Annette Langlois Grunseth, Green Bay, WI, has been published in Soundings, Ariel Anthology, and Poeming Pigeon. Her chapbook, Becoming Trans-Parent, One Family’s Journey of Gender Transition (Finishing Line Press 2017) was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have been recognized with Wisconsin Academy Review, Wisconsin People & Ideas and Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. Learn more at www.annettegrunseth.com
Becoming Trans-Parent, One Family's Journey of Gender Transition (Finishing Line Press, 2017). Buy here. Also available on Amazon.
Broadsides and postcard poems.
In the Bloom of the Moment
This is not the life she imagined
after fifty-eight years of marriage.
They should be off on some cruise to Alaska
watching ice cleave into the ocean,
eyes fixed in silent awe on whales migrating to Mexico
their massive tails gracefully slicing through the icy ocean.
Instead she visits her husband of nearly six decades
at the home where residents pace the floor
randomly trying to remember, who, what, or where.
She brings foil covered kisses, hidden in her purse,
and to his eyes this wonderful stranger
carefully peels each delightful, chocolate morsel
pops them, one by one, into his mouth.
“Mmmmmmm”, he says, “That’s such good candy.”
Every day she repeats her visits, bringing him kisses.
Every day he smacks with delight of the newness
of such good candy. Envious residents watch,
one in a loud whisper tells the group
“how sweet -- she comes every day.”
Gradually, walkers line up, join the concealed audience
at the far end of the room, fixated on the unfolding
of foil after foil. “Mmmmm” they hum in unison,
twenty pairs of eyes watch with the same grace
as whales diving, tails descending,
following their instincts.
Published as poetry finalist in Wisconsin Academy Review
Door County is My Italy
with tidy rows of vineyards and red wine.
It’s my Norway, filled with fish boils, Fyrbals
and fjords of flowers.
The county is my California coast,
waves crashing upon rocky outcrops;
my Florida beach read,
my Jamaican hammock between
two cedars rocking me sleepy with lulling waves.
It’s my Cliffs of Moher overlooking
rolling seas. The peninsula is my Provence
of purple plumage.
Fish Creek is my quaintness
of English pubs on narrow roads;
it’s my Stratford-upon-Avon
with the bard in the woods.
It's my Louvre of
limestone; museum of ancient fossils.
Bailey’s Harbor is my Peggy’s Cove,
fishing boats and fog horns.
It’s my Holland and Japan, bursting
with tulips and daffodils;
cherry and apple blossoms,
I no longer covet journeys to far off lands,
it’s all here -- just open the
First published in Soundings: Door County in Poetry