Helga’s idea was too extreme, Like reenacting a bad dream, She decided, as she climbed back up And struggled through the gate, Replacing the lock and crossing the lawn, As a pair of squirrels chased each other In spirals up the Lonesome Pine. That was the name she and Joe Had given that tree many years ago When the house had fallen to them After their son-in-law Dan fell asleep at the wheel, And their daughter Liz remarried and left. Liz's due date was approaching when Dan died, So Joe and Helga had moved in to help And then just stayed and made the place Less haunted by living out the grace Left behind in the wake of sadness. Now grief and love again entwined To make a new nest in Helga’s heart For the coming and going of the seasons, The arrivals and departures of dreams. Back inside, the coffee now cold, Helga zapped it, feeling bold From the warmth of the sun in her bones And the anger and hope for the election That was coming soon and that she preferred Not to think too much about But rather offer up to the gods. The coffee downed, Helga summoned up The energy provided by the cup To climb the stairs up to the room Her son Ben had lately occupied And where Ben had relocated Joe’s rifle, A shotgun with flashlight duct-taped to barrel, That Joe had secretly kept under the bed. Helga fumbled in her pocket for the key To the cabinet Ben had got for free From a gun-enthusiast friend upgrading To a bigger safe for his collection In these disturbing post-insurrection days, Turned the key in the lock and opened The door to find the shotgun waiting. “Sorry, Joseph, but I don’t want this gun Lurking here and someday hurting someone,” She said as she grabbed it by the barrel, Closed the cabinet again and left the key. She lifted the heavy gun and sighted as if To shoot out the bathroom mirror, smiling At the flashlight jerry-rigged by her clever Joe. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

The idea that came to Helga was one That could be dangerous or could be fun But first she would survey her rose garden And the general condition of the yard On this unusually warm first day Of the month of her birth in this year Of fever dreams and election insanities. Leaving her coffee cup half full, Helga followed her inner pull To the back door and out to the lawn. Sebastian the yard guy had been there The day before and as usual Helga Was both pleased with the overall tidiness And annoyed by the little signs of shirking. Sebastian, like most yard guys these days, Tended to increase the local malaise By employing a noisy leaf blower rather than The gold standard of raking. Which annoyed Helga. You have to choose Your battles, though, and Helga had Resigned herself to let it go. The lawn stretched out broad and green. That was good. But in between The edge of the lawn and the fence, Where the landscaping terraced down Towards the irrigation canal, the blower Had shunted a shin-deep layer Of paper-dry leaves and bonelike twigs. Helga glanced in that direction and thought A note left on the fence, that sought To catch Sebastian’s attention, next week, Might do the trick. And the lock to the gate, Meant not to be locked but merely put In place, was once again not put in place. That, too, would be gently mentioned. The Virginia Creeper that had swallowed Much of the tall gate and followed The path of the sun to try to consume The entire fence, made it a challenge To swing it wide and step through, Down the slope to the roses and grapes And assorted vegetation along the canal. Helga managed it, in small steps, Like doing physical therapy reps, And soon beheld the wilting splendor Of her beloved garden, its thorns visible, With petals littering the muddy ground, And the hard angle of autumn light Throwing life and death into sharp relief. Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

“Getting old is getting old,” she said To herself as she got out of bed. It was the day before her birthday And the day after Halloween, The morning dark and dim and fragrant With stale leaves and the after-odor Of trick-or-treaters and candy wrappers.   Helga Caruthers slid her tired old feet Out from under a tangle of bedsheet And onto the cold hardwood floor Of her bedroom. “Gotten old,” she said Out loud to the silence of the house. “Or is it ‘Got Old’?” she said again. “Old as dirt, at any rate,” she said.   Helga was rounding out her eighty-fourth year Under heaven and feeling increasingly unclear About what she should do with her life Three years now after the entire family, Son and daughter with spouses and children And children’s children had gathered round The hospice bed and said their goodbyes To Joseph Caruthers, Helga’s man Of sixty years and happy head of the clan. What a moment that had been, The death bed placed in the living room — Such a juxtaposition — and the generations Toasting Joe with his favorite whisky As his soul hesitated, then ambled on. Now Helga, still bleary with sleep, Ambled through that same room, deep In just-awakened thought and semi-dread To face the day and its emerging troubles. She made her way to the front door And opened it to the light of the dawn To check for tricks leftover in the street And the dregs of treats and a barking dog, Clouds on the horizon with a hint of fog Dispersing as the sunrise claimed the morning For beauty despite the neighbors’ Constantly overflowing garbage can And a faint but persistent malodor Carried on the breezes of autumn. The first of November, and strangely warm, Thought Helga as an idea began to form Within the well of hope deep in her mind. She turned back inside to make coffee And have a piece of chocolate, her morning Ritual to read the message on the wrapper: “This is the first day of the rest of your life.” Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Our work has only just begun. The chaos to come is real and yet all part of the game. Situation normal, all fucked up — whoever came up with that — “snafu” — a f*****g genius! And now we face the rise of a demented, damaged dolt who has somehow managed to gather a cult of mesmerized mothers against drunken driving to ride off the cliff with him. So, yes, there’s some cleanup to do. It isn’t normal, and yet it is, this snafu we find ourselves in. We are the authors of this book we’re reading, this game we’re playing. The chaos to come is real, but we have made it. Our work begins with the sunrise. The cleanup of the moment is already happening. We have our work cut out for us to reclaim the democracy of the ever-changing sky. Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

