compassion, the peacemaker who builds bridges, the advocates for the earth and all its people. I hear the voices of the lost, the dispossessed, the hungry, the homeless, all have powerful stories to tell about their challenging path in life. My heart beholds beauty in all things, perseverance and struggle, the joy of the journey. I am an empath. I feel what you feel. I know your pain and your joy both. When my eye meets yours, I see your shining heart. I see what I see and it is good. I am honored by you. I am a port of the masses strong in my faith in humanity. I mingle with those on the stage of life and those in life's audience. I want the best for all peoples of the earth. I am the invisible draft that fans the fires of love. I am a seeker. My journey is from the beginning to the end of each moment. I exult in nature's wonders. I love the trees and they return to love with the purest air. I lay down by the lakeshore and marvel at the play of light on the water. I sing the song of the wind in the trees, of the falling waters, of the glories of the sunset, of the pounding surf, of the rolling thunder, of the flight of the hawk, of the brilliant blue sky, of the moon reflected on the water. I sing the song of man and earth. My heart overflows with love and gratitude for all I experience. Thank you. Thank you, Tom. Thank you so much. Is Lee Trahta here? Lee, okay. That's alright. That means the next person on the list is Tad Wenty. Tad? Thank you, yes, that's nice. Hello. I don't know if you've seen this book. It's a COVID book, Sheltering with Poems, published by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. And if you haven't looked at it, you should because you'll laugh, you'll cry. It's nice. And I was honored to have a poem included. And that's what I'm going to read today. And also, it was almost 50 years ago that I started dating a Sheboygan surfer. And we had a lot of fun back in those days. It was a good time. And one thing I noticed during COVID is that since we didn't have anything else to do because, of course, we're also retired, we've kind of gotten together again, you know, we've started having that fun again. We've started feeling young again. So I wrote this poem at the time when the media was telling us to support our hairdressers, our spa people, you know, nails and all that. It's called Quarantine Hair. He is fond of his hairdresser and hopes she is doing well. But he's letting it grow, he said. She always cuts the sides a little short. I like how his hair begins to tower up like a wave bending to the silvery perfection of a TV evangelist from 1985 and I expect a sermon or a sale. And that's usually when he goes in to sit in the chair and chat about the children while she returns him to a casual yet distinguished gentleman of the 20th century. But this time, weeks take by. He's letting it grow, he says. And I watch the wavy white sand in brilliant light rising daily like a griffin's wise head or Poseidon's. Trident fingers loosing new snarls. His hair is of the sea peeling back the years to salty surfer and beach tan free with possibility. Decades rolling away to our first dates, 1970s when we wore denim dreams to mark our world view. I watch white hair wave upward glowing the man growing younger like some Dorian gray and I wait to see how his hair will decide to flow along again. How his youth will take me with him. The two of us in silver white ponytails the two of us riding nowhere. Thank you. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for that song. Two of us riding nowhere. Spending someone's holiday. Cool. So our next reader is Edward Steen. Come on up, Ed. That okay for everybody? I enjoyed Ted's poem and it reminded me that my younger son lives in Portland, Oregon and I was very surprised a couple of years ago when I was visiting him to be walking down the street and to see a Sheboygan surfer bar in Portland, Oregon. So I had to go in and to imbibe a little bit. So for those of you who don't know I'm the regional representative for the Wisconsin Fellowship you can fight. I'm the director of the state Poet Laureate Commission and I'm very happy to be reading here with our state poet laureate Dasha and I have to say the entire commission which is made up from people representing organizations around the state were unanimous in selecting Dasha as our state Poet Laureate and I'm very happy to be here. I also have a book from Waters Edge Press here in Sheboygan it's a book called Communique and I write a lot of poems to the headlines and it's a book written from poems over the years that I've written to the headlines and this first one is from the book and actually two headlines came together to prompt this poem they're both from the New York Times one from January of 2017 the headline was Woman Linked to the 1955 Emmett Till Murder tells a historian that her claims were false and the second headline was from the Times in July of 2018 the U.S. reopens the Emmett Till investigation almost 63 years after his murder it's a letter poem Dear Emmett you're dead your mother's dead Roy Bryant and Jay Millam the men who murdered you and were acquitted are dead the investigation was closed long ago Langston