Andrew Pahl
Author|Poet|Podcaster
Putting pen to paper since 2024
Andrew Pahl
Poetry Collection
Poetry Collection
My Name
For my Great Great Grandma, Hulta
They ran from their culture so they could fight to preserve it
The rabid fangs of primogeniture clamping shut on a century long
Passed, the cool sea breeze upon my ancestors’ faces all that is
As the New World beckons them forth.
The musky Michigan forest - or were they still in Finland?
It welcomed Hulta, introduced her to the world, taught her to stand
And say “hei, hello”.
It was beautiful until the soft lopping of the crisp lakewater against
The bank turned rapid with the last breaths of her father.
Everything shattered. The streets filled with hatred, the word “Immigrant”
Becoming dirty on the tongue - something Hulta learned to wash out with
That familiar lakewater, lucky to snatch a job as a maid for John Philip Sousa over a “dirty
Italian” - it is said it was because she looked more akin to
The founding fathers.
There were other words, too, in this ballad of singers and snakes:
Hulta became Hulda, my Grandfather’s name went from Watchekauskas to White, and her son
Reino became Robert (cancer broke him in 1989, just as her husband Emil choked on
Factory-grade metal filings in 1926).
Ever the singer, Hulta shouted to Reino, “That’s not your name!”
I never got to know them. I am told they had sisu - grit, spunk. I only know
This: I am their blood, sweat, and tears; their struggle, and their sacrifice. I am their story.
They are my name.
The rabid fangs of primogeniture clamping shut on a century long
Passed, the cool sea breeze upon my ancestors’ faces all that is
As the New World beckons them forth.
The musky Michigan forest - or were they still in Finland?
It welcomed Hulta, introduced her to the world, taught her to stand
And say “hei, hello”.
It was beautiful until the soft lopping of the crisp lakewater against
The bank turned rapid with the last breaths of her father.
Everything shattered. The streets filled with hatred, the word “Immigrant”
Becoming dirty on the tongue - something Hulta learned to wash out with
That familiar lakewater, lucky to snatch a job as a maid for John Philip Sousa over a “dirty
Italian” - it is said it was because she looked more akin to
The founding fathers.
There were other words, too, in this ballad of singers and snakes:
Hulta became Hulda, my Grandfather’s name went from Watchekauskas to White, and her son
Reino became Robert (cancer broke him in 1989, just as her husband Emil choked on
Factory-grade metal filings in 1926).
Ever the singer, Hulta shouted to Reino, “That’s not your name!”
I never got to know them. I am told they had sisu - grit, spunk. I only know
This: I am their blood, sweat, and tears; their struggle, and their sacrifice. I am their story.
They are my name.
Oorah to Ashes
For my Grandpa, Arthur
He stumbled through Everyone
Who turned their back on him. He Was
A stranger - he was their neighbor. Asleep
In his bed he felt the breeze of a bullet’s breath Despite
Law, order, and consequence. No one will save The
German, for whom Ger comes before man. Distant
By identity, close by name, closer to death; Bombs
Tear at his mind, his family running for the bomb shelter, Terror
Stalwart as he ran away from the sick of sin he Had.
An infographic in the paper is all he will Become
As he catches the American train: “Stop him and The
Job’s Done!” The Japanese man aiming at him, a Familiar
Feeling in his eyes of dust to dust, oorah to ashes, family to Stranger.
Who turned their back on him. He Was
A stranger - he was their neighbor. Asleep
In his bed he felt the breeze of a bullet’s breath Despite
Law, order, and consequence. No one will save The
German, for whom Ger comes before man. Distant
By identity, close by name, closer to death; Bombs
Tear at his mind, his family running for the bomb shelter, Terror
Stalwart as he ran away from the sick of sin he Had.
An infographic in the paper is all he will Become
As he catches the American train: “Stop him and The
Job’s Done!” The Japanese man aiming at him, a Familiar
Feeling in his eyes of dust to dust, oorah to ashes, family to Stranger.
U.S. War Department. Stop Him and the Job's Done. U.S. Army Official Poster, 1940s. Public domain.
The Beaten Path
For those who follow the forest
“What are we doing here?”
That’s a question I asked myself not too long ago
While some friends and I — some good friends —
Lost ourselves in the woods.
We walked the trail of many before us.
The sun dipped beneath the forest floor
As we gazed at the towering spruce by the lake,
Smelling the sweet, hearty scent as it wafted past.
Shivering, yet warmer than ever,
I glimpsed imaginary shooting stars through the thicket of branches,
Shielding me as they flew across a canvas of indigo, vanished,
Were born ceaselessly back against the night sky, then vanished again.
The log cabin’s fireplace licked our frosted faces,
The light danced across the curves, knubs, and spirals on the walls,
Lazily sprawling across our enclosure, as if stretching before sleep,
As if the trees huddled together to keep us safe.
