Over in That Corner, the Puppets

Posted on April 2, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

Jack will livestream today’s poem at 9am on his Facebook Page here, where the video will will be saved for viewing, in case you missed it.

You may know of the Myers-Briggs test.

You take it and end up with a combination of letters that represent ends of continuums of behavioral preferences.

Usually people have preferences that can slide based on the conditions at hand. For example, one person might test out as 60/40 Extroverted to Introverted. And how they express extroversion or introversion depends on their day, who they are with, how happy their amygdalas are, what they are called upon to do, how they feel, etc.

As we all probably know, America is dominated by extroverts. In fact introverts are often understood as having something “wrong with them.” And so, in this country, introverts must learn to pass as extroverts. ‘Tis why this guy is very often misread as extroverted when actually on the test, I have no “E” at all. I’ve been faking it. Really faking it. For 76 years.

I am 100 percent “I.”

My Myers-Briggs type is INFP, extraordinarily, fiercely INFP. Only 5 percent of the population expresses this type, and I express it hard.

Why bring all this up? Because, while I understand how difficult seclusion is for those who are extroverted, (“I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE! I GOTTA SEE THE GANG! I HAVE TO HANG OUT! I REALLY HAVE TO HIT THE COFFEE SHOP, THE PUB!”), I’m happy living as a hibernating bookworm. This life is good for me. The circumstances are terribly sad. But the sequestering is no hardship at all.

But we introverts want you to know that because we’ve been faking it all our lives, we really do understand. We’re here for you mad extroverts. We’re listeners. Please feel free to come within six feet of us at the grocers, and let it out!

Here’s a poem written for the most generous and important of poets, another introvert, one who travels the world especially to help children — Naomi Shihab Nye, The Poet Laureate for Youth in the United States. I hope you see its connection to what we are are all trying to learn to deal with.

Over in That Corner, the Puppets

Even when the weather changes,
remember to pet the dog, make
the cat purr, watch whatever

comes to the window. If you
stand there long enough,
someone will come by,

a stranger perhaps, one who
could be more, but needs
to keep walking. “Hello”

is likely all you can say.

–for Naomi Shihab Nye

–Jack Ridl

First published in Peninsula Poets

Subsequently published in Saint Peter and the Goldfinch (Wayne State University Press)

Here’s a wonderfully generous gift from documentary film maker/poet John Stanton:

“I wonder if the people you mail your weekly missives to would enjoy free access to a small collection of documentary films? I do not want to assume anything. But I keep thinking that it might give people something to do during all this self-isolation. If you think it is a good idea, feel free to send them out. All anyone has to do to see them is click on the links.”

Wood Sails Dreams (60-min) This was a film festival hit. The idea of boats made of trees and powered by the wind is a small miracle. The people who build and restore these boats are very soulful.
https://vimeo.com/68012984

Oral History: Life During the Troubles, Belfast, Northern Ireland (20-min)
https://vimeo.com/259726267

The Last Bay Scallop (30-min) The tradition of dredging for bay scallops runs deep in coastal southeast New England. But are the last days of this cottage industry on the horizon?
https://vimeo.com/156956735

Memories of the Aud (45-minutes) In the last week before the closing of the Buffalo Auditorium we spoke with people for whom the sports played there gave them a sense of community.
https://vimeo.com/87802476

One Man’s Vietnam (8-min) This might be my favorite. Peter Sylvia is a friend of mine, who was drafted a few weeks after he graduated from art college in 1968. As an act of catharsis he painted what he saw, and then simply put the canvasses in his attic. This short film was made the day he took them down from the attic.
https://vimeo.com/52106358

The Pandemic may put the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague online, and we will let you know about that. It had been set for 7pm on April 28 in the store, along with friend and poet Mark Hiskes. When we can return there, I guarantee you will love the place along with its good food and beverages. Many thanks to owner and arts promoter Bryan Uecker.

Jack’s Homily, “The Devil Went Down to Douglas” is here for those of you interested in marking the occasion.