Hughes wrote at the time bow thy head o state of Mississippi let tears of shame course down thy cheek and there's still so much hate in Mississippi they had to remake the memorial in 2019 to make it bulletproof Emmett only the woman Carolyn Dunham who accused you of ogling and whistling is still alive and now with death approaching she wants to recant her testimony to unburden her troubled soul I wish she had a soul and I wish there were a hell for that soul to suffer in your hell Emmett was here on earth is justice 60 years late any justice at all Emmett you're still gone is America any different than on the day you died and the second poem is a little closer to the theme of Together Again and it was in the in the June I think the May or June calendar from within pattern bookstore in Milwaukee it's called bread I'd like to think that we'll settle around the same table again that we'll reach into the same basket again for bread our fingers briefly touching and not even worry about it I'd like to think we'll break that bread and press the pieces into the same saucer the balsamic and olive oil anointing our friendship I'd like to think that we'll read to each other in person again and laugh and cry together like we used to that will inhale the same air into our lungs and exhale our joy at being together again but I don't know I just don't know thank you very much um let's see we're running a little tiny bit ahead of schedule and I want to keep I want to have Dasha begin at 1230 because I think some people may be coming just to hear you so we have a couple poets yet but I'm going to add in my own voice for just a moment I'm going to add a poem alright I had to find it on my phone I don't usually do this but come on so we have a new mayor in Sheboygan Ryan Sorensen he's I think he's the 44th mayor of the city of Sheboygan he's the youngest mayor ever he's 27 he's a wonderful human being very thoughtful, very progressive very much working to bring us all together and make the whole city a better place for everyone and so he asked me when he was sworn in in April he said could you write a poem for my swearing in I was like really awesome yes I would do that and then I had to think oh my goodness what do you say to the new mayor or whatever so so I wrote this poem it's called if a city if a city was a story it would begin long before streets and structures begin with land and proximity to water and people who lived there before it was a city if a city was a poem it would be spoken in slow meandering lines with a litany of occurrences triumphs, missteps and resolutions there would be growth and it would not always rhyme if a city was a sentence it would be declarative it would have a noun like neighbor or friend and many verbs igniting action create, discover help, flourish dream, propose remember the adjectives in the city would write themselves and would be testimony to all the good works of the people who live there thriving, generous just, compassionate and welcoming there would be no period at the end of the sentence because like a poem the city is always unfolding towards something better and everyone who lives in that city adds their voice to the story has a hand in its making, thank you so next up is Marilyn Zilke-Winda come on up Marilyn I got to put my mouth right up there it's fine thank you thank you to Jeanie and to Letha for this day of international celebration of togetherness step by step bridges allow us to meet halfway on the flat bridge across the Chicago river in the windy city step by step on the arched Brooklyn bridge to Manhattan it's an uphill climb for both of us at length we can see each other note facial expression body gestures we can decipher acceptance by a smile, a nod or rejection by just a turn of the face an inward lift of the shoulder a casting of purse to chest a casting of eyes to the pavement bridges provide an opportunity for encounter human recognition, connection for realizing unity for respect acceptance of differences and sameness for peacemaking they offer a time for communication hello, good day nice to see you and isn't the weather wonderful? wood that we value bridges for all they can offer learn from them and use them daily to make the world a better place since we've got time I'll jigsaw puzzle John Spillsbury was a London engraver and a map maker in 1767 he pasted world maps onto wood then cut the wood along the lines of countries creating a puzzle useful for teaching geography he used a marquetry saw a jigsaw so named for its rapid up-down movement humanity is a jigsaw puzzle we're all a mixed up jumble thrown to the table that is our earth some of us land upside down and struggle to write ourselves some of us are corner pieces and don't know which way to face which way to turn as puzzle pieces we always seek companions those with whom we have common links we strive to fit together touch edges and when we do we share experiences we grow strong in our bonds each piece of the human puzzle has color a wide variety of tones and hues sometimes the colors merge when met sometimes the colors blend into tranquility sometimes the colors are opposite of each other but that is when they show their most