 On this beautiful fall day, it's sunny and warm, yet also breezy and shady, and we have so many wonderful people here, so thank you for coming out. My name is Lisa Vijos, and I'm a poet here in Treboygan, and I'm the unofficial or official organizer of 100,000 Poets for Change, which is a worldwide movement that started in 2011, so this is our seventh annual event, and I'm always on the last Saturday of September in cities just like ours, all over the world. Poets and musicians and artists are coming together, and the mission of these gatherings is to be together to promote and foster and encourage peace and justice and love and sustainability and just the expression of all of our hearts together in one place. So thank you for coming out to share, and we have a really long and wonderful open mic lineup. I think there's already like 20 people on the list, so I'm going to ask people if you brought more than, I think we should just start with one poem each if that works for you. Keep it moving. During the first hour from one to two, and then we have a featured reader. He's not here yet, but the poet Laureate of Milwaukee, Roberto Harrison is coming up, and I'll be introducing him a little bit later in the show, and then we'll hear some more music from John Dahl at the end to send us off on our day with full hearts. But first, before we start the open mic, John and I said, let's have one song to kind of kick everything off, so John, I'm going to have you come back. Oh wait, let me see one thing. I want to thank Meade Public Library for hosting us, and I also want to point out to you the wonderful artwork on the window and on the fence. That was, those artworks were made by high school and middle school students at Etude School, and we want to thank them for their wonderful work. And we will be starting off with a song, and then the open mic, and then I will introduce our featured poet in just a little bit, or in about an hour, so. So I thought it would be appropriate to start a song about someone who, the person who wrote this song, it was an old, was a slave trader, back in the 1600s I think, 1700s maybe. And he wrote the song after he reformed himself, and it's one I'm sure you'll all recognize, and you're welcome to sing along. Grace, how sweet the sound, that sage like me has lost, a face that taught her fears, but first we was lost. Well thank you. So we're going to launch into the open. There's probably 20, we're going to do one poem each if you can, all right? We're going to keep it short, although we do have one person who's got a 26-word poem, and I told him he could do two. So if you have a poem that's very, very short, you can do two. But right now I'd like to invite my friend, Alec Gorevera up, Alexandra Gorevera, and we're going to read a poem together in two languages. It's a poem I wrote, and she's going to do Spanish. I'm going to do English. Hi, good morning. Good afternoon. Buenos dias. Buenos tardes. Ah, es tarde, y es tarde. So, I start. You start. En solidaridad. En solidarity. Vistos de arriba somos una miriada de pequeños círculos. Seen from above myriad of small circles. Las calles como células sanguíneas en las venas. We move through the streets like blood cells in veins. Balanciándonos en nuestro camino hacia el corazón de la materia. Obbing our way in and through to the heart of the matter. Nos hacemos conocer como el sistema colectivo. We make ourselves known as a collective system. Trabajamos para mantener el cuerpo vivo y sano. We work to keep the greater body alive and healthy. Trabajamos para alejarnos de lo que nos podría aniquilar. We work to keep at bay that which would try to annihilate us. Nos unimos en las arterias alrededor del planeta. We band together in arteries all over the planet. Todos los sistemas fluyendo hacia un fin común. All systems flowing toward a common goal. Hablar, ser escuchados y escuchar. To speak, to be heard, to listen. Fluimos como agua, como vino, como sangre. We flow like water, like wine, like blood. Cada uno único, cada uno con exo. Each one unique, each one connected. Cuando ignoramos nuestras pequeñas discrepancias y nos mantenemos unidos. No podemos fallar. We cannot fail. Crecemos como una marea. We surge like a tide. Prevaleceremos. We will prevail. Thank you. Gracias. Muchas gracias. Thank you, Ali. So, our next reader at the open mic is Betsy Alice. Betsy, come on. Thanks, Lisa. You know, probably a lot of you have heard this poem, but it just hit me this morning. So, I thought, I'm going to get up and read it. It's upside down, though. Oh, there we go. It's called The Peace of Wild Things, and it's by one of my favorite authors, Wendell Berry. When despair grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what might be and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water and the great hair and feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water and I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world and I am free. Next up is Bobby Lovell. I'm Bobby Lovell. I just drove in from Depeer, but I grew up in Sheboygan. So, I'm going to read a poem called Fog Advisory, January 20th, 1917. And that, of course, was Inauguration Day. And some of the poems I read and some of us might recall that for many of us in Wisconsin there is fog that lasted for days about that time. And I wrote this poem for any non-poets in the group. This poem is called A Pantume and it relies on a lot of repetition. Fog Advisory, January 20th, 2017. Fog descends, no horizon, no stars to wish upon. We drive into fallen sky, feet heavy on the gas. No stars to wish upon tonight, no sure thing. Heavy hearts need gas, yet we cannot stop tonight, one sure thing. All the edges blur, and we can't stop them. We must remember how the edges blurred where this road leads. We must remember how truth once looked. Where does this lead? Are we speeding or still? How does one look truth in the eye and lie? Are we speeding or still spinning our wheels? The mind's eye lies beyond gray, sees all. World keeps spinning, fog descends. No horizon, only gray, yet we see. We drive into fallen sky. Thank you, Bobby. All right, next up is Tad Fippin-Wenty. Hello. I'm very lucky to teach at the Atude High School. The Atude schools are great, and some of my students will be reading later. But I'm trying a different poem for me today. I was thinking about poets for change. You know, what do I want changed? I want to stop seeing prescription drug commercials on television during the dinner hour. That's the main thing. Also, there's an irony in how eager human beings are to kill each other, to shoot each other. I believe we're the only species that kills one another for no apparent reason. And that makes me sad. So things like that, I'd like changed. We have enough against us already. So this poem is about some of the things we cannot change. And I also want to ask how many of you have ever been to a carnival? You know, the real carnival. Okay. This poem is called Catalyst for Carnival. Of the pill bottles stand open on the counter. Her cancered mind cannot fathom what this means, what to choose. She tugs a ring of scarf from her head, pulls back and tosses the ring onto amber plastic cylinders, hoping for the goldfish with the bulging eyes, lovely fins, wide mouth. The carny pulls at his cigarette through gnarled fingers, coughs her another toss, the ring clattering on the counter of spilled pills, tilting, missing until she chooses with both hands a pair of fish, one white, one orange, and another pair, the black, the multicolored moving. She swallows each wiggler like soft wet candy, small scoops of cool custard, sliding down her throat, one before another until she has eaten five. They feel alive. Then seven, then ten goldfish downed, more than her brother ever could at this goldfish eating contest. And the carny hands on her shoulders, hands her the big fluffy bear or blanket, and leans her backward until her eyes click closed like her first doll, and she sleeps there in the arms of the fair. What is fair? All the fish she swallows make her feel alive, feel better, feel soft powder between her teeth, like pixie sticks and sweethearts, like potato chips crumbling salty in her belly. Did you take your pills today? No. I went to the carnival. She is dreaming her long blonde hair and lets a boy bite a candy from her necklace. The