Poetry by Brandi Wentworth

A Simple Wooden Rectangle
By Brandi Wentworth

A simple wooden rectangle, measuring 3 x 10 inches long, with 5 pegs that stand at the ready, given to me for my 13th birthday by my godfather and favorite uncle, Dan. I mounted it above my dresser and displayed my necklaces on it when I first received it. Crafted by his own hands with his name carved into the back, a treasure he had given to me, I vowed to take care of it always. As an adult, I now have this piece of him hanging by the front door of my home to hold my keys. He left me such a wonderful piece of artwork to hang on to forever. After his death, when I was a sophomore in high school, I removed the jewelry, carefully took it down from the wall and held it close to me. It was my way to remain close to him. How I miss him so much. Now it helps me to remember our family trips to walk the Mackinaw Bridge every Labor Day, our drive to Kalamazoo to the drive-thru party store, our adventures at the Toledo Zoo, a day spent watching trick flying at an airshow, the countless hours playing Pictionary or Euchre. I never dreamt a simple wooden rectangle would be able to hold so much more than jewelry and keys.

The Red Monster
By Brandi Wentworth

He spends countless hours held up in his basement, turned hangar, with his R.C. airplanes, meticulously gluing tiny pieces of balsam wood together, installing an engine with precision, measuring, cutting, testing until his masterpiece is ready for its maiden flight. The first time my daddy tinkered with a remote-control airplane, I was a young, pre-teen girl. It was a large, red plane with landing gear that did not retract when in flight. Daddy would take off from our large, north facing side yard and buzz the plane over my head, fly over the enormous bean field, performing loops and twirls in flight, then land (or crash) back into the yard. The big, red monster has since retired from flying the summer, silky blue skies and now hangs in his garage above where he parks his pickup truck, as if displayed in a museum. I walk back into my childhood when I step into that space and can hear the whirring of the engine, see streaks of red against the huge blue sky, smell the gasoline/oil mixture on my daddy’s hands from fueling it up. I want to stand there forever. He still builds, flies, crashes, repairs, and repeats in his retirement and when I follow him to an R.C. airfield to watch him fly his works of art, I am in awe of him.

Waves
By Brandi Wentworth

Sitting alone on the beach
Looking out into the horizon
the burning orb touches the water
waves crash ashore on the quiet sand
then descend back to the vast ocean
salty mist moistens my lips
warm air brushes across my skin
toes buried deep into the cool, white grit
tension eases from my muscles
rhythmic tides sweep away my worries
relaxation comforts my mind
you reach your hand down to hold mine
you silence the storm brewing within
you calm my waves