House of the Tomato

If a woman wants to be a poet, she must dwell in the house of the tomato. -- Erica Jong

Regional website for the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, in partnership with the Reader's Loft.


Celebrating, sharing and inspiring poetry throughout Wisconsin.


Tori--I'm trying my first Haibun.  Editor of Haiku Mag once said at a WFOP conf. Haiku is not about arithmetic. but the turn.  I'm struggling with syllables...and the turn. I've written many versions of both's the latest.  Am I even close?


Hurling shouts and rocks
students on campus
National Guard marching

After discharge from the Army and a year in Vietnam hell, my brother returned to the Madison campus filled with nightmares and shrapnel. Fraternity brothers’ hate-filled faces called out killer, and how could you go to war?

It was not a choice, caught in the draft of war. He served because it was required.  He thought about conscientious objector. He thought about Canada. He thought about being a citizen.

Protesters, if your draft numbers were low, would you have gone or fled? Whose boots did you wear while protesting? Were they covered in dust, mud and blood? Did you  scream in terror because of what you saw? Did you hear mortars whistling, exploding? Were there snipers on your way to class?  Why did you shout hate and spit?  

President commands
shocked solider in fox hole
trying to stay alive

Sex Education

Another mom poem...

Sex Education

The sanctity of the living room

like an open page of a picture book.

Everything in its place.

Mother calls us to her,

cross-legged on the plush carpet 

in front of the stereo console.

Sister and I are 6 and 7,


still creased by dreams of trees.

The cellophane cover crinkles

as mother turns pages.

The book came from a special section

at the library

and tells us things about our bodies

and the men we might love some day,

tumescence seeking our secret folds.

Making love not sex says mother

with the urgency of a sneeze.

We were made this way.

We will make our own babies this way.

It seems like second nature to us,

more of the poplar leaves rustling 

outside our window.

Mother almost tells us too much.

But we are girls 

and she doesn’t want the world 

eluding us with misinformation.

When I go up a grade 

I have sex education as a class

which can’t teach me anything 

I don’t already know.

The Roarers

Hi Tori--this poem came out of a free write a couple weeks ago. I edited it the past 2 days. I've had the "Dear Abby" part in and then taken it out..don't know if it fits..but it's true. Does it add anything?  The point being the embarrassment  of a 13 yr old me, my last resort being to write Dear Abby.

It was worse in summer, everyone’s windows open.
It started  at dinner with mom and dad picking at each other
like fingering chicken off the bone.

He left his fly rods leaning in a corner of the living room again.
She didn’t want to go boating with him; a storm might come up,

escalating to how worried she was (she was always worried)
that he could have died on that unforgiving Lake Superior

in a small boat with two buddies, heading up the Brule
for the steelhead run last March .

She starts crying at the point about being left alone at home
with two kids and two hunting dogs, all needing to be fed.

She railed about putting on her WAC trench coat, belt cinched at the waist,
lips pursed, shovel in hand traipsing across the back yard

on frozen corn snow to the dog pens, shoveling shit into a bucket,
saying shit under her breath.

At thirteen years old, I called the picking and yelling, Roarers;
as a last hope it would stop, I wrote Dear Abby a letter about it.  

The Roarers continued on hot summer nights,
my brother and I choking down chicken, peas, and potatoes,
dining room windows open, the neighbors all ears.


What to Believe

Jesus, the Tooth Fairy,
Santa Claus and being saved,
I used to believe they were all real.
The Tooth Fairy saving my teeth,
Santa Claus saving presents
Jesus saving my soul.
When I was 6 my older brother told me
None of it was true.
I tried to believe again, the Jesus part,
but saw how love-thy-neighbor
christians treated others and us
in the name of Christ saying
my daughter is perverted, going to hell
along with the rest of us,
as they read Bible verses that sounded like hate.
Another bathroom bill was passed.
Another trans teen hung himself.
Another transgender woman was murdered.
It’s all really hard to believe.

Note: (christian is purposely lower case to make a point)

Four Leaf Luck

For John, Honor Flight #45

 Plucked from peaceful land
I was pressed into his wallet,
flew to Battle of the Bulge with your Dad,
a darn good medic who saw too much blood,
looked death in the face, yet saved many.

Still pressed and passed along,
I joined you in Vietnam,
where fear was again defined,
Viet Cong snipers marked you with a bounty,
you were damn lucky to make it back.