brilliant self some pieces are identical shape-ins to be valued for unity puzzles sometimes take hours to assemble sometimes they take days months years let us join together as humans to solve our differences let us complete the puzzle merge as a whole intricately stuck together and stronger for it let us complete the puzzle and squeak while we're at it alright so the next poet up is mario willis visiting us from Milwaukee come on up thank you yes it is so this poem was a COVID it was inspired when they said that we should only have 10 people at funerals it's called closed until further notice the unemployed contortionist packs her costumes the ticket takers shutters his window his dark apartment reminds him of work he once had empty hotel rooms the mice are starving like the laundry women and housekeepers stay home keeping their own living space is tidy the starving show folks won't be counted in the same columns as the other victims of this tragedy unwashed faceless masses of unattended funerals with unpaid hospital accounts are seldom noticed or counted on for anything but post-mortem lab results there are significant others playing punching bags confined to domestic cataclysms the irony of safer at home pronouncements drips from ice packs praying they can escape before death announcements we are a tribal people shut in and shut up in our homes hoping and praying the seasonality will save us before the dime of onlookers becomes a half dozen carrying us away that's that poem I just lost the other poem I'll read some from memory I guess there are a few things I am sure of only a couple of colors I can tell from a distance of these concrete certainties won area was the best font for writing it is the easiest to decipher crying two the best poems are about crying dying and suicide release the other easiest for me to remember three I hate list poems but I keep writing them I keep writing because death and crying are certainties and I am trying to avoid killing myself because of them it would be easy for me to tell you I am confident lying is easy believe me when I am silent I am a deception like carved out Bible verses used in sermons the punch holes of small children that later would be filled with alcohol and self loathing I have learned to hate myself 5 I hate myself for not believing in Jesus enough to forgive you for leaving for constantly writing notes to you notes underneath my heart muscle and hidden places places are hide because loving you was like broken bones amputated limbs and fish hooks hooks underneath collar bones snatching bone fragments searing pain and screaming six one day I will leave here more than likely screaming I deserve it I have lied to you most of these words are about dying I wrote them in area one day you will read them seven forgiveness is the process of letting go holding on to diamonds is the same thing as holding on to sand they will both be here long as you are finished give yourself forgiveness now while you can enjoy it eight judgments should be reserved for something bigger than I am I have trouble seeing the forest for the trees and one start it was a great idea to drink an entire bottle of mad dog twenty twenty to jump a bike off a ramp we made with used nails and plywood so I probably don't have the best judgment nine love is the only thing that can save you it is a promise you make to keep what is inevitably leaving a seasoning that makes everything sweet it is the face of God we most often look for so love like it to kill you not to because if you don't it might kill you not to forgive because it makes love that much easy and hating yourself can kill you love like everything will work out fine know that everything is leaving like it was supposed to and that is working out be fine with that and love life accordingly there are a few things I am sure of only a couple of colors I can tell from a distance love is one of them you'll recognize it it's the same color as a smile can you say that better? I need everyone within the sound of my voice to run their fingers through this moment scratch the surface of faith crinkle every lie in this space into a ball and throw it out I need us all to be born again every soul each wish every whisper to stand in a chord see faith it comes by hearing so I need everyone to hear this you are all God's powers as infinite as you dream if you choose to believe in it the miraculous is achievable by the sum total of our power to believe it I am so sure of this so sure in fact I will repeat it you are all God's but with great power comes great responsibility your words capture them now before you lose them hold the oxygen that contains your spirits in your palms and ration out your syllables like fine cuisine because it can be a most delicious dish but it can be poison your words his words her words a treasure with careful consideration the cast will stand tall over a kingdom misdirecting a wrecking ball of nuclear proportions you are beyond your spirits with your words set ships to sail commander stalls to shine exalt the sun's rays to bend corners pronounce things that aren't as though they were and watched them occur there has been a disconnect between us and our