cotton is spinning pink, spinning blue. She stands open on the counter, one white, one orange, and a multi-colored scarf around her bare head. Hello, I'm Jane Gutsmond, and this is for peace and justice. It's called color matters. Color matters in leaves, flags, and stoplights. Color matters in house paints, lipsticks, and road signs. Color does not matter in the skin of people, in the military, in baseball, in teachers, in poets. The color of skin does not matter in reporters, presidents, Miss USA winners, friends. Color does look lovely in gardens. Thank you, Jane. Okay, John, I'll stand on my tiptoes. Let's see. Next up is Jackson Close. Jackson, are you out there? Yes, come on up. Jackson, you're a student at Etude, right? Yep. Okay. There you go. Mike is yours. Very inappropriate. Okay. Very small space. Cool. This is entitled, The Fault in Weight. That's not what this is about. Stars. Cool. Let's go. One, choose to run away from your problems. Two, remember all the animals you have to behind. Three, it may be time to look for a new place. Four, 400 square feet just isn't cutting it anymore. Five, recall the chips you left on your pleather couch. Six, you're poor. Seven, the busted remnants of those deep fried potatoes are probably plastered across the whiskers of those feline faces. Eight, their faces lingering with sorrow because you have the audacity to run away with such cowardice. Nine, metal frames rattle below your sandal-clad feet. Ten, the PA sounds. Eleven, team minus two minutes. Twelve, quickly, there is no time to spare. Thirteen, rush to the chair. Fourteen, strap in. Fifteen, remember. It's the law. Sixteen, wow, who knew NASA had such comfy seats? Seventeen, team minus five. Eighteen, brace for a liftoff. Nineteen, four, three, two, twenty. Avoid letting your sweat seep into the rad chairs aboard the spacecraft. Twenty-one, collect yourself. Twenty-two, blackout. Twenty-three, seems like you forgot. Twenty-one, twenty-four. Is this what it feels like? Twenty-five, space travel. Twenty-six, awake to an endless amazement and stimulus loneliness that the vast chasm of outer space can only provide. Twenty-seven, a paper lies in front of you. Twenty-eight, this many as well be the time to do some light reading. Twenty-nine, open lister call. Four things you're not going to believe about colonization. Thirty, along the edge of the printout there's a URL to which friends' character are you. Thirty-one, fall into a deep nostalgic depression about the nineties. Thirty-two, cheer yourself up. Thirty-three, there could be nothing better than bettering yourself. Thirty-four, write. Thirty-five, read page. Thirty-six, one, near speed of light travel velocity from light. Thirty-seven, as you read the article you find a sticky note. Thirty-eight, really a high-tech NASA. Thirty-nine, on the dashboard in front of you. Forty, laser powered spacecraft in cargo. Forty-one, ship with care. Forty-two, continue reading. Forty-three, even though light is this massless particle, it still has momentum. Forty-four, that old ninth grade mnemonic buzzes around your brain. Forty-five, mo mass, mo velocity, mo momentum. Forty-six, minus that tricky mass part. Forty-seven, quantum physics. Not your best subject. Forty-eight, this laser sail powered by the Deustre d'Array completed a few years ago will power your colonization project. Forty-nine, oddly direct for a luster call. Fifty, plants will be propelled a light week to assist colonize on K-53 in mere days. Fifty-one, giant red button to deploy package. Fifty-two, warning, package contains fragile materials. Fifty-three, safety above everything else. Fifty-four, upon deployment of package, button press will trigger a deep slumber until destination is reached. Fifty-five, there is not time to waste now. Fifty-six, 180 trillion miles of weight of you and those food-burying seeds attached to the sails. Fifty-seven, smash button aggressively out of indecisiveness. Fifty-eight, you awake to find a dense forest just outside the thick metal shielding surrounding your pod. Fifty-nine, all how time flies. Sixty, but a thought crosses your mind. Sixty-one, how can there be plants? Living plants. Sixty-two, for plants there must be air. Sixty-three, and for air there must be something to keep it from being ejected into space. Sixty-four, pull out the circle from travel. Sixty-five, read two and three. Sixty-six, so you think you can plant and the big air theory. Sixty-eight, these selections point to the presence of a magnetic field. Sixty-nine, be glad you weren't a wiz in physics class. Seventy, regret not studying more. Seventy-one, take note of the large spinning ryer in the sky attached to a ground-bound solar panels. Seventy-two, join your new friends. Seventy-three, well acquaintances. Seventy-four, okay fine. The people you're going to be nice to because an athlete doesn't like cats in space. Seventy-five, some ethical problems or something. Seventy-six, you've never been such a larger believer in science and the innate human desire for exploration. Seventy-seven, just pray that that large wires hasn't stopped spinning. Seventy-eight, and don't step outside the strong parts of the field. Seventy-nine, remember safety above everything else. Thank you. Thank you. Next up is Nancy Durden. I'm going to read what inspired my poem first, which is really short, but it was written by Richard Wilbur. All that we do is touch with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know. Survival in the deep. So start walking forward in tiny steps, at first stumbling and unsure, then haltingly with bigger steps, then water up to your knees, maybe muddy water, then up to your waist. You start feeling the tug of the current pulling on your legs. When the water is almost to your neck with a current that threatens to pull you under, if you keep going, just keep going. But now start fighting. Use your arms and your legs and everything you have. Believe, and you will learn how to survive in deep and treacherous waters, because you must to go on living, learn how to survive, not just from waiting in placid pools. I'm a student at the Atude School. I'm so glad to be there to have teachers like Tad. And this is something I wrote a little over a year ago. We speak only in anagrams, digging teeth into tongues, swinting until our eyelids become mirrors and our lips dust covered records, spinning steadily. You plant a garden in careful rows, tomatoes, rutabaga, purple carrots, never intersecting, never intertwining their roots. We follow a similar choreography. I hand you yellowing newspaper clippings from 11 years ago, and you pin them to the wall. They are all the same 26 letters rearranged. Thank you, Sarah. Mary and Hurch. You all remember Smokey the Bear? It's my book from 60, some years ago. This is no more Mr. Nice Bear. I know you've heard my story, how a big old fire took out my mother and me all singed her paws and fur that sent to Washington, the National Zoo. Quite the celebrity I became. Folks sending me honey. Some around a thousand campfires. How I, Smokey, could sniff the air, find a fire before it starts to flame. I gotta tell you, this living in the zoo wasn't all it was packed up to be. But there I was, smack in the middle of the capital in the middle of the US of A, and I always had myself a good pair of ears. You think I'm gone now? Just my picture coming into town, fire warnings, low, medium, high. But here's the deal. I still got power. And just playing with fire, better give you pause. Cause my adopted city is ready to blow up. And this fire shows no favors and you're all gonna burn. And yes, I will haunt you for the rest of your days. Thank you so much for the bear. That's okay. Next up we have Amber. Amber, come on. Okay, when you look at what the future holds, all you see is fear of what's to come. When you look at the past, all you see is anger, hate, and regret because of the mistakes you made or the choices you did or did not make. When you look at what's going on around you now, and you make the right choices, you can make the future and the past less scary. And it makes the past just as less hard and regretful. The past and the future are there to guide your choices and to better your choices so you don't make the same mistakes twice. If you make fewer mistakes and looking at the past can motivate you and looking