Still in service I went with you
to the hospital for chemo, sniper drugs
every three weeks, six-day tours,
six cycles, for six months,
killing Agent Orange’s cancer.

 Though I am brown and frail,
I will continue to be with you
at the clinic, at your scans and
check ups, tucked inside your wallet
pressed to keep you safe.

 (This is for John. Honor Flight does a Mail call.. cards and letters from family and friends, given in a packet to each vet on their flight home. This will be in one of the envelopes. I've been collecting cards and letters from his Vietnam buddies, and fam and friends for the past 2 weeks). What do you think? Does it makes sense?




A Child, Maybe Your Child (my big edit. 4.25.18)

Epigram:  One in five transgender individuals have experienced homelessness at some point in their lives…due to Family rejection, discrimination and violence….that accounts for 20-40% of 1.6 million homeless youth in the U.S --- National Center for Transgender Equality:

 (Tori, Note: I went for feels. alliteration and explosive consonants. )

A Child, Maybe Your Child

Somewhere a grown-child,
maybe your child,
wanders the streets with a backpack
like a cast out kitten, your kin, kicked out
looking for a doorway, a ditch

a bridge to crawl under
away from the chill, the curl of wind,
needing to curl up
for sleep, or find supper and shelter.

Somewhere there are two or three
who find each other under that bridge
huddled, hungering, horrified,
afraid of

“What If”
someone comes over,
comes on to them,
to harm, hurt, hurl insults
because of how they look,
who they are.

Did you know
a child, maybe your child,
spent hours, days, even years
depressed, discerning, dreaming
how to escape
from the person they pretended to be.

Trusting, they came to you,
then came out, confessed, cared
enough about themselves
to push forward with genuine gender.

Perhaps you reacted
with your expectations around
their dress, their hair,
who they should like, even love.

 Did you think about
where they went that day you yelled,
and slammed the door,
that day, you shut out,
forced out, sent your child
to the street?

Somewhere a grown-child,
maybe your child
yearns for sleep without sirens,
begs for a bed without bright lights.

Somewhere, they are out there,
hugging their backpacks for comfort,
bone cold on a bench,
hungering for home.

Smiley Face

Not sure of the ending. LMK what you think.

Smiley Face

We watched TV in the bunker
of the basement with only the blue-
green glow of the boob tube.

We fancied the well windows
were two eyes staring at us
from the cinderblock. 

The basement was mostly finished,
but father had a hip idea
and handed us each a spraycan of paint. 

Yellow. Blue. Red. Mother shook
her head, sorting dirty clothes
into small piles in the laundry room.

She agreed there was a time and place
for happening, but perhaps it did not include
pre-teens and indelible aerosol.

My sisters and I were each assigned
a stretch of wall. Every squiggle, every curlique
had meaning in our lexicon of graffiti.

Father and little brother were in charge
of black, lines of definition. The long walk
to school. The boy I liked. My sister's

struggles in speech therapy. She couldn't
say her s's. Mostly because she was missing
front teeth. Colors had rules.

Like combining primary with complementary
colors gave you brown. Brown was not
a color that could be undone.

Father in a brown study stepped aside
for mother disheveled by whites and darks.
She held an extra spraycan of black in one hand.

Mother drew a smiley face on the wall
with the word "shit" underneath. The rueful look
of parents with dripping paint connected them.

"Not my best idea," conceded father.
Something they laughed about for the three
nights it took to repaint the basement.

A Child, Maybe Your Child?


Somewhere a child, maybe your child,
is wandering the streets with a backpack
looking for a doorway to settle into
out of the wind and the chill.

Somewhere, there are two or three who
find each other under the bridge in town,
huddled together, afraid someone might attack
because of how they look, who they are.

Somewhere a teen or twenty-something
told their parents they are gender fluid
or not their gender assigned at birth,
dressing in a dress now, wearing dangly earrings.

Somewhere a child, maybe your child,
has spent hours, days, years knowing
what they needed to do, just to keep themselves alive
trusting you, as they came out,

Somewhere a child, maybe your child
is hungry, and needs a good night’s sleep.
Did you think about where they might go
the day you turned them out to the streets?

I think of my son-now-a-daughter child, safe and warm.
She tells me about her trans friends hugging their packs
for comfort, bone cold on a bench, hungering for dinner,
a real bed and unconditional love.