The trees kept us safe,
Radiated acceptance as we told jokes
About how long it would take the fire
To burn the whole place down.
***
As I lay in my puffy sleeping bag beside my friends,
The fire became too hot and turned my veins to ice.
To keep warm, I went outside
To walk the path I felt the bootprints of my parents in.
I stumbled through the forest,
Giving credence to giving up, maybe giving the cabin another chance.
The nighttime birds huddled on the slender branches above my head,
Chirping a song of indignation as I trooped on.
A shimmer caught my eye from the lake through the peepholes of some bushes.
I stopped at the water’s edge,
My boots planting in the gravel, sending a shiver down the lake’s spine
As a ripple radiated outward.
I concealed a teary eye from the night,
Shaken that it did not desire my company.
I lay by its side, gently, to not scare it,
And found my reflection.
My dark facade pierced the clarity of the water,
Overtaken by the sickness of my shadowy mind.
And as I pondered myself there for a length of time I will never fully remember,
I saw myself, but I also saw me.
***
I ran back to the cabin with a silly smile on my face,
My lips curled with a grin given to me
By the question I had asked myself.
Since, for once, I knew the answer.
I quietly opened the door
To not disturb those of my friends who were warm.
When I found one that shivered,
I woke him up, gently.
“What time is it? Can’t you show me tomorrow?”
My friend’s whispers made me laugh, reminding me of my parents.
“If we wait for the sun, which we know
Can’t come until tomorrow, you won’t see it as well.”
I led him through the forest, a drummer boy on a battlefield,
Beating a rhythm akin to the heart,
Steps of purpose and valor, against the grain of the log cabin,
Forward, lakeward, to the edge, shooting ripples reborn like the stars overhead.
My friend knelt, leaned in close, nearly pressed his face against the thin film of his reflection,
And looked at himself as it rippled from his mystified breath.
Just as sowing ashes does not bring harvest,
I kept quiet, as speaking would only reap noise.
He looked up at me from the waters,
And I him.
His face scrunched, and — this made me smile, I think — he asked me,
“What are we doing here?”
That’s a question I asked myself not too long ago
While some friends and I — some good friends —
Lost ourselves in the woods.
We walked the trail of many before us.
The sun dipped beneath the forest floor
As we gazed at the towering spruce by the lake,
Smelling the sweet, hearty scent as it wafted past.
Shivering, yet warmer than ever,
I glimpsed imaginary shooting stars through the thicket of branches,
Shielding me as they flew across a canvas of indigo, vanished,
Were born ceaselessly back against the night sky, then vanished again.
The log cabin’s fireplace licked our frosted faces,
The light danced across the curves, knubs, and spirals on the walls,
Lazily sprawling across our enclosure, as if stretching before sleep,
As if the trees huddled together to keep us safe.
The trees kept us safe,
Radiated acceptance as we told jokes
About how long it would take the fire
To burn the whole place down.
***
As I lay in my puffy sleeping bag beside my friends,
The fire became too hot and turned my veins to ice.
To keep warm, I went outside
To walk the path I felt the bootprints of my parents in.
I stumbled through the forest,
Giving credence to giving up, maybe giving the cabin another chance.
The nighttime birds huddled on the slender branches above my head,
Chirping a song of indignation as I trooped on.
A shimmer caught my eye from the lake through the peepholes of some bushes.
I stopped at the water’s edge,
My boots planting in the gravel, sending a shiver down the lake’s spine
As a ripple radiated outward.
I concealed a teary eye from the night,
Shaken that it did not desire my company.
I lay by its side, gently, to not scare it,
And found my reflection.
My dark facade pierced the clarity of the water,
Overtaken by the sickness of my shadowy mind.
And as I pondered myself there for a length of time I will never fully remember,
I saw myself, but I also saw me.
***
I ran back to the cabin with a silly smile on my face,
My lips curled with a grin given to me
By the question I had asked myself.
Since, for once, I knew the answer.
I quietly opened the door
To not disturb those of my friends who were warm.
When I found one that shivered,
I woke him up, gently.
“What time is it? Can’t you show me tomorrow?”
My friend’s whispers made me laugh, reminding me of my parents.
“If we wait for the sun, which we know
Can’t come until tomorrow, you won’t see it as well.”
I led him through the forest, a drummer boy on a battlefield,
Beating a rhythm akin to the heart,
Steps of purpose and valor, against the grain of the log cabin,
Forward, lakeward, to the edge, shooting ripples reborn like the stars overhead.
My friend knelt, leaned in close, nearly pressed his face against the thin film of his reflection,
And looked at himself as it rippled from his mystified breath.
Just as sowing ashes does not bring harvest,
I kept quiet, as speaking would only reap noise.
He looked up at me from the waters,
And I him.
His face scrunched, and — this made me smile, I think — he asked me,
“What are we doing here?”