divinity I hope to correct this right now so I need everyone within the sound of my voice to pay close attention you are more than flesh and bones more than your mother's child a thousand times bigger than your body you have been impregnated with a seed and a purpose this thing grows inside of you larger and larger to the skin of your thin heart is unable to contain it and you explode I am so sure of this so sure in fact I will repeat it you are purpose take care with your purpose some come to devour it I'm not here to bring you religion that's a choice this thing I speak of a force a power inside of you like stars in the cosmos constellations of matter within your chest hole galaxies in your heart running rivers of star systems lakes of fire oceans of sunshine continents of righteousness as bright as explosions indigo visions rapid fire resistance towers as high as the sky within the span of your third eye I speak to you today of endearing encouragement come to loose the bonds that tie your hands to the temporal unshackle the potential give you what was already yours to begin with you can build those things make these things happen for there are possibilities disguised as dreams that you alone could give those shadows form just believe in yourself and know that you are all gods alright mario thank you so much that was awesome we are all gods remember that alright it's just about 1230 I'm not going to keep holding up the show here so we're going to I'm going to introduce our featured reader dasha kelly hamilton who is the poet laureate not only of the city of milwaukee but also of the whole state of wisconsin so I think of her as poet laureate squared and she is a writer a performance artist a creative change agent don't we all want to be that but she is it and has she is the author of two novels three poetry collections and four spoken word albums she was an arts envoy for the u.s. embassy and she went to batswana toronto canada moritzias and beirut and did community building in all those places so it's very very appropriate that she be here with us today on 100,000 poets for change day and so I'm honored and just beside myself with happiness to welcome you come on up to the stage yes hello good people so I have way more poems in time so we'll get my story I'm going to give some announcements we'll have a moment but I really want to just I mean we're poets and we're here for poems and sometimes they invite the poets to come just to season the event we're here to talk about change so I didn't have the theme so I went with change so all of these pieces will be conversations that we're all already in or you didn't know that you were already in and there are opportunities for us to be in them differently he had a job collecting insurance payments two dollars a week drove a covered wagon to el dorado gold died in the mines there poured wine on the Titanic ate dinner with Dubois one time forced the bank to open a checking account separate from her husbands cleaned the tiger clades on the circus train cleaned a whore house near Reno helped clean up the city after Katrina fell 40 floors from the new scaffolding of Chicago contracted polio lived near the internment camps and swore she heard them screaming worked the lights on birth of a nation worked at C.J. Walker's factory scheduled to work the day of Apollo 11 but his appendix burst burst through the banner at the Rose Bowl crossed the border without his family passed through Ellis Island without his wife refused to cut his hair refused to burn her bra was charged with war crimes heresy, tax evasion hammered wet metal into missiles posted a bill of sales for slaves showed housewives how to sell Tupperware war, God, dope taught blind children to read with their fingers on the line before Harlem changed hands hate Ashbury, Bronzeville raised babies filled with lead filled with music convinced the neighbors to mount their speakers in the windows challenged the unions to overlook her breasts overlook his boyfriend the crooked angles of their legs prepared notes for Dr. King prepared a trumpet for Miles Davis signed the warrants on the Salem witch trials enlisted in the service registered for nursing school ran moonshine collected shot glasses from all around the world always baked pies for the bake sale never came home for Christmas died on mama's birthday through the first rock of red summer through the switch on death row through junior out of the house saved a man's life on the subway one day mailed his last dollar to help build the Statue of Liberty Little Red Schoolhouse memorized all of Chuck Berry's moves, Kennedy's speeches grandma's recipes bet against Joe Lewis made love to Doug Holiday the deacon and the pastor Bruce Lee L. Che Jimi Hendrix planted the first orange tree in the city was a first girl to wrestle in the district first altar boy to break their silence never told a soul about the operation never responded to the summons never stopped going to auditions never came back to town stayed sober stayed together stayed angry until they died kept a vigil kept a faith kept a locket to remember remember you will be remembered inside of these intricate histories by someone or maybe no