On This I Weep

On This I Weep


New parents marvel at their joy,
bonding, counting fingers and toes.
He is named, nursed, diapered,
swaddled and cuddled; bathed and kissed.
Oh, the happily-ever-after of it all!

He is bright, creative, and clever,
growing into all of nature’s unique gifts.
He’s told stories of what he can achieve;
he can be anything he wants to be.
One day he tells his parents he’s a girl.

He tells them again, and again.
In shock the mother asks, How do you know you’re a girl?
The child says, How do YOU know?

I just know, she blurts. The child shouts,
Yes, me too. I just know!

 This child, named, birthed, loved, and cuddled
is written off, pushed away.
Living in the streets across Wisconsin
this tale repeats. Too many wander hungry,
with no bed, cast out in their teens and 20s
just for being who they are.

A few kind souls might help re-write a story,
taking in one or two when they can; but
many are left to the streets, often in danger.
These fledglings trying to fly on their own
sadly hunger for meals, for a real bed,
for the return of unconditional love.

(note: I kept playing with line length and form. A boxed, prose poem, couplets, and now I am back to stanzas, but the lines are all different in number....ragged..perhaps that illustrates the situation.)

Sweet Sixteen

This one got a little rambling... good? bad?

Sweet Sixteen

Mother called him Johnny-Baby,
as if he was a lounge singer
and could riff with his voice
and the strange tilt of his head
as if he was considering me for song lyrics.
Mother crooned the refrain.
Johnny-Baby, Johnny-Baby.
My first serious boyfriend.

His Adam's Apple told me things.
What books to read, what tunes
to listen to. Every boy I ever dated
wanted to reinvent me, as if I wasn't
already here and personal and me.

Mother liked him despite her qualms.
He worked summers as a cameraman
for the local TV station.
He was always rolling.

Johnny-Baby jingled when he walked,
a collection of coin and keychain
in his pocket. He kept a folio of topics
his prominence wished to discuss with me
stashed inside the visor of his Pinto.
My answers decided if we would kiss
or park or stroll the shore
of a rocky beach.

To celebrate my birthday
Mother decided we should doubledate.
Johnny-Baby called at the house
in his blazer and turtleneck.
Father in his bemusement
drove us to Duck Duck Goose,
a new bistro in town,
spilling big brass jazz and
drinks in jam jars.

"I throw these away," said mother,
eyeing a jam jar and Johnny-Baby's hands
on the table.

We pretended to be adults
above and below the table.
Johnny-Baby pressed
our knees together,
later he would press mine apart
like leaves in a book
as we roiled with the surf.
What new questions could
we ask?

How mother knew
like there was a hinge in my heart?


Would this make a better essay, than a poem?   Or keep it a prose poem.  I could change line length--making it a box of prose. Thoughts?

She made me wear “boys’ shoes”,
those brown oxfords, with boxy toes.
Sturdy, orthopedic, with hard soles, laces up the front.
Mother preached, “You’ll thank me some day
when you don’t have fallen arches and sore feet.”
Kids teased me, showing off their
arch-less Keds or cute ballet flats.

I carried green suede gym shoes
stealth, in a brown paper sack out the door.
Cutting through the back yard on my walk to school,
I stopped at the evergreen hedge,
switched out the shoes,
sliding the oxfords into the crumpled sack, then
stuffed them hideously out of sight under the bushes.

Those gym shoes grew thin and worn,
my baby toes poking out through holes on each side.
Teachers asked, “Can’t your parents afford to buy
you new shoes?”  I said nothing.

After school, sneaking home through the back yard
I donned the oxfords, rushed in the door,
greeted mother, heading to the basement
with a manicure scissors and the concrete floor.

My work began, snipping the stitching, and dragging my feet
across concrete, scuffing tops and soles, which
occupied me until dinner, every day after school.

When mother saw the oxfords were wearing out,
off we went to Wally’s Shoe Repair on 6th.
Those sturdy shoes were re-soled, stitched and
polished shiny like an apple, in oxblood red.

The death of my shoes revived by the name
"Oxblood" turned my stomach.
 The shoes wars continued until junior high when
I tearfully begged my dad to
Take me shoe shopping.

