Poetry by Darrell Petska

               Misha Sokolnikov CC



​In the Treetops
          (1947-1956)

Her curls she seldom brushed.
Smudges often tarnished her farm-girl cheeks.
She insisted on dresses (her knees always scuffed).
She smelled like warm milk.
Her voice is calling for me.

And she will pass from living memory.
Soiled fingernails stroking ivoried keys,
her favorite song light on her tongue--
          Tra-la-la, tweedlee dee dee/There's peace and goodwill/
          You're welcome as the flowers on Mockin'bird Hill

Paper doll parties. Bobbsey Twins books
whispered beneath covers while I held the light,
(the smell of our skin, the warmth of our breath)
our heads pressing together--
          Then my heart fills with gladness when I hear the trill

Who shall remember us when we are gone?
Why must we feel that it matters?
Say it is love. Say love lasts.
Love which is all, love singing in memory
          of birds in the treetops on Mockin'bird Hill.





The Shoes Sis Wore

Sixty years, the pane is still clear:
white mary janes her young feet shaped
forlorn on the floor--

Why would Sis leave?
Where has she gone?
Who'll tend them till she returns?

Mother will.
Pressing them to her heart.
Unable to let go.

Father won't.
He must be strong.
She refuses to let go.

Sis in the fields?
Sis down the lane?
Sis skip-counting hopscotch?
Sis, come through the door.

Weep. Weep.
Such longing for small feet.
She'll not let go, as if
they coo and sigh.

Tears in memory do not blur
nor flesh turn to shadow:
upon Mother's breast

Sis's shoes would stay.
She could not let go,
weeping on the floor.

​


Blooms

About her small stone we planted our grief:
rose, hyacinth and lily.
And watered and tended the slender young shoots
adorning the bed where she lies.

Their hues the blush of her cheeks.
The suppleness of stems her grace.
Her skin, sun-warmed, petal's scent.

Crucial nectar vivid grief creates,
fashioned of dust and tolls of tears.
From afar are we drawn to taste our sorrow.
Awhile we hover, then leave, appeased.

Each spring they rise to soothe us:
rose, hyacinth and lily.
Brief bursts of color that bloom to the light.

​

Darrell Petska's poetry has appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Chiron Review, Star 82 Review, Verse-Virtual and widely elsewhere (see conservancies.wordpress.com). Darrell has tallied a third of a century as communications editor for the University of Wisconsin-Madison, 40 years as a father (seven years as a grandfather), and almost a half century as a husband. 

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