i don't even know what to call this poem

 I Don’t Even Know What to Call This Poem

 

 

I used to think my favorite letter of the alphabet

was “L”. Because both of my kids have 2 “L”s in

their first names. But I’m listening to my second

audiobook and many of my poems have “oh” in them.

O-H as in oh my goodness; oh god; oh no; oh there

you are; oh boy not this again. So maybe my favorite

letter is really “O” in the same way that the pirate’s

favorite letter is “R” because he says “Argh” all the

time with his parrot and beard and funny hat and

hook for hand. I’ve never thought about this but

many pirates are amputees with hooks and peg legs

and I wonder if they struggle w/ feeling complete,

having lost a part of themselves. Like when I was

in an AA meeting and talked about over-emoting,

feeling too much, and someone said “There’s a

cure for that: lobotomy” as if taking part of my

brain out was funny and an option and okay.

My brain is messed up enough the way it is.

I don’t need any more help thank you.

I just got used to it the way it is now. The way

everything is now, which is changed from the way

it was just a couple of months ago. But that’s

the only constant in this world, isn’t it? Change.

Nothing stays the same. Not even in science.

Not even rocks. They erode over time.

Stars explode. Suns burn out. Galaxies fade.

And feelings? Do they last? Joy? Love? Hope?

Can they hold on forever? Or, like a light,

will they flicker and die, leaving us in a

lonely, utterly dark world, devoid of absolutely

everything but space.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
written January 30, 2026
still feeling it today

The Bridge on the Last Day

 The Bridge on the Last Day

(view from the car during the Big Move)

June 23, 2026

In the last day of my forties, I am pensive. I’m noticing the small things, like a tiny indigo butterfly atop a dandelion. The lavender blooms of the milkweed. A soft downy feather left by an unknown songbird. I am opening my eyes as I travel.

The Big Move happened two weekends ago: I have a new vacation home but my heart is split between here and there, twelve hours apart. A letting go and a tethering, a string pulled across the countryside, a flight and a landing. Love allows us that. To stretch across miles.

In the journey into my next half century, I’m leaving behind some things but I’m still going to collect feathers. This bird still has hope. Is that wrong? I’m still building a bridge of invitation that love will follow me into tomorrow.

One of my devotionals for today says that emotional satisfaction comes from having, offering, and expressing love. This is what I strive to do. Not to satisfy myself. Because it is instinctual for me. Because I can’t help but love. In all ways. Because it is in my nature to do so.  Some people think they don’t deserve this love. Think it’s not for them. Think being alone is better than accepting something that scares them because it means showing themselves, opening up, admitting they have worth. But love can be scary. It makes us vulnerable. It takes trust. And honesty. Perhaps the ones that think they don’t deserve it are the ones that most need it. Need someone to believe in them.

We talked tonight in my AA meeting about expectations. And I’ve failed in this before. I’ve been a victim of my own expectations—turned my hope into expectations for myself, and for other people. It only led to my self-centeredness and loneliness.  And I wish I could take it back.  I wish I could apologize.  I wish I could tell those I hurt how I realize it was wrong to hold that up against them, to try to mold them into something they weren’t. I lost their trust. I lost trust in myself.

But I still build my bridge.  And I still collect feathers. And I still have hope. And I still love. And I still reach out. Tomorrow is a new day and I don’t know what that will bring. But I hope it will bring the emotional satisfaction that I loved in all the ways I could.  I hope it brings those who need that love. I hope it brings those small moments we notice beauty when we stop long enough on the side of the road and glance down, hand held out, waiting for the one to hold it.

by Julie S. Paschold
Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

6.23.26

The Meaning of Life: A Poem

 

The Meaning of Life
A Poem

 