one will recall that scar on your face but your story cannot be erased your heartbeat is a forever history forever history you were here thank you that piece was additionally inspired by the idea of searching for your genealogy and we all want to find a leaf that has you connected to a war general or someone who cured something or something incredible and I remember watching this program and they discovered oh my great-grandfather had three families oh my goodness my auntie murdered who oh my goodness and there's going to be someone looking for you and then you fill your days wondering well all I did was love my family I didn't cure anything well there was at one time my shop lifted from Walmart but I'm just in our lives are exactly how they're supposed to be yes there's always improvement but there's another heartbeat and your story matters your story is worthy and to be in the company of poets who can write about coffee cups and we can write about all the isms we can write about those small memories and those small memories make huge impact so I wanted to start there that we are already living history because we're living and we're here so put your footprint down how about that and I also am not used to working from my phone but hey technology it's a real thing the weight of judging suppose this is how evolution feels when you pay attention to it from walking with a hunch or a tail or in spite of tunnel vision near sight near blind sigh into the snap of a straightening vertebrae comment unto the family clan about the new ease further reach exceeding speed special until it was common unremarkable until everyone eventually could expect distant vision in color in day or night with both eyes how easy how soon how we forget the ache of evolving of the existence between elevation and elimination the weight of judgment shapes curve into postures against an alignment of strangers and stars dairy farmer replied stop calling things that aren't milk milk the newspaper series was compelling even to a city chick like me and then I add oat milk to the grocery list and I think about that dairy farmer the journalist earned awards the delivery person trades text message exchanging broccoli sprouts for the bunches or did I order that by mistake I tipped him 15% sometimes I tip 20 every time is a goal to not hesitate or have to calculate to project out for 30 days the same way surely he will I wonder if he does his own shopping in between other days I thank him and wave through the screen a woman sits in the passenger seat winter coat open attention on her phone I wonder if she rides often all the time after a fight could be his best friend like my daughter's best guy friends from high school their small colony of peers crossing over the gritty sands into maturity the cicadas are coming this year billions according to the news I'm content and intent to obsess over both groups of these new adults I shuttle the groceries from the porch to the kitchen so going through and having this experience this opportunity to really just breathe in poems and people who breathe poems and my life work has been applying not just the things that I write but the process that it takes to get from to an actual poem there's a lot of gold in that creative process there's a lot of miracles that happen in deciding whether or not you're going to use this word or that word or this decision or that honest truth to be able to be in a space of creating pieces that tell a story that sometimes we overlook has also been a privilege for me and I've also had a chance to go through old poems like you know what I've been doing this for a minute like oh, how are you doing poem so I've been I welcome this opportunity to fall into my work because when you have the heart of impacting change we can forget that we want to pour that on ourselves too so I'm still getting the hang of spending as much time writing as like Lisa does creating spaces for writers to come together so I've been rediscovering some old pieces and I'm really glad this one waved at me from my journal Mariah was sold with the horses only a fresh 13 she was full bloom with maternity brilliance and intention all hawked away in plantation bartering she was just another accessory fine leather saddles bore bristle brushes curry combs Mariah was sold with the horses assembled as a piece of a kit her and her kids Mariah was actually lucky with master's blood filling her veins and his seed spilling from her wound she made herself a collectible not to be confused with something to keep Mariah was sold with the horses with gentle beasts whose pedigrees reach back to antiquities equestrian legacy authorized filed and recorded unlike her flesh and her words and her tears and her name Mariah and her babies were smooth skinned creatures wedged onto wagons stacked neatly between tools and furniture bumping and jostled across the dirt roads delivered with bound bails of hay she was tossed in for good measure to sweeten the deal her brood bundled with crops soaps iron bits and single slave units of field, servant breeder and trade Mariah brokered quiet rebellion waging survival each time she was sold with the horses I know history doesn't always