Archives for posts with tag: poet

Henry Ekstein, 40 years old, stood in a queue on the edge of a forest that bordered an open field. The quiet queue was forked. Some people plodded right in the direction of the field where machine gun fire resounded, and some went left where no sound was heard. The people were dumbfounded by fear. When Henry got to the front of the line, four soldiers, two on each side of him stopped him. Their eyes swept up and down his body. One soldier peered into Henry’s face, into his eyes. Henry’s eyes were blue. “Go left,” the soldier pointed.

–Jim Krotzman is a retired English teacher at Watertown (WI) High School. He is a struggling haiku poet and fisherman.

Looking out the high-rise window into a fog so dense that it blurs an afternoon sky deep into the thawing river, that wash of gray as far as everything, a world of gray, except for the squares of snow, which from above in high-rise relief appear as boxes of city park and tree guard and trash bin, you think about leaving.

Tomorrow isn’t different, except the sun shines, and the banks of the river suddenly appear, and you see the place on the cliffs where you went on that day trip—back when every rattling bus ride was an adventure.

–Sharon Rousseau is a writer, photographer and poet living in NYC and the Hudson Valley. Visit her website.

Kennedy Park was given to the county by Burdette Kennedy, an unkempt recluse. People ignored him. He would come into town periodically, and he often stopped at our house. He always asked, “Where does Ernie Tracey live?” My mother would give him directions and a sandwich.

Ron Thompson once went out to Burdette’s farm to ask permission to fish on his property. Burdette was cooking supper. Six cats and Burdette circled the pot eating pea soup together.

Two generations later, people enjoy the park as though it were donated by a philanthropist in a three-piece suit, not a man shunned.


Jim Krotzman is a retired English teacher at Watertown (WI) High School. He is a struggling haiku poet and fisherman.