The meaning of life is
there is no meaning.
The meaning of life is THIS
and he holds up one crooked finger
and you ask what that is and
he says You have to figure that out
for yourself and yeah
you got that from a movie or something
but you thought you knew what
your something was
meaning you thought it was love
as if you tried to love everyone
meaning you have this huge love to give
but who you love keeps changing
meaning they keep leaving
as if You’re Gone by Diamond Rio
is your anthem
but it’s not that you change
who you love just that you change
the focal point of that love
and you just let one more go
not that you stop loving
but you know you can let go
and wait at the same time
hoping that last one will come back for once
meaning are you too hard to love?
too much?
why do they leave?
meaning you may never know
but who you love is growing
meaning more love more growth more faces
more hearts more broken people
to see inside their brokenness
and love them anyway
meaning it hurts sometimes
but maybe that’s your meaning
your feather of hope:
your other half
isn’t a half
you’re whole by yourself
because you stand alone
loving them whole
until they leave
better because they knew you
one more scar
one more love
one more meaning
this life shared again
here may I help you
I see you broken
by the side of the road.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

6.9.26

Dinner With My Son

 Dinner with My Son the Day Before Mother’s Day

―To Lyle

 

You are paying for dinner and we are going out,
a Mexican restaurant we know well
but I haven’t been to in a while. I comment we don’t
have the cute balding waiter that’s been here forever
and knows his stuff but we bumble through
with the guy we’ve been given, though he’s lousy.
Midway through we notice the booths have “cilantro”
engraved in their backs, an herb I am not fond of,
so I make a squishy face and you capture it on camera.

We drive through the lofty neighborhoods,
looking at rich people’s houses, wide-eyed at all the
windows and landscaping, angles and architecture.
We choose our favorites, then realize our gratitude
at having a home of our own, though humble.

You take me out for ice cream and I can’t decide
what I want (typical me) and the conversation flows

so easily throughout the night I wonder at how
we got here...mother and son. I am not so much
guiding you as walking beside you, not so much
leading you as being a trusted mentor and friend.

At the end of the adventure, walking back to the house,
I pause to notice a sphynx moth praying at
our lilac bush in this darkening evening,
drinking its nectar. We both lean in, head-to-head,
just to marvel at this miracle.

 

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

5.10.26

Violent Seams in the Concrete

 

Dancing With Purpose

 Dancing with Purpose
A Poem

Dancing with Purpose
--After Aaron Davis

What are you afraid of?
he asks in a podcast online
earlier in the day and it
sticks with me
not able to answer that
not able to articulate exactly
what I’m not confronting
or what I’m wanting
What is my potential?
He tells me to start walking
in purpose—
toward what?
I don’t know yet

Later that night
at a costume party
in front of the fire
we start talking about dancing
now that we’re sober—
something I haven’t done
my sweatshirt covering
my costume

I’m pulled into the center
of the circle, sweatshirt off,
told if I’ve got it, flaunt it,
wear it, may I take a picture,
whoops and hollers.
But still I don’t dance.

What am I afraid of?

Late that night, held in bed, 
it comes to me as my man whispers 
I got you:
I’m afraid to be seen unhindered,
I’m afraid of pleasure, of joy.
As if I don’t deserve it
as if dancing implies a loss of control
one step towards crazy:
she’s lost it, like anyone cares.

I’m not afraid of what people think,
I’m afraid of what I feel when I let go:
that freedom, that flying,
that belly-dropping openness.
I’m afraid to dance.

So tomorrow I’m playing the music.
I’m taking off the bulky clothes.
I’m loving the me that I am now.
I’m dancing…
no matter who’s watching.

No walking in purpose. Instead,
I’m dancing in purpose. 
Without fear.

By Julie S. Paschold

10.26.25

Julie S. Paschold (Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle) is a poet and artist from Nebraska with a BS and MS in agronomy from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. They have published three poetry books. Horizons (Atmosphere Press: paperback & audiobook) honors soil through family, identity, and nature, and won a Nebraska Book Award in 2024. Their chapbook You Have Always Been Here (Bass Clef Books: paperback) is an unconventional love story.  Human Nature (WSC Press: paperback & Atmosphere Press: audiobook) explores humanity’s ecological and environmental connection to nature and the planet earth. Julie is the resident poetry instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens and is registered with the Humanities Nebraska Speakers Bureau. Julie has been published in a wide range of publications. Their poem “Multitudes of Blue Arrows” was a semi-finalist in the first Kate Sommers Memorial Prize in 2023, and two of their chapbooks won honorable mention in contests by Writer's Digest in 2021 and 2022. They volunteer for the international Human Library Organization. 