In the middle of this autumn that has eased its way into my humming summer, I will hold onto my inner springtime and continue this absurd but sweet work as best I can. Like the sunrise I too arise to ease these lines into life to let the colours of dawn stream from my faltering fingers tapping these keys as the coffee stirs my blundering brain, blundering into obstacles but nonetheless pressing on, taking a deep breath with the sky, feeling my bare feet on the floor, seeing these purple hues emerge from within and without. The colours are unnamable but our task is to name them or at least to keep trying: amber-washed, golden-smeared, peach-plunged, pink silken-fingered wedding dress, violet … violet. Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Fringed with the first fall glowing, / the last low leaves of summer / refuse to let their gladness go. / Inside, the people, too, hold / hot cups of coffee and wield / warm wishful thoughts of far-flung flights. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

At the end of the long night, / see the sun with its pale light / and its sudden unscripted rise. // Its uncovering bright skies / now begin to reveal day / and your dreams being put away. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

I only learned about the Double Dactyl today for the first time via the great Sean Johnson and his exploration of Wendy Cope’s “Emily Dickinson” on The Daily Poem Podcast (in my opinion, the best poetry podcast since The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor). So, when I came across the above photo of my big sister Jean earlier this evening, I decided to try my hand at subjecting her to doubledactylization. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Twelve hexagrams from sunrise yang, pp. 360-383, written and performed by Jonathan Potter (video of thumbing through the pages of the book while listening to the audio from the jopomojo poetry podcast) This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

the remedy for my disease This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

I. I rode my bike in the dim light II. A local pelican flew over III. I felt myself subsumed into this world This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

The purple gold / Of this the day the harvest moon / The purple gold / Of equinoctial night’s foretold / To fall into the shadow tune / Of summer's ends' collecting soon / The purple gold This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

I'm back at the old canal waiting for the sunrise to sneak its way through the lovely chaos of clouds making the beginning of the day difficult and fascinating. The sap of my veins hasn't dried up quite yet. Summer still has some blood flowing in it, and before it's over I'll break open the sky's lock to find the red horizon. The canal will continue to flow a while longer from its river source far upstream until they shut it off and let the sprinklers run dry and the backyard gardens wither. Until then, I continue to wait for the promised information behind the clouds, for a clearing of sky where you and I will happen upon the dawn come round again. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

The calm of this sunrise scene masks the shock, terror, and laughter that lingers, muted, in the dawn. The quiet boats here anchored contain a cargo of trembling carried over from the big bang. A calamity of wealth afflicts the shopping cart of dawn: the remembrance of the fading season, remembered as if gone even before it has left, loss and grief anticipated. Yet in the fading echo of the explosion of summer there is a substratum of mirth, a settling of the earth into a placid smile and hum and heart vibrating like a drum. The harbor's undulations and the way the boats bob in the waves tug at the harbormaster's heart and incite the thought that we are all the same harbormaster and the harbor and the sunrise. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

There may be an ideal lake (see the concept of platonic form) hovering above the broken, beautiful reality of the lake that splashes at our feet, that we feel in the end-of-summer sunrise now breaking into colour and warmth, with an awareness of the doubling bubbling up from the source of all things, perpetuating a joyousness like that of the youngest daughter held aloft by the father and flung with joy for a splash landing on the liquid surface of things as the September flowing brings its laughter towards October where there's serious work to do and where evaporation of remorse rekindles rainbows' rain and the kind of hope that doubles despite the sun's journey south and the inevitable setbacks that this joy, too, shall overcome. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

the tipping point of dawn like a boomerang returning but flying just beyond the reach of your outstretched fingers as the morning proceeds in unostentatious yellow the bright hem of a dark skirt of clouds above the eastern horizon concealing credit for the accomplishment and only reveling humbly in the golden changing of the night into day of the day into many days of the summer season suddenly into awareness of yellow autumn coming to cool and calm your dreams prepare you for winter and the long dark of the distant sun like that boomerang then having sailed infinitely far and a pendulum that inevitably returns This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Each person is a genius — extruded from the collective unconscious, the family of things and non-things burgeoning into the light of morning, the lovely light of the dawn. Imagine a boat anchored through the night now awakening with a family on board ready to break their fast and hoist their sails, each member playing a part in the yin and yang of the embarkment into the final joys of the summer tapering down to its end, the current and wind ready to take them towards the ocean, towards the glowing horizon. And beyond that, day and night proceeding towards the autumn, the falling leaves and harvest brought in and shipped to distant ports, infinitely distant ports, yet each infinitely near. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Three poems from Tulips for Elsie, pp. 120-122, written and performed by Jonathan Potter — from the jopomojo poetry podcast. This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

the color of morning / as a ripening peach / the amble of sunrise / as an old map that changes / take a breath or look away / and suddenly the day begins This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe