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.

GREEN BAY / NORTHEAST

Celebrating, sharing and inspiring poetry throughout Wisconsin.

IMAGINE Poetry Reading

  • The Reader's Loft 2069 Central Court, Suite 44 Green Bay, WI 54311 USA

OCTOBER: Poetry Harvest

Steve Tomasko, Jeanie Tomasko & Sharon Auberle

Steve Tomasko Steve Tomasko thinks about the dust mites that live under the couch and the eyebrow mites that live on all of us. He muses about the 5,000 species of bacteria that live in our mouths. Someone has to. He’s been published here and occasionally there. Steve lives in Middleton with his poet wife, Jeanie, three cats and the aforementioned dust mites. His chapbook, Damn Good Cantaloupe, is forthcoming from Red Bird Chapbooks in 2015.  

Steve Tomasko

Steve Tomasko thinks about the dust mites that live under the couch and the eyebrow mites that live on all of us. He muses about the 5,000 species of bacteria that live in our mouths. Someone has to. He’s been published here and occasionally there. Steve lives in Middleton with his poet wife, Jeanie, three cats and the aforementioned dust mites. His chapbook, Damn Good Cantaloupe, is forthcoming from Red Bird Chapbooks in 2015.  

You said I should write more love poems and

I said, I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking about
sloths. Well, actually, the moths that live
on sloths. Nestle into their fur, take the slow,
slow ride through the rain forest. Once a week
the sloth descends to the forest floor. Defecates.
Female moths leap off; lay their eggs on the fresh
feces; jump back on. Their caterpillars nourish
themselves on the fetid feast, metamorphose
into moths, fly up into the canopy to find
their own sloths. They prefer the three-toed
over the two-toed. Who can figure attraction?
The algae-covered sloth fur is the only home
the sloth moths know. The only place they live.
I know it’s a Darwinian thing but fidelity
comes to mind. Commitment. Patience.
The world writes love poems all the time.

-- Steve Tomasko
Originally published in The Fiddlehead

Jeanie Tomasko Jeanie Tomasko is the 2014 recipient of the Lorine Niedecker Poetry Award from The Council for Wisconsin Writers. The Collect of the Day is forthcoming from Zephyr and her story/poem (Prologue,) is the recipient of an Editor’s Choice award from Concrete Wolf Chapbook Series. She can be found at jeanietomasko.com and in Middleton, WI, where she hopes to always have a bottomless honey jar and bees in the front yard hyssop.

Jeanie Tomasko

Jeanie Tomasko is the 2014 recipient of the Lorine Niedecker Poetry Award from The Council for Wisconsin Writers. The Collect of the Day is forthcoming from Zephyr and her story/poem (Prologue,) is the recipient of an Editor’s Choice award from Concrete Wolf Chapbook Series. She can be found at jeanietomasko.com and in Middleton, WI, where she hopes to always have a bottomless honey jar and bees in the front yard hyssop.

Never Underestimate the Ocean

From your bedroom bed, left side under your old lamp, you heard the ocean all night long from miles away and even asleep, the waves of the winter storm crashed inside your dreams. The seals from the harbor hid behind your small ear bones. The surf piped into the seaside restaurant was real. A person takes their waking to sleep, I read. All waking, I studied your weathermap until I heard your rain the way I’ve heard my distant train, its clack and whistle, from the other side of town. If you look at the world upsidedown all day your dreams will be full of misfortune, the teller said. But inside my sleeping, inside my ear, my left ear, it came in the night, your ocean storm, your rain-rattled sky. I didn’t dream anything bad. Just rain and umbrellas and I knew without knowing your lamp was yellow though it had nothing to do with anything and I liked the way we took off our shoes and walked along the only dry part left to the left of the ear drum.  

-- Jeanie Tomasko

Sharon Auberle Sharon Auberle is a writer and photographer who, after a 17 year residence in the Southwest, has found the true place of her heart--in Door County.  Her poems and photos have appeared in numerous publications and on-line magazines, and in a number of anthologies.  She is a Pushcart Prize Nominee and the author of a memoir in poetry, two collections containing both her poems and artwork, and the most recent--a collaboration with poet Ralph Murre.  For reasons which are still a mystery to her, she has authored a blog--Mimi's Golightly Café--for nine years, which contains a potpourri of her images and words.  

Sharon Auberle

Sharon Auberle is a writer and photographer who, after a 17 year residence in the Southwest, has found the true place of her heart--in Door County.  Her poems and photos have appeared in numerous publications and on-line magazines, and in a number of anthologies.  She is a Pushcart Prize Nominee and the author of a memoir in poetry, two collections containing both her poems and artwork, and the most recent--a collaboration with poet Ralph Murre.  For reasons which are still a mystery to her, she has authored a blog--Mimi's Golightly Café--for nine years, which contains a potpourri of her images and words.  

Blue is a Fugitive Color

It is the color of ambiguous depth,
of the heavens and of the abyss at once…
              --  Alexander Theroux

Do you remember that night
I said I would have to leave?

Under a blue moon
in Clem & Ursie's Bar

you asked would I walk toward
something      or away

                       and I said a horizon

is what I need, 
a road rising to meet me.   

Dante's 9th Circle of Hell isn't fire
but ice     

                       yet blue light

has the energy to escape ice
and remain visible.

            Too often invisible to you I became                

                        blue

is a fugitive color  
fades quicker than any other.

-- Sharon Auberle

© 2017 House of the Tomato