at the future seems just as motivating. There's a member you are your own future because of your past. Just focus on them now and your past will go as bright as a smile. Excellent job. She said she wasn't nervous, but she did great. Thank you. You're welcome. This is called Wonders of the Fall. Of all the things you wish you'd never done, what's number one? Saying something you regret, another I'm not ready yet. Things you wish you'd done, what's number one? A conversation long gone, a story you wish you'd wished upon, meaning's taken, meaning's mistaken and risk never taken. It happens to us all, the wonders of the fall. Thank you. Lots of young people here today. And some are reading for the first time. So let's give them a hand because it's really important to do. Next up is Tony Mariani. In 1987, I became working in a children's emergency department in a mid-sized city. Most nights they were bringing money down. Bodies of young men killed by gang members, rival gangs were having wars. And as we know in Chicago and Milwaukee, those are the two major cities we hear about it continuing, but it goes online. It goes online. In 1993, in that same emergency department, my 15-year-old son was brought in one night. In my brief, I wrote a song that I incorporated this year, January, into my first self-published novel, a three-part series. It's called Change to Love. It's about slavery. My family's history. But so what's sad is modern time issues can be relatable to the past. So I just used my song of grief for my lost child and gang warfare to my great-grand parents' history book. Madea began to hum and then sing the words of the slave-warning song. Troubles are on the rise. We've got to stop and be for more of our babies die. The answer is in our homes. My mother's take a look and see what's wrong. Sometimes we sing to hold the key to keep then our babies happy the night free. If more of our babies go astray, la-la, who's going to be to show us the way? There's got to be another way. There's got to be a better way. Let's look around and see what can be done. There's got to be another way. There's got to be a better way. Somebody run and get the master son. Thank you. Thank you so much for sharing from your heart and singing for us today. Thank you for being here. Something must be done, right? More poetry. Sylvia Kavanaugh. Good afternoon. I'm a teacher at North High School and I'm originally from Pennsylvania. Thank you. This is Stone Boy of Appalachia. An oblong stone that was once a boy who angered a woman who stares out from the end of the yard where autofrains on cinder blocks eased themselves to dust. Their rusted coils author up a nested last resistance. Lockjaw Boy stands mute. City cousins run right past to picnic as their mothers sweep high on wooden swings giggling into tree tops and later on to gawk slack-jawed at the strip-mind vein scrape right down to the tendons of the town. Ed Morstein, up next. Couple of short announcements. I'm the East Region representative for the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. You can find all the information about our organization. It's a statewide organization of fellowship and support for Poetsville Conferences and readings and so on. It's WFOP.org. We put out a calendar every year. I have some copies of this 2018 calendar. They're $10, but they're $15 if you buy them in the bookstore and they're laid out, you know, in a week-by-week format. I also have some flyers for the... There's a call out for poems for the 2019 calendar. The deadline is December 1st. It's going to be edited by Fabu Carter, a Madison poet, and I have some in the folder here, so if you want one, just... just see me later. I have a short poem and then a shorter poem. This one is called Magnesium Ash, and it starts with an epigram by a Cuban poet, Iberto Padilla. Speak the truth. At least speak your truth. And afterward, let anything happen. Let them tear apart your best manuscripts. Let them break down your door. Let people come in, crawl around your body like it was a miracle or just a corpse. Magnesium Ash. You're dead. You're dead. You're dead. You're dead. You're dead. I'm trying to impress this upon you how dead you are. Only slightly less dead than you will be tomorrow. Only slightly less dead than ten years from now. And what of a hundred years? Only slightly less dead. Yet, you're still able to speak. And here's the heart of what I want you to hear. Your very temporary ability to speak so that others might hear your truth. Your ability to speak an open window, a window open and closed in the magnesium flash of an old Kodak brownie. Your magnesium ash while your voice, a photograph, sounds forever. And this is a 26-word poem. And A. B. C. Darian is a 26-line poem. And if you read down the first letter, it's the alphabet. And I've been trying to write a 26-word A. B. C. Darian. And this is the result. It's called A. B. C. Donald. Irrigant, blowhard, conceited Donald, egotistically flaunts garish hair. I just know little men never outgrow preposterous quests. Reason sits terrorized under veils watching xenophobic yapping zealot. Thank you. Very nice. A. B. C. Darian there. Thank you, Ed. Next is Emily Cayman. So I'm currently a student at UW-Stevens Point, but I was a member of the Poetry Club at Mark High School. So thanks to this camera for running that. This poem was called Love. I have never been in love. I don't know what it means to dedicate yourself to another person, to vow to stay together forever, to be married for 50 years and still remember the first time you saw him standing across the room. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like, this madness that makes you stumble over words until sentences intertwine, and the moment to say how you feel has passed, leaving you breathless and disappointed. But you smile anyway because these things take practice. I don't know how it feels to have a first kiss, soft lips meeting like strangers, lingering for a moment before going their separate ways, and maybe meeting again sometime if he fancies you and you like him. I don't know how it feels, but I know how it should be. So when he grabs you a little too hard and you brush it off, an accident after all. So when he hits you for the first time and you feel the pain from across your face like shame, so when he gets inside your head and whispers this is your fault, honestly you deserve this. So when the fear of him becomes so strong you are his slave. So when everyone else but you can see how you become silent, like a shadow, just barely there only because he still thinks you're useful. So when your friends notice behind his marks branding you like cattle claiming you as his and question why you still stay with him, think twice before you answer because he loves me. Love feels like sunshine in your soul, buoyancy in your steps he has stolen that, turned it dark. I have never known what it is to be in love but I know what you should be feeling, how he should be treating you. This is not supposed to be a one-way street where he steals the light and gives you the dark when he calls to apologize, recognize that he doesn't mean it. This is a loop that never ends it is a song of horror on repeat but you can turn off the radio and cut the chain. I may not know love well but I know enough to say run while you still can. We do not need another young girl covered in a white sheet killed in the name of what she claimed was love. Thank you. You've been coming for a few years now and you're really growing as a poet and that was... I mean, intense. Thank you for sharing. Okay. We're on to page two of the list, people. Angelica? David? Why do his friends insist on leading him down the wrong path? Stopping at nothing to incessantly pull him off center grabbing onto his very being and soul. Who are you? This is a question we all ask. Why do they insist on telling him that he's lying but he's not really who he thinks he is? Why does this generation stop at nothing to do everything that their parents told them not to do? Many of the boys in this generation are womenizers tearing apart the very relationships that they say they want and blaming it on everyone else. They say they watch that unspeakable thing and wonder why he doesn't. They wear a shameful act like a badge of honor. They wear it? As if it distinguishes men from boys. We first