Canning Tomatoes: A to-do via poetry

 Canning Tomatoes: 
A how-to via poetry

 

Way too much red on my kitchen table.
Lumps of juicy flesh lay ripening
on metal trays, pleading to be devoured
            or dealt with,
            and quickly,
for these tomatoes are ripe and ready.

First, to peel and put in jars:
            Set in sink, let the spray bounce back
                        and tiny droplets SLAP
                        your face as you clean and core
                        each one.
            Place in bowls, listen for the SLOP
                        of the water boiling
                        in the tea pot
                        on the stove;
            Pour over waiting fruit.
            Palm each tomato

once surfaces CRACK,
            remove skins, carefully SLICE
            the meaty part into chunks,
            and SLIDE
            into waiting jars.

Second, to boil seals to jars in water bath:
            Set lids on jars, seal-side on clean lips,
                        and SCREW rims over lids—
                        not tightly!
            Gently place in rack
                        in canner
            Cover with warm water
            Heat to boiling
            Wait patiently
                        for over an hour
            Hear the BAM
                        of the canner’s lid RATTLE
                        against the pot as steam
                        escapes;
            Add more hot water
                        to keep jars immersed,
                        watching and waiting,
                        TAPPING toes,
                        until the BUZZ
                        of the timer alerts you.
 

Third, to complete the seal:
            CLAMP heads of jars and—
                        without tilting—
            Bring each glass marvel to rest
                        on towels
            Wait for 24 hours and listen for the
                        POP of each jar lid
                        as your bounty is safely sealed,
                        safely kept,
            Wanting a winter’s day
                        that calls for warm soup.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

Julie S. Paschold: Poet, Artist, Agronomist from Nebraska. Author of Horizons (won 2024 Nebraska Book Award) & Human Nature. Semi-finalist in Kate Sommers Memorial Prize, honorable mention in two Writer's Digest contests. Resident Poetry Instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens. Volunteer for the Human Library Organization. https://medium.com/@jpaschold or https://jpaschold.blogspot.com/ .

Weeding the Seedlings

 Weeding the Seedlings

 

A frustrating day.
Ended by the final cry
from our 20-year-old
rusty push lawn mower
who decided to give up the ghost
halfway through mowing
the overgrown lawn.

My son is now assembling
our new one, which shall
mulch away the tips of blades
and tops of broadleaf friends
who volunteer their growth
above the soil.

I am bending over twin oak
seedlings captured in
chicken wire for their protection,
viewing the vines choking
their sunlight.

Pulling these unwanted plants,
I pile them to the side,
being careful to avoid hurting
the small trees. I talk to them
as I perform this overdue task,
and as I am coaxing the woven
tendrils from the wire,
I notice the slightest movement
at the tip of one oak leaf.

A baby praying mantis perches,
startled from my activity.
As I call my son over,
we look closer. Two tiny spiderlings.
A pill bug. And my favorite,
a lady beetle larva. Who else
have I disturbed from this
miniature world in which
we humans become the
vicious wild creatures to fear?

Wisps of who they will become,
my son and I are viscous, floating
out of time, imploring our new friends
to find themselves lost
in the nearby garden and grow.
The mantis crawls under
the shelter of the shaded leaf,
and we leave the pile where it lays,
holding what we hope are more
living dust motes, more tiny worlds
around which we hover.

Earth, today, for just this moment,
is generous.

--After Celia Drill

 

by Julie S. Paschold

7.3.25

Unraveling on a Thursday

 These two poems seem to go together.  I wrote them during April 2025, which is National Poetry Month, based on Writer's Digest poetry prompts.