Don’t miss subscribing to this podcast. And Then Suddenly is the brainchild of the kind and brilliant Angela Santillo, whose path I’ve crossed once before while working with CavanKerry Press. Her podcast has a brilliant premise… Describe a moment in your life that changed… everything. She’s had that moment, and from it she has made this podcast. Here’s the conversation we had recently. I hope you explore many of the episodes. Because they will change you. In a good way.

There will be an outstanding Writers Conference held at The Grace A. Dow Library in the Dow Gardens in Midland on July 21 and 22. Each date has a 1-4 afternoon workshop and a reading in the evening along with a Q & A. July 21 features Desiree Cooper and John Mauk. July 22 features Anne-Marie Oomen and me. The workshops are capped at 20 people.

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Visit Reader’s World or Hope-Geneva Bookstore in Holland, The Bookman in Grand Haven, the Michigan News Agency in Kalamazoo, and The Book Nook & Java Shop in Montague to find Jack’s books in West Michigan.

Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

Take Love for Granted

Posted on March 26, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

Jack was on livestream with today’s poem at 9am, on his Facebook page. Click here to see the video…)

Well, here we are. No, you are there, and I am here, and never the twain shall meet, it appears, for a while, unless we happen to be six feet apart.

I have witnessed or learned of a number of fascinating things, most of which you likely know…

I love the ZOOM or SKYPE cocktail parties and “It’s five o’clock somewhere times.” Cracks me up when our neighbor to the north, an open-window-shout away, joins Julie and our neighbor across the street for an online chat, in their pajamas.

And then of course the other day I noted a line clear out the door of the local gun and ammo shop.

On Sunday morning during the usual church hour, Julie set up a conversation online for our church members to meet up, each getting a square so we could see each face. It was a kind of gigantic UCC non-Hollywood Squares show. I won’t tell you who Paul Lynde was. (Bob.) The talk ranged from how everyone was holding up to a requested loving prayer from Stan Greene to making fun of one another to jokes seldom heard in a church group.

I’ve kept my “One on One” poetry sessions going, obviously online. (You’re welcome to sign up. Just click on “contact” from ridl.com.)

And my weekly conversation with Jim Allis took place this morning, even though neither one of us knew how to set it up so there was an immediate “JUUUUULIEEEEEE!!!!” And she even brought out Jim’s favorite mug with his favorite tea in its bag sitting atop the mug.

After Jim and I had our usual conversation, our dog Vivi and I went for a walk. And for some reason I kept thinking about Jim’s mug and that unopened tea bag and realized THAT’S what I’ve been missing and been brooding about concerning the wonder of online. I don’t want to bring on a downer, not at all. In fact just the opposite. I hope that when this is all over we can return to what I’m missing, what I’ll call companionship.

“Can I try that drink? What’s in it?”
“Do you mind if I feel that sweater you’re making?”
“I have to pee. Where’s your bathroom?”
“Where did you get this sofa. It is sooooo comfortable.”
“Come here! Look out the window. There’s a Ladderback on the oak.”
“Can I go sit by your dog? She’s so mellow.”
“Oh my gosh! Does your cat hop onto everyone’s lap? I love this.”

Well, it was Vivi, my patting her, my dropping the leash, asking her to stay, walking away, then saying “Come,” and having her run right up to me and get scrubbed and squished all over.

Okay. I am gonna finish with one downer, but it’s more a forewarning. Fact: divorces increase during times when we are required to stay sequestered. Make sure if you live with another that you allow for space and good talk time and as best as you can, stay patient.

Take Love for Granted

Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
In the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring it
in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love each other,
the silence, sighing,
and saying, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

–Jack Ridl

First published in The Louisville Review.

Subsequently published in Practicing to walk Like a Heron, Wayne State University Press.

Unless the pandemic causes it to be cancelled, the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague has been set for 7pm on April 28, when I’ll be joined by friend and poet Mark Hiskes. I guarantee you will love the place along with its good food and beverages. Many thanks to owner and arts promoter Bryan Uecker.

Jack’s Homily, “The Devil Went Down to Douglas” is here for those of you interested in marking the occasion.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

Within the Moment of Indefinite Suffering

Posted on March 19, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

Starting Next Week: Video Poems.