asked ourselves this in fifth grade when you had to do a project on yourself. The rural asked what did they mean. You looked it up, when you did you found the definition it didn't match who you are. It said things that made us want that to be us, but it didn't match. The project let us write down all of our perfections and if we wrote down our imperfections our teacher would judge, yet we know everyone has flaws as if our perfections made us grow versus what we went through and know. Frankly, we'd rather do some things because we don't want that awkward silence. I think he's gay. Yeah, I've thought that for a while. Yeah, he must be. And they have no sympathy. They say it was a joke, but the boy knows it wasn't. The second time we asked this was when we were in the middle of middle school trying to figure out which crowd to be in, where to sit for lunch. When our bodies were changing, so did our brains. In middle school, we wore clothes that maybe we didn't like, but everyone had them. Maybe if we all admitted they were overpriced in bad quality we would all feel a bit more comfortable. Maybe if we stopped staring at other people and comparing yourself to them as if we were a diagram or an application we could look at our skin and love it a bit more. The words uttered by the very people he called his friends. The people he could trust which cut so deeply into his soul wrenching and eating away at him until there was nothing left. We're thrown like a knife at the wall. Careful, exotic and meticulous. We're thrown so very hard to be sure the boy hears with the intent to maim and scar and tear down the walls that were so carefully built by his own hands. And beneath all of that scarring and hurt there's more of a man than the boys he faced earlier. A man who stands up for women, a man who does everything he can to stand up against the wind. The third time we ask ourselves this is when we're entering high school some of us could buy a whole new wardrobe but some of us were just driving for mittens for the winter. When we chose our classes we were a bit afraid because who would want to be in class that none of your friends were in. If we had good or great grades we'd be known as nerds. If we had trouble and not so good of grades we'd be known as dumb. If he played sports he'd be called a jock. If he understood women gay if she's had more than one boyfriend slut would be our name. If she rejected anyone the word boring would slip out so we didn't really know what society wanted from us. You were trying to balance school, your after-school activities plus a bonus of your social life to make sure you had a bit of character. Now let's not forget the late nights FaceTiming your loved ones or the late night yells of your parents because they're trying to pay for after-school activities. Once you hear them start you end your FaceTime. A man who defends what's right and fights to keep the right things alive. A man who only tries to please everyone and when he doesn't he takes it upon himself. A man who is strong who had built up so many defenses against this very thing happening to him and yet it was so quickly torn down. The fourth time we ask ourselves this is when you're ending high school joining in ACTs and college applications however you know more you've learned more of this terrible world. You grew stronger. A seed will turn into a flower a child can turn into a legacy. However the seed and child are closer than you think. The seed grows in the bones of the Hispanics in the bones of the Slates in the bones of Native Americans in the bones of who fought just to speak. But it was only a joke, right? Who are you? Thank you guys, thank you. It's like a lot of wisdom coming out today I really, really touch. Georgia, Russ Meyer. Hi, first quick announcement. I'd like to invite you all to a poetry reading a week from tomorrow that's Sunday October 8th and it's at the Paradigm Coffee and Music at 1202 North 8th Street just a few blocks north of here. Good food there, good coffee and tea and so on. And the poetry reading starts at two o'clock and it features Marilyn Zelke Window, Mary Ann Hope Smokey the Bear over here and me, I'm Georgia Russ Meyer living Sheboygan and it will be MCed by everybody's favorite MC, Lisa Rihos. We'll read for maybe an hour and then there is an open mic and we encourage people to come and read for the open mic. That will probably start around three o'clock. I'm going to read a pretty short poem and it is about what a sunset can teach us about economic justice. It's called Gold at Day's End. Windows and trees gilded like facades and artifacts of palaces, churches inestimable riches in twigs, leaves that never asked to be so brand or blessed who have the best of gold without a need for guards or preservation whose grasp on wealth is open palmed as from these spill coins that melt to crown the tallest trees last which gladly blow then throw their riches west to where the sun's low rays still blint of gold just passed along not seized or hoarded. Green grass whispers in the wind dying with patches of white lilies buzzing with bees and butterflies a small river runs in the valley easily flowing, going nowhere air clear and fresh filled with the soft sound of cicadas poofy clouds float along white as the new fallen snow but with something new, strange and something ominous time passes and things change the green grass is ripped up replaced with cold hard stone the bubbling river forced to flow underground the clouds gray and solemn striking fear with violent storms and acidic never-ending rains the once clear air replaced by smog filled with only the noises of construction and grinding metal but still, time goes on I think Minette and I are about the same height come on up Minette, boule-la-bâche I think so, yeah, I practice this little speech I hope I have the courage to say it my father is 91 he is on his final journey he went to Rocky Mill a couple months ago he lives there, there fantastic place but it's not easy it's mostly very hard and this morning it was a good day though and so I live for those moments of grace this is a little high okay, good, thank you the poem I'm going to read is not about him, but he's in it I wrote this when I was 17 years old my first year of college and I talked about it last year the only poem I've ever written before since but I won an award it was a little Artful Dodger magazine I won $10 and I look back at this poem 42 years later and I'm thinking it's about my 92 year old grandfather my father's father who was in much better health then than my father is now at 91 I'm thinking why was I writing about aging at 17 but I think I think I recognize the irony of this situation it was about actually five or six years before we used to go on these annual visits to Pennsylvania to visit OPAP my grandfather in Pennsylvania coal mining town very impoverished it was a shack he had these coffee cans that he used to spit tobacco in so as a kid I was of course fascinated by that but I was fascinated by other things the relationship between my father and his father the adults, the children so I'm reading this for the first and only time or at least the first time anyway it's called yearly visits before I started the only reason I have the courage to do this and to keep writing after this is because I just attended a five day retreat a writing retreat sort of to get myself away from the situation for a while and the thing that you could summarize what I learned in this retreat in one sentence writing is self-care writing, just the process of writing never mind the outcome the process of writing is self-care so those of you inspired by these amazing poems just try it and to that end I'm starting my own Western Sheboygan County writing group in my home in Elkhart Lake if you're interested take one of my cards we're gonna start the first week in November after a play I'm in is over email me and I'll let you know the time and place or we'll look it out together we're gonna start out drinking coffee and wine right for a half hour and I'm sorry coffee and tea right for a half hour and then break out the wine and share whatever we want to share very low key for me it's a good time if it's a good time for you too contact me afterwards okay here's the poem yearly visit coffee cans, platoons, clutter, stained floors musty damp smells linger