10:09 AM on a Thursday

in April and it starts
plut plut plut
on the hood of my raincoat
as I’m walking and it
makes me smile.
Early this morning the birds
frantically told me this rain
was coming, the clouds headed
our way, the sunrise not to be
taken advantage of because
that sun would soon be covered
by a blanket of white and silver,
dropping its treasure below.
I do not shorten my stroll
which startles four mallards
on the small pond, who move
to the other side to shake their
heads and wings at me—or
the raindrops falling—and paddle
noisily along the far edge, bodies
gliding. I finish my walk and
head back inside. Later that
afternoon the rain stops and
the silence in the office is so loud
I can hear my tinnitus singing
in my ears. At 3:29 PM I open
the door, peek my head out,
and it starts.
The bunching of tear ducts.
The tears rolling down my face.
I don’t know where they come from.
Relief. Overwhelmed. Exhausted.
Overextended. Happiness. Gratitude.
Whatever their source, their purpose,
I let them fall—my own rain shower,
my own silver lining. The treasure
I drop to the ground below,
joining the rivulets from the sky,
traveling away to join the soil.

Unraveling

(with prompts from @imandq)

 

All morning my mind has been
in a state of disquiet like the
sleepless wind so I begin the
percussion of feet against blacktop
before the thoughts within me
melt my brain. I’d like to see the sun
after so much grey. The weekend spent
alone brought about a vintage
loneliness, a familiar tingle like
rereading a long-forgotten memoir
once upon a time I was…
listening to cavernous whispers
and tracing the lines of my hands
wanting to read the future of it all
but my reflection has changed
and though letting go left a mark
I see through the seeping blindness
that this stepping has taken me
down a road I’ve been before,
and looking up I see her, a bald eagle.
She swoops down to me, hovering above
so close I can see her feathers and
the curve of her yellow beak.
I stop and stare. Just take it all in.
The eagle, silently soaring in the sky.
The frogs’ prolific symphony.
The partial sun igniting
every busy word in my mind.
All this, unraveling the knots in me.

***

I did not get a picture of the eagle.
Some moments aren’t meant
to be photographed.

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

April 2025

***

Julie S. Paschold: Poet, Artist, Agronomist from Nebraska. Author of Horizons (won 2024 Nebraska Book Award) & Human Nature. Semi-finalist in Kate Sommers Memorial Prize, honorable mention in two Writer's Digest contests. Resident Poetry Instructor at Omaha’s Lauritzen Gardens. Volunteer for the Human Library Organization. https://medium.com/@jpaschold or https://jpaschold.blogspot.com/ .

The Beginning: A Poem

 The Beginning

a poem

Do you ever wonder how the world began?

The Beginning

Scientists probe into the journey
toward the beginning of the world;
ask such questions.

Who came first: the fish or the frog?
Is the Neanderthal our cousin or our brother?
Who initially reached for soil: roots or legs?

The earth left clues written in code
formed from another language, one
partially erased from a time
long forgotten, long passed; 

                                                a time
before the moon threw back the tides
and stars gazed at the barren sands.

We are made of cells; cells made of
organelles; organelles made of molecules;
molecules of atoms;

                               our endless world
so vast and sturdy, yet so infinitely
tiny and delicate. We are substance
and air, liquid and solid, mass and energy
combined. 

                    For all we have discovered
and defined, we are left baffled—
how intricate and extravagant,
how complex and perplexing,
how wondrous this all is!

Whether root or fin or leg or membrane,
cousin or brother,
sea or land or air or magma,

we are all part of one story, one world,
one amazing timeline, we sparkles
in God’s eye, we miracles of life,

we unexplainable wonders that keep
the experts guessing, questioning,
seeking explanations

                            for the beginning
of a world that stretches, perhaps,
to eternity.

 

 

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

4.10.25

 

Sacred Interruptions

--to the Rise Collective

 

-1-

Sacred spaces lit by the jewel
of a dragonfly wing,
supplied by Mother Nature herself,
interrupted only by the babbling
of the stones under current of water.