make you smile but they always have a story to tell and this is a collection it's exciting to be able to say this here in Sheboygan was able to do some partnership with the community and I write these little stories called Doshnets Doshnets is one of my mother's many nicknames for me it's my favorite first thing my middle name together and it was going back to the conversation of being good to oneself I love being able to do community gathering and do facilitation and find creative ways to talk about things we don't know how to talk about all those emails and zooms and meetings and passion I created this little challenge for myself so that I would also continue writing so for me the writing challenge is to take this memory that was a whole summer or maybe it lasted 30 seconds and take that story and all of these narratives are 100 words exactly so for all the writers in the building who appreciate Mariah the editing process this is my favorite part of writing so I'll share a couple of these and I went to these specifically we were talking about working with the high school poem the homecoming piece made me go to the pieces about young adults so it's been a lot of my working career just being surrounded by young minds and new confidence so here we go cap bright and early we stood in orange polos in parallel lines in step soul train line greeted co-eds with gleaming futures ours was also an elite team speakers and facilitators who'd earned the invitation to coach every soul present had stretched to dance under this jubilant sky the students wore their business casual and I smiled at the approximations snug sleeves short hemlines and a few shiny fabrics I spy an rose metal screw with a cap of a high heel should be I lost step remembering my matching screws realize I'd flash glints of a stubborn incompleteness all along and so I remember that moment flashing back going people could always see that I was missing a cap on my shoe because when you're 1922 you think you got together you got your club clothes on with your first business blouse and turns out the grown-ups could always see that I had no idea I had no idea so when we see our young people doing the best they can just know they're doing the best they can with what they have and you just keep blowing them forward they'll be sitting here all certain about life and none of us are certain about life punctured tree tops prickle the sky huddled in intimate clusters trunks thickened with legacy their pointed conclusions stretch from humble soil you'd have to fold your neck all the way back to notice the skyward quiet amid this crowded confidence of trees you'd have to peel your flesh all the way back to yearn for these falling flakes of heaven inside this open circle of death I imagine the father scouting the ground while the mother craned skyward this is where they would rest their son eternally embodying their hopes punctured by a bigot's bullet this is their truce with God branded some waiting rooms extract empathy and humility DMV STD clinics emergency rooms police precincts prison visitation and the I clutch the paper tab with my call number and find a seat quelling my inclination to defend deflect to distinguish me from them them like me parked somewhere they shouldn't have longer than they were supposed to or not the counter agent will not key in our stories only payments or not back in traffic my window is branded with a neon toe sticker removed days later after acetone and a straight razor branded fallible human one and all how are we doing time? you guys aren't palmed out yet right? not this group no we eat palms all day long was invited to create this piece that was part of a project that was exploring this continuum and it's called flow between rural and suburban urban and rural the conversation is more about yes we all love our families and we all value life and we all want to be healthy yes true but there is a different experience of being in Sheboygan compared to being in butternut compared to being in Madison etc but that's the difference of the living so what can that difference of living do for those who are alive? so this piece is called flow cement unwinds into countryside chatter about bad days and impossible dreams twitter's between the trees between satellites between granola and grits leche and lumpia between homecomings and homegoings one and all dusk consumes the sun dawn swallows the moon triumph and tragedy pinned along the horizon snap and fan in concert above the breeze above shades of pumpkin and construction cones concrete ash espresso shots and hay monarch's dance before skylines of ceilings and steel to the pulse of combines and shiny shoes across landscapes rich and gorgeous with wild life one and all he heard the soundtrack for his future in the steady click of hard sole shoes out in the hall a guy friend of mine told me this one time about the curious straightening of his spine at hearing the stride of grown man's shoes disembodied from any particular man in motion the audio metered his path his young imagination was empty of specific plans he just knew that his shoes with echo had no purpose one day even his steps would strike and snap firm surfaces