We will be taping the poems for you so you can have a small reading each week. Because we need each other’s faces and voices, don’t you think?

—-

What a way to be united, eh? Here’s an elbow hug to all of you.

And helplessly, I hope that you are not among those infected.

It’s almost our daughter’s birthday. She has insisted that her age be 44 plus one. (Let it sink in. It can take a minute.)

I am often asked why I am happy all the time. It’s almost as if the question were really, “Don’t you know what’s going on?!?”

Let’s get something straight right off the bat that can’t be swung for at least a month…

I am NOT happy. In fact, I am quite sad. All. The. Time.

In fact, I don’t even believe in happiness. The pursuit of that imaginary goal in the Declaration was one of the world’s greatest mistakes. It’s caused more misery and break-ups as people keep trying to be happy and using it as a reason to leave one another. “Oh, I don’t know; I’m just not happy.”

Well, good luck on your next safari.

Happy is something that sometimes comes along. It’s not, never has been a part of us. “I need to see a therapist.” “Why?” “Oh, I don’t know, I’m just not happy.”

How in this world can anyone be happy? Sure, for a bit. It comes from an “external circumstance or stimulation.” We can’t decide to BE HAPPY. (Oh, I know the song: 🎼”Don’t worry. Be happy.”🎼)

Don’t worry??

How at a time like this, could one feel happiness?

What you may see is that I choose to behave cheerfully as an act of benevolence toward others. And lest you think I am consistent or can sustain this. Nope.

Of course I am full of disdain for those who or that which deserves it. And oh do I let down those who most deserve my being of good cheer. Time and again I forget that being of good cheer is something I must choose to be. It’s a set of muscles that need to be exercised constantly, but do get tired.

So, Let’s Be of Good Cheer. Or let’s at least try. Especially now..

Within the Moment of Indefinite Suffering

All it takes is a touch. You can be walking
your dog. Your dog can be stopping to
sniff a patch of jewel weed or pausing
to pee on a post surrounded by poison ivy.

You could be watching a swallowtail slowly
lifting and settling its wings while resting on
a swatch of crown vetch. The sun could be
lost behind clouds, clustered in a cumulus

mound of white or sinister gray, the moon
could be full, waning, new, the stars moving
across their scrim of deep space, everything
still benign in its revolving threat. You

could be sweeping the walk, passing under
the pergola draped in wisteria, wedding veil,
honeysuckle, or merely sitting on the bench
beside the brook out back. Or taking a path

through the park, joggers steady-stepping, or
walking along the well-worn trail to the pond
at the edge of town where you could be sitting
under the willow, its branches hanging their braids

over your wait for the sunfish to surface. It could all be
beautiful: the day, the light, the breeze bending the tall grass.

— Dedicated to all those suffering under the politics of the pandemic.

–Jack Ridl

First published in a slightly different form in Poet Lore.
Subsequently published in Practicing to Walk Like a Heron (Wayne State U. Press)

Jack’s Homily, “The Devil Went Down to Douglas” is here for those of you interested in marking the occasion.

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

Zimmer Teaches a Young Dog Old Tricks

Posted on March 5, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

This post is personal. It’s a little story about a man I admired and loved and lost.

A tribute to Poet/writer/editor Paul Zimmer

When I was 23, I wrote songs. When that didn’t work out, and I didn’t knock Paul Simon off the charts, I decided to write poems. After all, I had written lyrics, so poems had to be much easier. No music!

I had been reading a lot of Rod McKuen and feeling sorry for myself — sure-fire inspiration for poetry. So I went out and bought a yellow legal tablet (so cool!) and wrote and wrote.

I was living in Pittsburgh. A classmate was the administrative assistant at the International Poetry Forum there. She offered to introduce me to the poet Paul Zimmer, then also the editor of The University of Pittsburgh Press.

I summoned up the nerve to ask Paul if he would take a look at my poems and offer any advice. Under my arm were likely fifty-some pieces. Gracious as I had heard he was, Paul took the pile, combed through a few and gently said, “Let’s start over.”