in the rooms which are lined with the faded portraits of his long dead wife and son in the kitchen stands the old stove on whose door my dad used to sit as a boy and tie his shoes before rushing off to school says old pap every time we come but not before you want some ice cream outside the rusty lawn chairs encircle the old elm he lounges here as he does all summer we're not inside watching TV did you see the pirate stick the rent he asks baseball talk and neighborhood gossip complaints about the weather 92 years old and he's still mobile has a full head of white hair hazy blue eyes spits tobacco occasionally doesn't talk too well but he doesn't have much to say anyway according to Aunt Marie children such as I once was steering, laughing can't wait to get away afraid of him adults, his children mocking, scolding, bossing telling his savings he shakes his head and looks down powerless to the youngsters ashamed of his feebleness his eyes show nothing no more to say, dad starts the car and we follow first, pap presses a wrinkled bill in my hand buy yourself some candy he's said for 12 years now and attempted a wink the familiar Hungarian smile and a wave he blinks at the sun's reflection on shiny chrome as we quickly pull away in our catalogue reminding us that writing is self-care what I'm going to do is it's just a tiny bit after two and our featured reader is scheduled to start at two o'clock so I'm going to introduce him and invite him up to read and then we'll weave in the rest of the open mic reader so I hope you can stay a little bit yet Scott is looking frustrated can you say maybe okay okay let me introduce our featured reader let me find my sheet of paper Roberto Harrison Roberto Harrison's books include Oz, Counter, Demons Bicycle, Kulebra Bridge of the World and many chapbooks with Andrew Levy Roberto edited the poetry journal Canyon from 1997 to 2008 and he's also the editor of Brom Skull Press which has published over 20 chapbooks including the work of many Midwestern poets and recently Roberto served as one of the co-editors for the anthology Resist Much, Obey Little Inaugural Palms to the Resistance and I have the book I forgot it by my chair but it's okay it's very large it's a fabulous anthology and I'm giving a copy of it to the library so it will be available here it's an amazing collection of poetry about resistance to whatever is going on right now in our world anyway Roberto was one of the editors of this anthology and he's also the poet laureate of Milwaukee for 2017 through 2019 and he's a visual artist so he lives in Milwaukee with his wife Brenda Cardenas who's also a poet and also one of the editors of the anthology and she's here today so please give Roberto a warm shabuigan welcome everyone thank you for having me I'm going to try to reach for about 20 minutes you can't hear me? straight ahead okay now can you hear me? I'm going to figure out how to talk about this more closer like this okay okay I'm going to read for about 20 minutes thank you for having me it's a lot colder in the shade I want to dress new moon for ecology I walked a thousand miles in the event of apocalypse barefoot and there I found the horses to learn to breathe from dear reveal their wilderness to us as we wander as we remove the tires that brought us here the vacuous exception of dreams the dreamless attention the dream that holds all of us to the conflict that one sees in the heat and in the snow the conflict of the dream that opens its own eyes sobbing at the small darkness that will not comfort all of me as I disappear they will not believe without planes to be there without the untold overabundance of meaning of a chatter of a throng of bees the bees that remember for us where the flowers are in this time of fires and weapons the deathless becomes as close to execution as a careless wind does not remove the tree that settles through and arrive on departure to the sound of turmoil and the awful sensory panoramas that know no country, no escape to the memories as they surface here again come like a sand like the wilderness empty of its animals which will return through the light of the bridge but not as we can care for them again even the firing squad the many-headed beasts of underlings the serpent revealed to be my soul in this mythos which is not a story in this mythos which was based on fear but became something of love a lapse of misunderstanding there as a child I was to face an evil of the world from everywhere at once with no breathing room and it came from me and the cancer that will not subside to reveal the deer the skin that I wear the black deer as I am known to the south and the poverty of life of the people frequently diminished by simple signs have no meaning for me that family is a set of pebbles on the ground and I love them as I love the earth but not more you can see the head of the land arrive with me to the eastern shore but the horseshoe crabs eternally deliver the devil mask since the beginning of time I wear it now to step out of this world and to see it in my sleep which will fill the soil the voices of who is drawn to evil and who will merely learn from it this there is no end to the consciousness of abandonment inside or out as it extends further than the windows registries enough so that we can continue to imagine past the collapse of the sun wars are fought for it this occlusion which is peace wars are fought for it because we confuse the mode of the client wars will come of it because we have not seen clearly that only a small continent a fraction of the network's blood has been experienced by us in this world of absolute and constant assault of the silhouettes silence reveals the vast rents and a noble vistas that enrich us but we have no words and no ears for these this side was duplicated long ago due to rigidness which confuses the sacred and the healing songs with weakness and material for the first rows of winter I sang these songs and I saw these sacred things as my mind was dispersed through the endless knots of hearts in the rise of the network agorah and fully seen but now I've died to the uncountable place where these things and these songs though still protected become the light and the dark that I put together with a yoga panama to carry me there as a first and last panamanian and there are uncountably many of us evenly spread across the universe of every color every persuasion every shape speaking every language of fire or of water continuously propagating to help us I am here to help and I am here to die again to free myself from all of you with loving kindness and compassion as the sun promises to be here tomorrow or not as the moon reveals itself to be a new encircled sunrise get us said amigos let it fly let it fly let it come down like a storm and it approaches what language remains at the end of my migration by playing alone as an infant back to panama to forget always what were the tears that brought back the sloth the coconuts flown to impoverish each conversation from the end of time as now no towel there but what I searched for the combination to gain entry into heaven but did not angels have bargained for me but the sea will not replace her own animals with the ones I've meant to bring from the light to arrive with the impoverished always sent to negotiate troubles in the canal by f**king little voicing far away it began with kokolitos a plain effort to mend with us now computers will gradually disappear but the light remains now that our networks take on the work of survival the flash entered into a slave machine a caste system wades into water and saves itself from annihilation with annihilation from the salt at the frozen trauma like mine will sever in its projectiles the force field increases with the shelter that is destroyed the hiding place from future heat and salvation remember that one serves to reveal the shattered image of true self-knowledge the instantaneous errors of friendship that the moon ales to ride at this this tearing off of skin that will remain with the promises the ritual entry of flags and prayers that the nest of snakes there is no real survival value to practices no real insight into the heart of the universe except that in blindness I see the troubles that a single soul might make a soul to be one and two to eliminate the entrances and exits from the sphere of networks which