Lora Keller
CONTACT:
1633 N. Prospect Ave. Unit 11F
Milwaukee, WI 53202
Email: lorakeller11@gmail.com
Website: www.lakeller.com
Instagram: @loraannkeller
BIO:
After earning a degree in English and communication with a minor in journalism, the few poems Lora slipped into her journalistic portfolio helped nab her first professional writing job as a scriptwriter. She worked for many years as a journalist, public relations executive, educator and small business owner in New York City, Kansas City and Milwaukee. Now she writes, reads, bikes, plans travel adventures and obsesses over the Milwaukee Bucks. Recently, she’s become a more active member of the WFOP by helping plan our 2024 conference.
PUBLICATIONS:
More than 60 of her poems have been published in a variety of publications including: NPR’s Tell Me More Blog, Midwest Quarterly, Midwest Review, Reed and Sport Literate. Her poem, “American Mother” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She’s working on collections of her work including one about basketball. She’s read her work in Australia, New York, Oregon, Vermont as well as Wisconsin.
Poetry
On Shawano Lake
I wrap an orange life jacket around my shoulders
like a crusty stole. You thread the loose canvas tie
through the two silver rings at my waist
and tug it tight, twice. It’s my turn,
my one time all year to be alone with you.
Your sons are still asleep and jealous.
Your other daughter is afraid of worms.
Our Evinrude fractures the quiet morning
and soon we stop at the edge of a lily pad acre.
We float and lure perch from their liquid field.
I imagine a stroll across the smooth green,
swaying carpet, sunfish darting
beneath my navy blue Keds, through their foggy
jungle of shimmying stems. Your reel hums
and clicks. I flounder for the perfect question
that would open you to me.
A loon cry echoes. Water softly rubs the aluminum
dinghy. You cast your line again. The black lead weight
arcs through the dark, dawn sky and steers the sheer
fishing line to the pike’s cool, still lair. At your feet,
a rusted tackle box sparkles with your arsenal –
minnows, spinners, spoons. I wait for a splash
of golden tail, any glance from you,
even a call to pull anchor.
Your cigar seasons the lake air. I watch the bobber
at the end of my bamboo pole -- the red half
submerged, the white half lifted, alert
to all nibbles.