That began my apprenticeship with an American original. He said he would tell me when I had written a poem. I asked him what his fee would be. He said, “Ya know, instead of a fee, what I’d really love would be access to your father’s locker room before and after games. (My father was at the time the head basketball coach at PITT.) I had grown up in Dad’s locker rooms, and this was all Paul wanted? He said it would be a thrill and interesting to watch pre-game talks as well as the press conference after a game.

We had a deal.

We met every few weeks. Paul would look at a poem, one about fishing, for instance, and say things like, “Now go read Yeats’s poem about a fisherman.”

After six weeks, he had not said I had written a poem. I asked if I should quit.

“If you want to,” he said.

Coach’s kids don’t quit.

Two and a half years later, he looked at the poem I’d brought and said, “You did it. This is not only a poem; it’s your poem.”

And that was it.

Paul Zimmer created a character “Zimmer,” a sometimes bumbler, a man of empathy. He loved jazz. He loved his dogs. He loved his family.

Two weeks ago I learned my mentor had died–in October. Nothing in the New York Times or anywhere. No obituary to be found. Paul had published the first books of at least forty writers who are now critically acclaimed. He discovered them. And not a tribute anywhere..

As a journalist in the Army, Paul covered the first tests of the atom bomb. He died of effects of that exposure. He wrote “Zimmer: Ass Over Tea Cups into the Atomic Age.” There is just one of his poems here.

RIP, Zimmer.

Zimmer Teaches a Young Dog Old Tricks

Zimmer took me on. that wheezing, pony-bottled
gentleman assured me, sure as shootin’
I would write/make poems
hard as Wanda’s winter nipples.*
Zimmer, creaking critic, teased me
out of taught, told me
here a line and there a dash had
kicked his ass. He wiped my pose,
and led me like a lemming
to the little magazines.
Zimmer pulled my purple plug.
He ordered me to “look at Yeats’s fisherman
before you toss your lines.
No bass would hit your lurid bait.”
Zimmer punched my eyes out.
then he sent me searching blind for images
till now at night I see no stars,
no sleek and sinewed constellation.
I’m led by a grin across our galaxy
as this mock hero shuffles through my Milky Way,
a pencil in his bow. “Who is, what is that?”
demands the learned astronomer.
The starry night winks back and whispers, “Zimmer.”

*Wanda was one of Zimmer’s characters.

–Jack Ridl

Published in The Same Ghost and in Poems from The Same Ghost and Between (Dawn Valley Press)

D.R. James has published a new collection, Flip Requiem with cover by Meridith Ridl. David does fascinating things with the ways he modifies nouns, giving us wonderfully fresh perceptions. Anne-Marie Oomen writes of these poems, “D.R. James flips poetic expectations like a skilled juggler of the world’s finest carnival.” Find it at your bookstore, or order from the publisher Dos Madres Press, Inc.

At last, the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague has been set.–7pm on April 28. I guarantee you will love the place along with its good food and beverages. Many thanks to owner and arts promoter Bryan Uecker.

Jack’s Homily, “The Devil Went Down to Douglas” is here for those of you interested in marking the occasion.

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

A Question of Prayer

Posted on February 27, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

Preview:Next week’s post will be a piece about my mentor, the late Paul Zimmer: An American Original.

Well, while thousands linger helplessly and needlessly behind bars, our dictator goes about pardoning crooks.

So, let’s change the subject to something wonderful that can happen anywhere, that puts loving good into the world…

When the pastor of our UCC church accepted a sabbatical, the congregation decided NOT to bring in anyone to take over while Pastor Sal was gone for twelve weeks. Instead, volunteers have done the readings, the announcements, the “Joys and Concerns,” the offertory, the decisions about music, leading communion, the benediction. Also twelve different members were selected to give the homily each week.

And each week the service has been “perfectly imperfect.” Yes, each week something is shall we say awkwardly handled. And now here’s where the joy comes in… Every single time, the whole congregation smiles and comes close to a unison “That’s okay!” And anyone who goofs just laughs and says something like “Well, I guess I had better read what I was supposed to read!”

