Poems · Published Poems

WINTER’S COMING

WINTER’S COMING
Cicadas rasp fall’s
last song in the faded
afternoon sun. Swallowtails
hunt autumn’s waning
nectar on buddleia.
Does the grasshopper,
basking off the cold night’s
lethargy on dried grass,
feel death coming?

As the northeaster shifts
dry sand,the Great Egret
stalks fish as gulls scavenge.
Above, a Marsh Hawk hovers,
the young mouse dangles.

The wind is tinged with winter.

Crucible

Poems · Published Poems

WALLS

WALLS
I tear off the wallpaper, leaving
an old layer of paint. Spreading spackle
like frosting, I fill in the defects.
When I sand, gray dust cakes my hair
and sifts through the house.

Time to paint.
I dip the trim brush
into Blue Gauze
and tint the molding.

Filling the bristles
with Linen White, I hide
the lime green walls.
The last coat is on,
the vanity in.

I’d like to change my own walls,
the ones that are black and white,
that keep you out. I’d paint them
in pastels, Brushed Silver
with Ruby Dusk trim.
And I’d put in a door
to let you in.

Aries One

Poems · Published Poems

Tai-Chi

Tai-Chi
Sandwich terns, bills tipped
in yellow, plummet into the shallows,
flutter up with silver fish.
Black legs blurred, the winter grey
sanderling probes the wave-washed sand.
Off shore, the dolphin arcs
out of the swells following the mullet.

On shore, people hurl weighted hooks
into the shallows, hoping for a hit,
while a swimmer, belly bulging over her
bathing suit, practices tai-chi,
hoping for grace.

Just a Moment

Poems · Published Poems

ALONE, THE WIND SPEAKS

ALONE, THE WIND SPEAKS
When the wind plucks
the pines’ needles, the grove
quickens into a harp. Each branch
hums to another, scoring
the stringed sound.

But some nights, a moonless
wind rings a frosted steel
chime with a solitary note.

The River’s Edge

Poems · Published Poems

WAITING FOR WINTER

WAITING FOR WINTER
Basking in the sunlight to shed
the cold night’s stupor, grasshoppers
rest on dried grasses.

Bees hunt autumn aster
and Russian olive for fall’s
diminishing nectar.

In prairies, pot-holed
breeding grounds hide invading
chemicals in clear water.
The juvenile Marbled Godwit
migrates east, pausing
at man-made tidal pools.
Born with snarled beak,
it cannot probe the sand for food.

The bees hoard honey
to survive the frosts,
grasshopper eggs overwinter
in leaf mulch. Both prepare
for the next generation.

Poems · Published Poems

WAITING AT THE LEK

WAITING AT THE LEK
In the mist-black dawn,
house finches rustled
in the leaf-bare cottonwood.
Prairie wind celloed
through withered grass.
Above the plain,
ancient leks were quiet
until sharp-tailed grouse
began to display. their purple sacs
oboed into the brightening day.
As afternoon dusted
into evening gray,
sandhill cranes, heads
capped in port wine red,
returned to the Platte.
Flocks flew in from
the fields covering
silted waters
like a growing blanket.

Traditional mounds disappear
under shopping malls,
rivers are drained for fountains.
Fields over-grazed,
the orchestra fades.

Charlotte Poetry Review

Poems · Published Poems

TURNOUT

TURNOUT
Two horses, damp from their baths,
stride beside me.
Walking to the pasture,
their iron shoes ring on concrete.

An Audi speeds
towards us,
spewing dust.
Rich car, I mutter.
We stop.
The car passes.

Framed in the receding
rear window, a young face
strains to watch us until the car
rounds the corner
and she can see no more.

I turn the horses out,
they run to friends,
leaving me behind.

I think back
thirty years, see a face
in the faded Chevy
wishing she had horses
to turn out.

Cold Mountain Review

Poems · Published Poems

TURKEY VULTURE

TURKEY VULTURE
The black wing
scythes the thermal
falling lower or rising

higher on the turn
of a feather.
Swooping low,

the bird scans the earth
for the dead
or the solitary.

Vulture, knife down,
probe deep, cut
these memories

so I can slice
the wind.

Bishop’s House Review

Poems · Published Poems

TRACKS

TRACKS
Winter gray, the sanderling
skitters along the receding wave,
probing bubbles for dinner.
A lone line of prints laces

the damp sand like veined leaves.
Others join the bird, their tracks
woven together in the ebbing.
The flock flees a surge,

leaving only the one.
Looking over its shoulder,
does the bird see its single
line of tracks, filling?

Bishop’s House Review

Poems · Published Poems

CARRYING YOUR ASHES HOME

CARRYING YOUR ASHES HOME
Old tires are buried in a playground, or tied
by rope to a tree limb over the river
just waiting for a swing. My tires were worn
but lasted long enough to take you to the vet.

Filled with begonias, some are painted white, jagged teeth
like the ventricular tachycardia on your EKG.
Others are tossed into a ditch to collect rain water
and mosquitoes. Piles burn uncontrolled, the tumor
pressed on your heart. In August two-a-days, football players
step through tires snaked out on the ground.

With new tires, I carry you home.

Broken Plate