He felt some pity I think.  It was awkward
enough just being thirteen without even
being teased, wearing "boys shoes".
He took me to Mayers Shoe Store downtown.
Soon I was slipping shiny copper pennies
into the front of new Weejuns.

In the years since, my arches have fallen,
bones crunch, feet hurt, spurs rise up
and rub painfully upon my feet.  I wish my
Mother had made me wear “boys shoes”,
brown oxfords, with boxy toes,
sturdy, orthopedic with hard soles and laces up the front.
She said, “You’ll thank me some day
when you don’t have fallen arches and sore feet.”

Happy Hour

Wrote this poem as a *continuation* poem after "Goulash."

Happy Hour

Hunger cast a shadow
like mother and father
at the breakfast bar during
happy hour, that fluctuating time
when father came home from work
and they'd "catch up."

We gnawed our tongues
having already used up our
TV time, knowing if we asked
for dinner, mother would pour them
another drink, and we'd wait, wait.
At first it was Rhine wine, then
gin and tonics, and for a sweet time
Black Russians, which made them
hungry quicker. We'd eat when the sky
was still sherbet, lemon or raspberry.

There were only so many
Little Brother Specials we could drink,
his moniker for ice water we'd take turns
dispensing from the outside door of the refrigerator,
mother giving us side looks from her cat eyes.
Children should be seen and not heard.
Really why did they need to catch up?
They saw each other every day.
This bubble of time they preserved
for their couplehood.

We came second.
Mother reinforced this every day,
every tepid meal,
every bowl of congealed gravy
when it was a night
for gravy.



Mother dog-ears the pages.
Recipes with worldly names
like stroganoff, cassoulet, ragout.
In between housewifely articles about
how to clean grout, the perfect smile
and the problem with no name.
Slick photos. Dangerous game.
Father doesn't like his food touching.

Mother has a way of cocking
her hip at the stove.

I'm roused from my reading
to set the table. The flutter of blue
tablecloth in a room of exotic birds,
low-hanging candelabra, curio
cabinet with the good china and silver.
Dinner is mother's insistence
despite how late father gets home.

We have our places at the table.
Mother and father at each end.
My two sisters, me and young brother
arranged around the provincial edge.
Father stares at the casserole dish
in the center of the table, bubbling and bloody.
The eerie translucence of cooked cabbage.
"What is this?" he asks, that thing
with his jaw when he's angry,
even into the light of the window behind him.
"Goulash," says mother, lighting a cigarette,
staring back in a standoff only they
know the meaning of.

Father divines with a serving spoon,
parting the ways of cabbage, ground beef
and tomato sauce, distaste set in his chin.

The spoon in slow motion. The spoon in a flash.
Catapult of casserole onto mother,
who doesn't flinch at first.
We hear the fancy clock tick, tock,
hand nudging incrementally while
we're all afraid to move. Or laugh.
Or anything.

The wideness of our eyes,
sitting on our hands.
Mother slowly reaches,
retaliating with the spoon.
Father splattered with casserole.
He throws down a napkin,
unable to speak past his clenched jaw.
The squeegee sound of the station wagon in reverse.

Mother eats a small portion of casserole.
We feel for each other's feet beneath the table,
trying not to look at each other.
Clumps of casserole cling to mother,
the tablecloth and the wall like scratched scabs.
We have no ideas about appropriateness or response.

We are excused from the table.

Mother clears, taking her time
on the back stoop, shaking out the tablecloth.
She watches the purple martins streak and swoop
in the dusking sky, searching for bugs.

Mother doesn't have to search for father.
She knows where he is.
They sashay home after bedtime,
following each other's headlights.

Meal planning takes a turn,
alternating nights of food that doesn't touch,
with food that does.

We ask for more peanut butter.

Mother buys crunchy
for a change.


Deaf Nation

Epigram: in 2018 from January 1st – 25th  there were 11 school shootings in the United States. In 2013, there were 300 school shootings in our country.

 Deaf Nation

Gunshots echo in schools,
common as the pledge of allegiance.

Gunshots ring like school bells,
marking time; for too many, marking the end of time.

 Gunshots are breaking news
and breaking us.

Gunshots in schools average one per week.
Our Legislators have gone deaf.

They do not hear the cries
where anyone can pack heat, even the mentally ill.

Gunshots are breaking news
and breaking us.

Gunshots ring like school bells
marking time; for too many, marking the end of time.