There is never an eye-roll or a set of pursed lips or a judgment or a critical comment or a chagrined sigh. Instead there are sweet grins and a gentle and unified feeling of full understanding. Never have I felt community more than at those moments.

I’m not gonna draw some lame moral from this. Let’s call it a parable. This has happened from the first Sunday on. One time my wife Julie saw that the person meant to lead communion was absent. Julie jumped up from the pew and, well, led communion, graciously. And may it happen again this Sunday, March 1, when I am the one stumbling through the homily. May it be a joy, and not a concern.

The Question of Prayer

Monks know we can be one
with the world without words,

a name, not even a murmur
or breath. Within the modesty

of presence, prayer could be green,
slow, tattered, cold, alone

as a possum crossing
a back road. It’s the touch

of the still. It’s where
we are Amen, Shalom,

Namaste — it’s our there, here,
our forgotten habitat of yes.

We become sigh, our “I”
the wet dog, the sparrow nesting

in the anonymity of brown.

for Randy Smit

–Jack Ridl

First published in Southern Poetry Review.
Subsequently published in Saint Peter and the Goldfinch (Wayne State University Press)

Julie here saying NO KIDDING: Jack is giving the Homily, “The Devil Went Down to Douglas” at Douglas UCC Church, 56 Wall Street, in Douglas, on Sunday, March 1, 10am. This event is not likely to be repeated, so come on down!

We are working at rescheduling the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague thanks to the kindness of owner Bryan Uecker.

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

We are working at rescheduling the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague thanks to the kindness of owner Bryan Uecker.

The Collection

Posted on February 20, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

How do you read? I don’t mean sentence by sentence. (Smart aleck.) Nor do I mean that you attempt to out speed-read Evelyn Wood!

Maybe you read one book at a time, can’t put it down. Or maybe once you start a book and find yourself uninterested in it, you feel obligated to finish it. Perhaps you finish the book club book one hour before the meeting.

I have two reading habits: One is that I like to open a book most anywhere just to feel its world again. Maybe I want to be around the bogs of Thomas Hardy or the world I know little of that is Toni Morrison’s or James Welch’s.

I also read several books at a time. right now seven. One of them is The Long River of Song by the heartbreaking and joy-filled Brian Doyle. Here’s a passage that means a lot to me, maybe to you as well as we go through these days. Doyle writes…

Wait. First this–

I imagine you have heard it said, “How can one write about flowers at a time like this?” Or “I understand you love to knit. Don’t you feel you should be out there doing something about . . .” Or “What good is your painting going to do?”

I recall William Stafford being accosted by an audience member who shouted out, “NONE of your poems are political poems!” Stafford quietly responded, “Actually all of my poems are political poems.”

So, back to Brian Doyle —

He is talking with a monk.

“I asked him why he was a monk. How can you think what you do matters in the long scheme of things?” The monk said, “Walking helps greatly, I find. Also birds. We have a resident heron here who has been a great help to me. You could spend a whole life contemplating birds and never come to the end of the amazing things they do. There are many swallows here. They have the loveliest gentle chitter with which they speak to each other in the air. . . I want to be a monk because I think that would be a very good use of me.”

The Collection

That’s when it started, during a storm
when I started thinking about
collecting the drops. And from there
it just took off into all this other stuff: light
on the underside of leaves, what the rust
peels away, the space between notes.
My brother tells me I’m wasting my time. I
tell my brother he’s right and that I’m saving
that too. Wednesday, I got up earlier than
ever and forgot what time it was and wrote
that down. I try to get out each evening
and sweep it up. When I was a kid I
remember loving plus-signs and the way
all the other kids ran off the ball field
between innings. These jars are filled
with air I collected from between
people’s toes. These boxes are filled
with the last sounds of bird songs.
I have to wait and time those just right.
these are harder to get: the holes in the
air that the birds make when they quit
singing and fly away. Over here,
these are the hardest to get. I have
just a few. These boxes. They hold
what happens just after someone leaves.

–Jack Ridl

We are working at rescheduling the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague thanks to the kindness of owner Bryan Uecker.