includes the entire universe some stopped writing because they had written their dreams so well I cannot stop because I am just beginning to dream just beginning to see through myself in the world not so that I can become invisible to you again but to write invisibly through my heart the residence of my mind evenly distributed throughout endless imaginations oceans I write the release of a nice spy because my reptilian anchor the frozen tundra of my traumas will break off as ice flows as the earth does now and we will be one together to make the poles the place and elsewhere to find a new constellation that travels with us through the end of monuments and compassion and it's our own fault for not believing in the power of the wilderness and the power of the ancients of the imaginations seas in the events of a bridge which serves solely to manifest as a fourth form panama it's two yogas of the earth and of the waters between the sea and the ocean it's many fishes that claim us to fly as butterflies and remember that the apostle islands claim the capital of the abduble here and their residence with the ashes of my past passed through into the lake for the pioneers to cry again for you South Sea have the moments of split inside to deliver us from the possible of the extremes of the most noble exhaustion the possible life of the extremes of the most noble exhaustion don't tell me again that there is a hierarchy from which we cannot remove ourselves I've seen it that breathing will bring it all together as I cannot breathe and I do not see kindness is a main objective a rep of salvation a sunrise pierces an edge of the iron it counts down to believe no action in the unformed a retreat has opened silent winter long cuts to the memory extricating a tongue to find circles to seal keep it and speak again through the floor of an arriving galaxy to seal that sight is clear resource man of sorrows where does it stop all because of a thousand demonic giants and my attachment to them will not let them go till now to use to the memory of my offense which no longer protects me I am angry at the planets that have shrunken into the empty husk of a long dead dog in the desert there remorsefully connected to the abolished to the sound of a small refuge in the world of controls accidents near moon for the torturers one more event than the horizon of my misunderstood monster part of a plan of action that erases you that makes you tremble at the mind that I have not yet gained forever not everyone else has a ground they built onto them with homes and playgrounds but the television that does not threaten them with remorse as politics but the few the proud, the rewarded for being in a single place their entire lives no, that's what love is to you no, a piece of ground that you've worn so thoroughly that you feel as if you are part of the earth but I am that earth, not you I am that sun not you I am that moon that falls in the roof of your house to destroy the trees and your antenna to destroy the medicines you think will gain me sanity because of the neutral collapse of my body the charged fire of my emulation the hatred that I spew for the loved ones of the world who betrayed me and who were never human but they are no, what country made you the same as that of my pharmaceuticals the same as that of my imagined divinity which knows no bounds beyond the rabbit and which knows no bounds to make the keep still and quiet beyond the sun silence does not fear I smile when I see these words yet I am not silent enough see the silence eclipse the sun it must be as a heart does within the ocean of a sea through sounds of laughing data to make a whole meaning of it which explodes on occasion vision sticks in stones and leaves this I will be ready for my body opened with the books of the worlds of the silence that I licked and reed with my tongue of silence and sound apart and together again to dream myself piercing through hatred into a snake again a red and black snake followed from the forms of light that it breeds the forms of light in the eternal world of the blind that do not consider and do not divide a link to be more than flesh give up the view that will not square the circle give it up for the quaternary of every rain that harms you I aim to be a dissolving witness a far away wilderness with a robust interface that is necessary but made in the world of roads while in my heart I have no roads bewildered in the midst of the planets and their far away visits and their far away visits a self sustaining soul in wilderness one with no time and no seeing it breaks into what seems to be an absent world except to the light glass colors snowed in to the interior mustard seed grain of rice formed and unformed radiations a new sun beyond the poles makes a gift of itself to the unconditioned a gift from no doctor it's always there burning through a song of cognition the past on the content of extermination the west is ignorant of the world but it believes in its totem despite the ground that will never be owned I am not from any direction because I have folded in on myself to attract wandering there is no wandering for vanity there I eclipse dreaming on their own at least they dream all planets must know that the earth now changes toward what was promised long ago and not returning to the absent interior of life know that our blood makes a mark on the world to signify a new mind of the moon to symbolize two patterns and affections to save again what the world was once horses of insight I walked the woods after breathing quietly and seeing everything dissolve four times I saw the horses one black stallion with a lightning bolt of white streaking down its forehead and two brown mares each day I sang to them and showed them each of my hands the first day all of them came to the fence to share with me their origins the second day they were already at the fence when I arrived to fill the balls of light inside the third day a black cat with a lightning bolt of white on its chest came and played with me as the horses breathed quietly at a distance far away but also on the inside of my heart they were at the dividing line between each breath and carried my light from one breath to the next the cat was happy as it was the night where mourning must be born the last day the two mares waited apprehensively for me as a black stallion breathed upon the fence all things must cross and which divides him from the mares I sang to them each day and each day showed them each of my hands and on the last day I fulfilled my promise to them that they would be the horses of my dream that I would ride with them through all the lands that now arrive inside the breath and as I said goodbye and left I walked away and further on I heard the hoof steps and trees I thought were deer the horses as they see me now revealed to be with them poetry in a time of war sometimes poetry becomes armor it could be difficult to write poetry as a form of vulnerability not only vulnerability to others but also to the universe anything can be made into armor confession, the personal politics, mythology the everyday views of nature, history anything stylized in that rest during motion, any angle the same views can be used to allow us to be vulnerable to be in motion and open still and receptive we can't stop at the merely personal or at the merely formal to make a poetry without armor the deciding line is a line which makes an approximate symmetry of our bodies this line is the equator that writes the world in all directions I propose a poetry of vulnerability in a time of war in any time where the word belongs we must imagine evil as a sound and a song of goodness in this poetry the devil faces a mass who can wear to celebrate it only a struggle with the demonic delivers a link to a song only to the illusory outside from the illusion of us to the illusion of us it implies a vibrational communion with others in how words and phrases break open let seas destroyed and created again in the coldness of space then destroyed and created again in the volcanic origins of the earth in this poetry the illusion of self and other dissolves if we can see it and we usually can't but we can come closer and closer to that fact through its breathing the vulnerable poet delivers her words as they are spoken to us as well from other times and other places growing in the