Gunshots echo in schools,
common as the pledge of allegiance.

Our Legislators have gone deaf, cannot hear the cries,
where anyone can pack heat, even the mentally ill.


The Slap

It wasn't all rainbows and shamrocks with my mother... we had our confrontations... believe me. I wish there was a dang tab function.

The Slap

 At the crossroads of coming and going
               Here I am vacuuming again 

I mutter something impolite about mother
       “What did you say?” she asks 

The look I give her
                            Searing scorn of a teenager

The trap of my silence
       Either I speak or I don't 

She slaps me

The bulwark of my face,          arctic plane of my cheek,
        teeth grinding to never ever land 

                            “Apologize,” she says
The green of her eyes sparking 

like copper under flame
       My infidel eyes rimy and unrepentant 

She slaps me again

My head jars
       Glass in the instant precariously

I can only vacuum          steadying 


She will excavate respect if necessary
        The pickax of her glare 

I muscle my tongue with my sharp teeth
              We scrape metal

       The next slap knocks me
to tears

She walks away, satisfied, 

believing she must break me down
to build me back up


Back Room

Not sure about the title... but you know I'm a sucker for double entendre... I felt I really had to strenuously edit the scene in the writing to get at the essence... hopefully I included enough.

Back Room

I'm embarrassed by the prophylactics.
Father keeps them behind the counter.
The drawers are extra-deep and slide with an engineered glide.

Boys I recognize from the high school come into the drugstore and ask for them.
I stay in the back room with mother and Mary,
who's worked for my father since the beginning.

We package pills in tiny bubbles and slot them in trays
for easy administration at the old people's home.
Mother drinks diet cola in a tall glass that beads condensation.

We pretend the room isn't as small or as blue as it is,
floating between and behind each other in our tiny lagoon
as we reach and bend, reach and bend

to retrieve the pills organized in alphabetical order.
Mary forgets I'm there and complains to mother
about her husband, his demand for sex in particular.

Why does she have to bother? She gets nothing
out of it. She'd just as soon watch a movie.
Mary enounces the word 'sex' like it's a fatal disease.

Mother lights a cigarette and lets it burn in the ashtray.
Her byzantine eyes squint at Mary without encouraging
or discouraging. She asks us what we'd like for lunch.

Mother and I sit outside the back door on the cement stoop
to eat our lunch. She unwraps the foil of her hoagie
and lets it steam on a paper plate. She watches me

fold back the foil of mine, caressing the bangs out of my eyes.
"It doesn't have to be that way," she says, "between a man and a woman."
She sips her cola, and a wet napkin drifts into her lap.

"I orgasm every time," she says. I lift a shoulder at the word,
even though I know what it means. "A woman should claim
her own pleasure," I nod silently, trying not to eat the foil from my sandwich.

The Mighty Oak Aches

(This break up is eating away at me today--so thought I'd post this one too--I've edited all day...what do you think?  I coincidentally ran across a  symbolic photo on FB, it's not my photo, but I put it here..for you and me. One of their songs at the wedding was " Satisfied" BTW)

for their gentle love joined in the heat of summer solstice.
They floated with music, carried on a breeze so light
we wanted to linger a bit longer to hear that song, so satisfied.

In a dry land on a frigid night of winter solstice,
we hear creaking wood break under the weight of one’s grief.
The other has turned cold with boredom and wandering eyes.

The forest of their together-life charred by lightning
spills salted water across a desert sky,
far removed from that mighty oak day.

 What was, can no longer be,
the trunk of trust broken with promises scattered
like dry leaves into the spinning wind.

Arms that once embraced, now out of reach.


Star Struck on a Below Zero Night

(yesterday jottings, today's rework-- a fresh write for the new year. Do you get my hidden reference in stanza 4?) (big clue- see image added to this title)

The voices of the stars whisper magic
all day while hidden behind the sun

But it is the night that brings out their rich dialogues
stories spilled across the sky. Pictographs of perception.

What are you telling me this eve of a new year
after weeks of bad news?

Do I find hope in Orion hunting for answers?
Or Sirius, the she-bear, brightest star telling me
to stay strong, defend my pack?

I wait and watch, shiver in the dark, my breath a bloom of cloud.
Listen, the seven sisters speak,
I can almost hear their woman-wise words
in the brittle cold, leaning into the new year.



© 2018 House of the Tomato