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

My Girl’s Father Always Changed the Station

Posted on February 13, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

As I mentioned last time, let’s assume the context for this project from this post forward.

The other day I had an idea for a distraction. As many of you know, our daughter is a visual artist. When we moved to our new home, we had to store a gallery’s haul of artworks in the mechanical room. The mechanical room?? That didn’t feel right.

One of our bedrooms in our little condo is made into a kind of make-do library, books sorted by category on free-standing metal shelves. Nothing on the walls. Those old-timey library cards available for those wanting to check out a novel, non-fiction, a knitting book. There are books on how to lay tile, how to draw or paint or carve or garden or cook Czech.

So I carried out the paintings and hung them salon-style, covering the walls, making sure with my elegant eye and sense of balanced hues to place one piece next to, above, below, across the room from another so that nothing stole the “exhibit,” each setting off the other for the eye’s delight.

What’s it take? Hammer. Nails. Alignment. Hold the painting up high and marking where the nail goes. Note pencil is across the room. Get pencil. Place finger on mark. Notice hammer is across room. Secure hammer. Repeat. Note box of nails is across room. Get box of nails. Recognize I am in a Laurel and Hardy film and say out loud, “Well, NOW we’re getting somewhere!” For fifty artworks, this scenario occurs twenty-one times. Wake in the morning with every muscle screaming, “What the hell have you done to me?!?”

But it’s so cool. Julie loves it. And I was distracted, laughingly, happily distracted. And what I did mattered. The history of our lives recorded in art is holding the history of our lives recorded in books.

And just in time for our 39th Valentine’s Day, another of those holidays that is either a joy or a sorrow–

My Girl’s Father Always Changed the Station

“Not in this car, not
while I’m the driver,”
he would shout and slap
the dash, then jam
his middle finger
on the center button.
The point would leap
across the dial, leaving
the long wail of
Janis Joplin in its wake.
We’d sit back, sigh, let
our fingers lace, look out
the window, watch the farms
pass, the men plowing,
the cows lying still
against the acceptance of the sky.
Hearing a Pirates game, the news,
some orchestra, we would dream
of Janis, still singing
and a back seat
where we could listen
and learn to love alone.

–Jack Ridl

First published in Southern Poetry Review
Subsequently published in Between, Dawn Valley Press

On Valentines Day at The Bookman In Grand Haven there will be a heart-fun reading with Greg Rappleye, Jane Bach, D.R. James, and moi. Hope you can make it.

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

Aubade for Today

Posted on February 6, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

Ok, like many of you, I have had it. I confess. I quit. I’m worn down. 45 and his gang of mind marauders have done me in.

Not my spirit, but my attention.

So starting this week, no more 45. My protest is going to be devoted to anything worthy of our attention. And my hope is that we can sustain one another this way.

Always the context is, of course, the Despots and the Cowards of Congress, but our days will be no longer wasted on what we can’t do a damn or holy thing about.

I had lots of responses to last week’s post, many of which wondered what the coach and his family had to say about it. So I asked their permission to offer their comments to you and they said,

“Take absolutely anything.”

So here is some of what they had to say. Oh, and one correction: I neglected to say that Coach Morehouse achieved 600 wins faster than any coach in history from any division. Now, what coaches come to mind? Rupp? Wooden? Summitt? Krzyzewski, Smith? Knight? Nope. It was Brian Morehouse. And his daughter, Meg, plays as a first year player on his team.

Here Coach/Dad’s own words:

Delicate balancing act. Sometimes the coach’s kid gets the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes she’s held to an unrealistic expectation.

What we really need is for Jack and Meg to hang out as coaches’ kids 🤔😁

Today is a new day. We are one more ACL tear into our season, coach thinks a new offense will work, assistants think and think and think, and meanwhile somewhere in England or Rome or Munich or Shanghei, no one gives a shit if we win or lose. So coach goes to work early because, well, you have to win the next one.

And from wife/mother Liz:

A coach — always the topic of conversation.
No matter where his wife sits…..
by the parents–my kid doesn’t play,
by some fans–your daughter should play more,
by [others]–the player needs to shoot more,
she needs to stand up faster,
the coach needs to give her an opportunity.

