A Note on This Museletter Extra Page
You may have read (or not) about the changes in WFOP’s Museletter. There are a number of changes you can read about on page 4 of the Summer 2025 edition. (https://www.wfop.org/s/25summer_muse124.pdf)
The one big change for the members’ poetry pages is that there will be only one page for poetry in the printed edition of the Museletter (and its corresponding PDF version). However, this “Museletter Extra” page is where chosen poems that don’t fit in the Museletter will be posted. The poems on this page will refresh with each quarterly Museletter and new prompt.
Access the latest issue of the Museletter.
Museletter Extra
Poems by Our Membership
For fall the prompt was to write an “occasion” poem about some everyday task, event, or happening. “On the occasion of clipping my toenails,” or “when I turn on the garbage disposal, I think of…” for example.
New Year’s Calendar Just Arrived in July
I am very particular about my calendar
so I order early.
It must be paper, have large spaces
to fit my daily events,
and be a monthly piece of art.
A calendar gives the illusion of order—
a smooth path through
the coming year,
though I know some things happen
without warning.
Next year’s artist is the same
as this year’s. Bold lines and bright colors
make her land- and cityscapes joyful.
There will be the mundane tasks: dental
appointments and haircuts, car maintenance and vet visits.
I will make sure there are outings with friends,
music, poetry, and plays in the summer.
I carefully transfer all the birthdays—even my own-—
a talisman that we will all be here next year.
—Karen Redfield, Madison
Breaking News
While counting the cracks
in my bedroom ceiling
I digest the x-ray verdict—
not a sprain but indeed a break,
I, the daily walker, am looking at
seriously curtailed activity.
It feels important in that moment
to move something
so I do leg lifts,
do knee-chest bends,
arm crossings in my bed
looking for all the world
like a small turtle in
blue striped pajamas
on its back batting at air.
I’ve been told that
patient and persistent,
even a small turtle
will right itself…
…in due time.
—Karen Haley, Wauwatosa
On the Occasion of Waking Up This Morning
Not just once but three times,
Midnight, 3 a.m. and 6,
even though I kept my fluid intake down.
Oh, to be abroad on the second floor
of this house, the nightlight gently shining
its way to the loo.
The bugs are at bay, the street absent of noise.
I head back to bed, take out my phone,
scroll to the equivalent of Wordle in French,
surprising myself with my speed. This time, three tries.
Costume, Croitre, Carotte.
And though earlier fearful to close my eyes,
I am more sure than before that I will in fact awake.
—Ronnie Hess, Madison
Dust Thou Art
I admit I’m not as diligent with a mop
as I could be. But still, you wouldn’t think
in the space of ten days a graveyard
of dust could gather under the bed.
And the back of the closet?
Jeezus! There must be at least three
dead back there, and Jesus
ain’t raising them anytime soon.
If it’s true that dust thou art, then
I have evidence of sex in the afterlife.
It’s no wonder they’re called dust bunnies.
—Ed Werstein, Milwaukee
Drying the Forks
I drop them into their long slot
in the silverware drawer.
They knock against the sides,
bang against each other and twang,
whine about their hard use:
constantly stabbing and skewering,
knives sliding against them
as if they’re whetstones,
teeth thumping them,
sizzling steaks hot enough to make metal dance,
refrigerated tomatoes’ tine-chilling cold…
They quiver and chime their indignation
until I wipe the last one dry,
let it fall into the yammering,
then slam the drawer shut.
—Sheryl Slocum, West Allis
She Asks Me to Read an Autumn Poem
I’ve written in Autumn,
have clothes in poems the color of autumn,
once fired a woman named Autumn
because she was crisp and tart but not like an apple
and made us feel the pierce of winter coming.
I am prone to the fall, off barstools and flights of stairs,
and to writing about people who are dying or already dead.
But they are not Autumn.
If they came back, you bet I’d write about that,
but then this would be a poem about zombies or God.
I’m a Clydesdale with blinders to avoid the spook
of Autumn. I’m sorry,
for your dying leaves and fleeing geese,
for your moody days and sagging temps.
Let’s try again next year, shall we?
Ask me again, in the spring.
—Cathryn Cofell, Appleton
A Heavenly Miracle
With the ominous grey veil
of Canadian smoke still
hovering above and over
my patio enclosure,
I watched in wonder and
trepidation at what my
morning eyes were viewing.
For the bright orange ball
sublimely shining above me in orbit
was our sun clad in majesty
magnificent majesty.
With camera in hand, focus set,
the orange ball wasn’t seen.
Laying camera aside my naked
eyes still viewed the orange ball
and to my wonder and amazement
my closed eyes saw the miracle.
—Susan Anderson, Baraboo
Submit Your Poems
Get in touch with your inner science geek. Submit a poem incorporating a science theme. Biology, Geology, Entomology, Physics, Botany, etc. Please, 20 lines maximum!
Deadline: October 1, 2026
When submitting, include your city of residence. Email to Steve Tomasko, Museletter Poetry Editor, with the subject line “Museletter poem submission.”