present as two hands put together not only the utility but the origin of the language that is being shared is under question did it appear as a miracle is muteness more true does it bind us to the world is life possible its body becomes elemental and formless able to mutate into any form and any spirit it is the embodiment of silence it is unity turned in on itself to be zero resting there at the very beginning unraveling in the light of the end the vulnerable allows us to experience the red and black sound the sound born of islands in a tropics and from the geometries of snow in a crushing winter both tied together by the net this sound is a blood the black divine in a crisp cool night that collapse it comes to us as a bridge between the senses it erases limits to the mouth and wields a private soul through the earth it is the underground home for the rabbit that writes for mystery and for the snake that swallows the egg at the end of time vulnerability is non-conceptual it is timeless and filled space its sounds are always incomplete and strive for wholeness it implies that every discomfort every pain grows into a beaming sun as the night sky is alive its satellites wander without aim its computation is a single table dual which aims to be a bridge of the world it is symbolic as each gesture is symbolic and mythological is the only story ever told it is psychic and psychotic as it moves to end war with the mind and makes love to everyone and everything eternally through a single body without a notion of self it is your pulse from things when the true and false arrive and stand fast in the air of life it overflows as all signs arrive to bring us a new communion the whole and time that allows us to be free the computer of vulnerability is the intermediate link between worlds it is the ocean made plain and alive by the sky it arrives as an egg in the palm of each poem the circle of eternity the planes without roads in the woods of our home the computer is a notion of toggles and as a bridge makes the weather arrive it bleeds to the body of the world it is a start in the destiny of the word it erases itself as poetry has erased itself and allows us to make the first full circle to belong to the earth as the weather changes to bring a first full meaning of our voice to the sands and the organs of life moved back and forth and on and off by the moon thank you just brimming with imagery and thank you Roberto, let's give our Milwaukee Poet Laureates a round of applause and let's give all of us who've read already a hand in those we have to read which next up is Scott Schmidt Roberto, thank you I have no idea how one is supposed to follow something like that so we all have our own art forms and the things that inspire them or the catalyst that cause us to take thought and put it on paper as I get older I tend to notice things more and I'm learning to write about moments in my life and when I talk about moments I mean not like hey I went to an afternoon I had a great dinner and there was hours and hours and hours of fun so there's really tiny moments that we tend to ignore or forget that if we just took a second to really think them through we have a significant meaning in our lives so this poem is very simply titled The Man it was written about an hour and a half after I had this experience outside of a quick trip in New Holstein, Wisconsin he wore the override and dark sunglasses of an old man whose eyes had seen too much too much sunlight too much disappointment too much loss himself as he is now versus the way he used to be his gait was unsteady and he used my car as a banister as he shuffled towards the curb wavering a bit as if the wind were buffering him from both sides simultaneously stopping just short of the curb he stood for a moment vacillating and as I stood there waiting for him to pass I thought for a second he might turn back to my surprise he did not instead with the stoic uncertainty of one who has become accustomed to a body that now spoke a language foreign to that of the brain used to command it he raised one foot using it as a feeler he parted the air in front of the curb searching once twice three times standing again vacillating I asked gently so as not to pour salt on the wounded pride of a man whose life experiences undoubtedly outweighed my own without looking in my direction he volleied my soft serve with the question of his own is there a curb there yes sir there is I replied and put my arm up for him to grasp never taking his eyes off of where he wanted to be he reached out his hand accepting my offering his grip was firm he took a second with his hand on my arm mustering his own strength borrowing some of mine and then placed his foot on the curb and stepped up one more shuffling step two pause are you good I asked him yes thank you he said and unceremoniously resumed his shuffling gate this time towards the door of the establishment to which he sought entrance I watched him go to make certain he arrived at his destination safely and in part because for a brief moment I couldn't help but see a bit of myself in the form of that old man thirty years from now with the same unsteady shuffling gate the same stoic uncertainty and with that small glints at one of a plethora of possible future means I wondered if someone would be there standing at the curb alright the poetry is warming us up right okay so if you need to move around and like feel free go stand in the sun, shake it up a little okay sunshine me hello everyone I am sunshine me and I'm a student from north and this is my phone closer there you go there is more to humans than meets the eye at first glance you will see that we fight, we steal we cheat and we lie but if you stay long enough to get to know us you will also see that we love we help we share and we stand up in the face of injustice we are humans capable of terrible destruction and enormous compassion it is an ongoing war that we each must face in our lives like a sailor lost in a storm we are fighting every moment just to make it back home and even though we have lost battles we have yet to lose the war there will be days where our faith fails us days where our allies turn into our enemies days where all hope has vanished into the storm but the day will never come where we forsake this earth and turn our backs on its people our races are united by history so that we may stand to save the future together we all possess the power to be heroes if only we had the courage to try through the blood, sweat tears we are the living, the breathing and the persevering human legend and at the heart of each great myth there lies our truth pardon us, can you come? instead of reading my own I wanted to bring a poem by one of my very favorite poets who was our poet laureate from in 2015 and 2016 one Felipe Herrera and this is his poem poem by poem in memory of Cynthia Herd, Susie Jackson Ethel Lance Reverend DePayne Middleton Doctor Honorable Reverend Clementa Pinkney Tywanza Sanders Reverend Daniel Simmons Sr. Reverend Sharonda Singleton Myra Thompson shot and killed while at church Charleston, South Carolina 618 2015 Rip Poem by poem we can end the violence after every other day 9 killed in Charleston, South Carolina they are not 9 they are each one alive we do not know you have a poem to offer it is made of action you must search for it run outside and give your life to it when you find it walk it back carry it taller than the city where you live when the blood comes down do not ask if it is your blood it is made of 9 drops honor them wash them stop them from falling I don't know how to say last name is Haley still here I'm Haley Brinke I'm from North High I'm a part of the poetry club and this is my poem Forbidden Love it all happened so fast one second I'm winning the next I've lost smashed into the cold hard ground this is it I think with no tear in my eye or standards in my heart then you came standing strong you took the hit saving my life the life of a monster I tried to fight you untrusting of your good intentions untrusting the creature of nightmares I began to see you in life I began to care and so did you we burn a dance of questions spinning and twirling and never ending cycle trying to figure the other out and we did happy yes happy you taught me how to feel joy you taught me what it means to truly live you taught me love I