clacking cadence from the hallway ballroom sanctuary aisles and stage I can still recall the slow fate of his expectant smile when he asked if I felt the same about high heels shoes uh no well maybe I heard the hallways in a different key the click of their heels trained my young ears to hear confidence and counterfeit feminine and felonious leadership and lonely mission driven and mean the sound of heels is expected women are expected not to be expected so my inclination was to raise my heels just a little quiet my approach just a little my impression and my own load my inclination was to raise my heels he dreamed of walking a toplanolium marble and wood I wondered about balance about not dragging not shuffling I measured my stomp against my sachet I worried about toppling symphonies of women in motion score our understanding of this world the men tapping stomping scampering their percussions women jazz and scat and slide pitching the scale where we can fan kicking and gliding backwards when we must when I first heard my steps fill the hallway with echoes and then you feel this faint breeze hear a fresh beat moving with another sister from end to end of the hall her eyes alert not on her feet or anyone else's see another sister in a salsa syncopation and you have the same shoes the same beat who's out there in that hallway walking all loud all hard all steady all unbothered who's that woman making noise out there in the hall like she's supposed to be there broadcasting big band sound in the ways that we have to get to move around studying women's rhythm helped me better score my own I learned to move slowly on higher heels from watching you I learned to lead with the weight of my heel when my toes pinch from watching you and from you and from you I remember to position my feet into a T for pictures on the days that I ache I watched you keep moving do not take off your shoes you said I learned to read the music of women in motion when I focus less on the volume of our steps I could hear the sonic boom of soft soul flats of women taking steps making moves when we make it to the hallway our steps might clack show tunes and the blues thank you for gliding stomping skipping sliding stepping the way that you do the way that you move out in the hallway authentically you serenading power to the next the next set of shoes making theme music out there in the hall I have two more pieces I'd like to share while I'm pulling together if we can give just a thunderous applause to Lisa the host my forever roomie for making sure this happens this is like going to anyway sometimes going to a family event it's like oh I'm going because I'm supposed to and you get there and like oh my goodness I'm so glad I'm here I forget how much family feeds me and if you've met my uncles you would know exactly what I'm talking about right now alright poets for change not even gonna set it up I know I'm not by myself cause I read the news in case you know requiem for the weed man Tony never talks to me about Terps Katie didn't mention percentages or strains Mike doesn't brandish a logo but his product and customer service always fire Julian can't name the co-op of growers but the strand is described with war tools meeting moose is most natural in parking lots ant delivers to the house Max is still making moves after bar time Serena can't come through until after work Sam Stash is personally vetted. Percy doesn't partake at all. Erica responds to texts never calls Ed rewards loyalty with free samples and extra shake Jake is not opposed to credit Denver needs her money every time cast our votes decriminalize our connect Yelp our translations ease them to the margins of utility of enterprise the bank tellers the booksellers the taxi cab drivers and market cashiers Alicia doesn't have a storefront or hoodies or permit from the state cricket only jokes about launching an app or a website one day will upgraded from baggies to plastic pouches the kind from the hardware store for bolts and screws neither Jasmine nor John open their doors on travel weekends for visitors to gawk giggle and shop in broad daylight the last piece is my new favorite poem and I brought goodies I don't know how passing out goes on the day around them and we're outside is that still keep us safe I think so so the bookmarks and yes those handouts so my yes thank you Lisa I love you so much can you pass them out please thank you you're wonderful she's coming around with our bookmarks complements of the Wisconsin poet laureate commission and it has an excerpt of the last end of this poem that I'm going to read and she's also sharing information about my project so as a state laureate again I'm a creative change agent and I've learned that the process of writing a poem the experience of gathering people around a poem literally changes the world and I can give you stories and stories from kindergarten to graduate school to prison to mental health literally changes how we move that butterfly effect and so the project is called alignment alignment if I read one line of poetry you don't have it connected to the poem it's going to mean one thing for you something different for you and both of those answers will