The player hears her teammates and wants to fit in,
the player wants to please her dad.

The Dad wants to play her more,
the dad’s ability to access her talent is blurred in all directions–playing her too much, not enough.

They win together. They lose together.

TOGETHER~Yes, win/lose let’s stay together. Till next week with a whole new, kinda, approach

Aubade for Today

When the morning comes,

that’s when you can do
what the morning hopes

you will do. You don’t

have to. If you do
though, it will then

all change. And it will

be noon and time for
a sandwich, or you might

keep going until the moon.

–Jack Ridl

We are working at rescheduling the reading at The BookNook & Java Shop in Montague thanks to the kindness of owner Bryan Uecker.

On Valentines Day at The Bookman In Grand Haven there will be a heart-fun reading with Greg Rappleye, Jane Bach, D.R. James, and moi.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Jack on And Then Suddenly podcast by Angela Santillo.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

Coach’s Son Tells His Wife What It Was Like

Posted on January 30, 2020 by Jack under Blogroll, In Time

I CAN’T WATCH!!!

I am a coach’s son. Coach’s sons tough it out. Coach’s sons play with pain. Coach’s sons come through no matter what.

One of my former students is a coach’s son. When he was in my freshman (called that back then) English class, he and I would talk about being coach’s sons. I said I learned I could never be a coach. He said that being a coach was all he wanted to be. And he — Brian Morehouse — just became the youngest coach at any college or university level to win 600 games. 600! Of course he owes it all to freshman English.

Of course he’s being celebrated. And he’s carried all the deserved recognition with his usual modesty and without a single cliche. Honesty. Integrity. Deflected attention. Even disbelief. Through and through. And I know he never missed a game.

Me? I turned into a teacher and a poet. And Tuesday night I missed a game. I did not come through. I was to read at a special winter lecture series. I caught and kept a bug that is spreading its way through household after household. And I all but drove my wife Julie crazy first with insisting I go “anyway” and then by over and over and over saying to her how I’m letting everyone down.

“You play anyway. You can’t let down the team. Get out there.”

And so to all of you who didn’t know of the cancellation and who were at the door reading the sign, I’m sorry. And that doesn’t cut it.

Coach’s Son Tells His Wife What It Was Like

I couldn’t wait for the game
to be over. Win. Lose. I knew

what to expect: Talk. Sports pages.
Television. Radio. Even a win was

seldom good enough: “I thought they’d win
by more than that!” “Why’d your father

keep Daniels in? He was terrible.” “Yeah. but
next game?” Losing led to all their reasons why.

I’d shiver hearing “Coach blew it at the end.”
“When’s he gonna give up on that combination?”

Headline: LOOKS LIKE A LONG LOSING YEAR!
Headline: WILL THIS BE COACH’S LAST SEASON?

At school I would sit in class wishing I could read:
CAR DEALER BLOWS SALE AT END OF DAY!

DENTIST SCREWS UP ROOT CANAL!
After a win I’d only sigh. After a loss, I

would lie in bed readying my words, and
cringe as I felt my fists unfold.

–Jack Ridl
Published in Aethlon: Journal of Sports Literature

I am welcoming new sign-ups for one-on-one coaching in poetry writing held here at our home or online via Zoom or Skype. No experience needed; all levels are welcome. I always tailor the sessions to meet whatever you would enjoy working with. To set up a date and time just contact me at this link or the one above. Cost is $85 for an hour-and-a-half session or $235 for three sessions. And of course if you don’t enjoy our time together, no charge!!😊

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Jack’s page on Amazon.

Click here to subscribe to receive Jack’s poems and news in your inbox.

Click here for Jack’s entire collection, In Time — poems for the current administration.

Click here to watch Jack’s TedX talk.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Kindness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Everyday Forgiveness.

Jack at Fetzer Institute on Empathy.

Jack Ridl at Fetzer Institute on Suffering and Love.

Beyond Meaning with Jack Ridl, C3: West Michigan’s Spiritual Connection

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