taught you to never drug your book by its old warm and jagged cover I taught you how to love the pain this is it I tell you this time I'm sad I've lived for so long without knowing the beauty of this world and you you taught me to see its magnificence I don't want to leave it but I must you may think me human but I am still cursed from birth this world I love is not mine this world is not meant for us goodbye I have accepted it please shed no tears for me find someone better please don't feel sorry for me save it for another this is it my love Jerry Birch this is for Connie who has received a sentence that her cancer will take her in the next three to six months this tiny sip little bird a finch I think landed on the bird bath took a sip of the universe then flew off to Hono who knows where the rain that filled the bird bath came from eternity the little bird's life is but a mere peace of forever a tiny grace here only for a moment this minute taste of infinity where we also briefly dwell sparkles with joy and pain burns bright for an instant that disappears without a sign we stay a while too then a fly away to the worlds where yellow birds meet to pass along the wisdom of eternity and a day this poem was written a while ago but I think it's relevant now because of Ken Burns Vietnam War it's just concluded on Thursday and I thought it was very interesting that the very end reversed he didn't speak of this of battle or patriotism he focused on the soldiers he focused on the protracted march one foot in front of the other and finally ending with the words they endured I've always wondered how do you choose the last words in a documentary and now and I thought it was very appropriate and moving for him to focus on the soldiers on both sides and say they endured I'm going to read performed by Paul which has his inspiration Robert's Frost and stopping by the woods on a snowy night in the context it was a rhyme scheme A, A, B, A B, B C, B C, C, D, C one stands at the next by a rhyme I have a visual aid whose boots these are you'll come to know just an average G.I. Joe a mother's son just turned 19 and then the far off war did go and in war's chaos his life careened from vibrant youth to death obscene his helmet on a rife of all negated ambush suddenly him under scene a folded flag a bugle call some tributes be stole when soldiers fall but clenching throat and tearing eye are what his mourners shall most recall I was there I saw him die it scarred my soul which questions why I should live but he did die God when, how will I find peace epilogue yes the survivor yearns aches for peace, prays for peace and so should we all but what to pray all to pray simply from the heart eternal father bless and protect us all and fill us with grace the grace that will empower and sustain us in the quest for peace a peace a quest that has no end but now this moment's end has come so let us go in peace and love and hope saying together so be it so be it amen thank you we have two poets we have to come and then we're going to shift into some music so let's have Mary Cosan like Scott this is an issue of how do I follow Frank what I've been put together is called change and I had an idea that it would be kind of life-hearted and it kind of morphed into poem but maybe like the sermon change is hard change isn't hard when I got my winter pants long pants out a couple weeks ago they were snug so I got my pants the other night when I was fixing supper I discovered we were out of frozen corn so I got corn chips to have with supper as my vegetable not long ago I saw a young boy being bullied and I turned around and went the other way change is easy when it's easy isn't always the right change the right choice to make those pants were a sign I needed to do something to make a change exercise and diet the the pant they lost or the empty bag of frozen corn was a sign I needed to find another vegetable a real vegetable not corn chips they don't come and seeing that boy being bullied I needed to do something say something make that hard choice that hard change that easy change isn't always isn't usually the right change to make we need to find the strength in our hearts we need to find the strength in our bodies in our souls to make that harder change the better change for good before we have our last poet I do want to thank everyone for being here I want to thank the library meet public library for hosting us today yes applaud the library it's a wonderful library and especially I want to thank my colleague and friend Jeannie Gartman for all she did to help make this day happen I want to thank all the teachers from North and Etude and everyone who came out from Faraway, Depeer Milwaukee and elsewhere so thank you all and on that note of thanks I want to invite Dalyne Vang so the poem I'm going to read is called If I Kept You If I Kept You I would have been able to hold you in my arms feel each of your tiny little fingers tickle your toes if I kept you I would have been able to treasure you like an old music box left in the attic collecting dust if I kept you I would have been able to watch you grow and say your first word and your first crawl say your first fall to your first walk I would have been able to if I had kept you and I didn't I didn't I let you bleed from my body and allow you to kick and claw my stomach with whatever little strength you had which was equivalent to none because you were only as big as a tiny bouncy ball and I allowed myself permission to bleed but I knew that I should be the one to ask you if I could if I could shed these unworthy tears and sleep with my eyes so I'd open with crested tears if I could go through boxes and boxes of tissues because my sleeves were too wet and I couldn't find the trees to give me the oxidant to breathe if I kept you I wouldn't have known what to do but I could have learned and yet selfishly I chose not to and decided I wasn't able to without first trying to and because I wouldn't and came up with excuses I dug myself a hole to lie in because if you were in one the least that I could do was lie next to you Thank you Bellamy Okay this brings to completion the poetry part of our afternoon together we want to invite back to the stage for some music John Dahl when I first met John he was returning to his hometown of Sheboygan after a long time away mostly in the Pacific Northwest and by day John had worked for the United Way and went and established the charitable organization in London where he lived for two years before coming home to Sheboygan in 2013 and along the way John has taught guitar and song writing he taught at the University of Washington in Seattle and he once he said he made his way across America singing and playing music in from coffee house to pub to hotel lounge he's played gigs in England in Glastonbury and the Ava Berry solstice fest where is John he returned he returned to Sheboygan two years ago to marry his junior high sweetheart Jane and retire which is when his career as a songwriter began in earnest and John recently won the songwriting competition at the Cedarburg Cultural Center annual Bluebird Cafe which has been described as Wisconsin's largest and most eclectic open mic but clearly they have not come here to our open mic John has a new CD and as luck would have it he hasn't here for sale so check it out but now please give me a warm give a warm welcome back to John and John this closes up at three right yeah so this will be my last one right let's see if a couple people have already fallen over frozen on the ground last the sound supposedly at one point 15 years old he was in the monastery in Lhasa in the Chinese army was on the outskirts of town orders and cannon fire artillery at the city and they were going to take him 15 years old sitting in the meditation hall meditating by himself one of his minions finally couldn't take it anymore he had anxiety and he broke into the meditation hall and he said you know we've got to get out of here there's something you know they're bombing us they're on the outskirts of the city the Chinese army we got to do something and the Dalai Lama supposedly looked up and said trouble might be coming trouble trouble I see it from here hungry soldiers at my gate full trouble I'm here hungry soldiers it'll be all rats and thunder the field of pain the strain of a broken trouble trouble I feel