Sacred spaces of our creation,
whirring of fan blowing spirits of the past,
these winged blades of air
bearing their weightless support
yearning to yield pain to peace,
scream to smile, anxiety and anger
to aimless meanderings.

Can anywhere become sacred upon
our blessing and amiable ambiance,
upon the releasing of expectations
and stressful resentments and anger
that create separation?

-2-

Sacred moments when weary
becomes rest, when serenity inter-
rupts our strained stress and
allows us breath, when we read
and touch the divine, souls near
intertwine.

 

-3-

If to be sacred is to be dedicated,
to be protected, to be devoted
to a purpose, if we are helping another
to become secure, if we are reaching out
to aid in a being’s wellness,
are we not doing something sacred?

 

-4-

If to be sacred is to be secured
against violation, as by sense of right;
if to be sacred is to be properly immune
from violence and inviolable…
should not all beings be treated as sacred?
Should not all neighbors be souls to aid?
Who are we to bring animosity to another?

 

-5-

If we look at every person,
every animal, every plant,
every thing on this earth,
every stone, particle of soil,
hypha of fungi, molecule of air
as having the potential to change
and therefore living in spirit
and soulful, then sparking
in a godly way, how can we not
see ourselves in a web of endless
spirituality and having the potential
of simmering in sacredness?

 

-6-

Twice I have floated above the earth
and lost time. I was in the center
of a labyrinth, seated cross-legged
on stepping stones placed in the soil.
One of these times, my twin was seated
next to me. We floated together,
as close as we once were in the womb.
I felt the universe and the emptiness
was full of enough love for all.
For everything and everyone.

 

-7-

How, then, do we make these moments,
these places sacred in our lives?

How do we interrupt
the chaos
with the divine?

 ***

by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle

2.8.25

How to Order You Have Always Been Here

Introducing....

You Have Always Been Here

Poetry by Julie S. Paschold

AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK!!

SEE BELOW TO ORDER!!!!

Julie Paschold’s poetry collection, You Have Always Been Here, is a diaphanous touch of a bird feather across your cheek. A whisp of a weaved wing, like an electrical current, a flutter of energy that, like devotion, brings both satisfaction and sadness. She writes of love and the struggle to understand it when mixed with long-held and deep-set beliefs. Julie’s book is a rewarding prayer of and for connection: “because I have been here before,/this reaching for each other,” that once read, “. . .you are never the same/again.”   --Bonnie Johnson-Bartee, author of Cord Blood (2022 Sandhills Press), 2023 Nebraska Book Awards (Poetry Honor award)

Julie S. Paschold’s You Have Always Been Here is at once an intimate queer prayer—to a beloved, to a reader, to a god knit of desire and muscle—and a grief psalm. These poems invite us home to wheelbarrow and highway, to find release in the circles of a body running on a track, a pair of eagles flying, a spring returning with rain that taps “the melody of longing.” In this collection, queer yearning for another—“this reaching for each other”—is a form of faith, knowing that “no matter what does happen / we will be okay with each other / even after it does.” These poems carry us, cradle us through even the after, “free to leave,” reminding us of how to love ourselves and others wide as willow and wind. Let these poems hold you. Let these poems bring you home to your warm body.   -- Kelly Weber (they/she), author of We Are Changed to Deer at the Broken Place and You Bury the Birds in My Pelvis

 In You Have Always Been Here, Julie S. Paschold takes the reader on a journey full of yearning and unrequited desire that is touchingly and honestly portrayed. The poems in this unconventional love story are a heartfelt reflection on the helical nature of connection, love and loss.      --Amy Haddad, author of An Otherwise Healthy Woman

 

 Order Here:

Amazon

LULU 

Bass Clef Books

**Of course, the best way to order a paperback (and get a signed copy) is through the author at jpaschold@gmail.com or come to a reading ($15 + postage)**

See separate blog for reading schedule