be right so we'll have a set of prompts inviting people for the next six months to write a new poem send it in we'll have a website being built right now it'll be live on the first and then you're going to receive in return a poem from someone else in the state who wrote to the same prompt there'll be monthly chat books there'll be a digital digest and what I'm most proud and excited and passionate about is that this has been constructed in a way to engage all of our state residents in particular residents of our state prisons so of all the outreach I've been doing going into prisons has been my favorite work yes I love the kids yes I love working with poets but there's a different need, peace and humility and humanity that happens in doing this work and so I've been describing the way it's been put together little Miss Margaret and Rhinelander doesn't have a computer she's afraid of the internet so she's going to be able to hand write her poems and mail them in and little Miss Margaret and Tay Cheetah also doesn't have access to the internet and again going to for the past 15 years working with incarcerated writers this is a huge thing to make sure that they are able to participate so this is for all residents and all poets and not poets there's a guide for you to get your folks together your church your business your department your family what have you as a prompt on how to write the new pieces and end of this when we come after poetry month in April then we'll have a book so you're going to tell me your favorites the poems that you hear and then I will select from your favorites pieces that will go into a new publication with new work from me that book will come out next summer and then we'll spend the last part of my 10 year celebrating all of us being human together through what poems but you knew that awesome my new favorite poem and thank you again Lisa for making this part of your Saturday and all the poets who shared this chance to be homo shape ins together I knew I was a bona fide mama when I could squirrel it's when I could settle the squarely child from across the room with an eyebrow arch piercing eye contact and one deliberate blink and I called myself a woman once I realized the multiplicity of my thighs I stopped rummaging around through my inside splitting skin to certify my sweetness with forgiveness and remembrance my finger traces the scar meridian between wielding my currency and yielding between grasped at eternal sunshine and surrendering dark pockets of moon I knew my thighs and I were free radicals when I slid them wide at will without smudges of guilt or coercing grip I laid down in beds if I could also afford to make them smoothing the wrinkles pinning the corners sometimes falling back in an unmade tussle last week my husband named my right thigh rogue reckless to my left in our pajamas we laughed he kisses redemption along the things between my antiquity and the archetypes this world still needs me to be I knew I was grown when I released those pinky swear links to princess diary dreams never intended for little brown girls like me I mourned half a lifetime of half hearted advice about queenly dreams I was supposed to borrow but never own I unfolded myself across the lay lines of black woman scratched a crown into the air above my head with my index finger arranged healing stones along my tongue and pulled out the apologies rooted in my throat I retold myself to myself especially the parts of my story recited all wrong to me in the first place I knew I was sheer energy when I spoke my truth into resistance fixed my mouth around freedom songs and thrive music refused the dirty dancing franchise that shoved chocolate babies into corners into second guessing into subsisting into settling for the toxic crumbs of love into standing at the edges of legacy waiting to be seen into existing anywhere beneath my station stellar my tongue it traces a dynasty to Andromeda to Gaia I mother the ocean the wind and the sky my words like through through textured shadows and I can stir demise in the shallow of my palm with a flick of my tongue tip I script life incursive multiverse I knew I was a deity when I saw my breath split across a blade of grass and vibrate out a song God once said let there be and I have been manifesting ever since thank you thank you Dasha Kelly Hamilton and thank you everyone who was here today it's wonderful and I hope you'll take a few minutes before you leave just to talk to each other say hi to each other you know we come to readings and then we all dash away but visit say hello share and I mean my heart is so full right now of words and I just feel like I gotta go home and try to write some poems but more importantly talk to my friends talk to all of you so please do that today before you leave shake hands and keep the spirit up keep writing keep if you don't write poetry then support poets by buying their books but I bet if you sat down you would actually write a poem I'm a big proponent of that everybody has actually got a poet inside them so take that as you will and just have a wonderful wonderful day and thank you everyone thank you to the library thank you thank you Dasha thank you all