Shredding

7704 Quail Hollow Dr.

                                                Blue grosbeak eating the sunflower                                                    seed

The new dog started me on this chore. He pulled all the important papers from the shelf. The folder contained everything about the old house.

                                                Great Blue Heron wading in the                                                         seasonal creek

I shredded some unimportant papers: completed work forms, warranty on a refrigerator I no longer own. The hard work: what to keep, what to shred. Two packets of the house appraisal one with colored pictures, the other in black and white.

                                                Wild Turkey scratching in the woods

Had to tear those apart, the shredder takes only 6 pages.

The machine whined with each batch, filled the wastepaper basket then a garbage bag.

                                                Barred Owl calling, from a tree                                                          branch in daylight

Plots of land boundaries, loan papers, all those many papers I haved signed to buy a house.

                                                Indigo Buntings on the feeder

Two dogs in the fenced-in yard, both gone. I wonder if the buyers have lived there long enough for memories.

205 Allen Ruffin Ave.

                                                Pileated woodpecker on the dead                                                       tree

is not the same although the bird list is about 50. I still do the feeder count, a holdover from the old place. No woods to attract many birds but some are exciting:

                                                Evening Grosbeak, Dickcissel,

                                                Cooper’s Hawk on the stair railing.

So I keep feeding the birds and squirrels in hopes the Pileated Woodpecker will return. In the meantime, I will be satisfied with Northern Cardinals and Carolina Wrens.

                                                Vita and Ms Woolf

                                                Pride issue

                                                2024

Happiness

Behind a somber cloud,

it hides from the rest of the world

wondering who will care. 

Or perhaps a black panther,

stalking, will shake it until

it is dead.

                                                                        Brillig

                                                                        2024

 SNIPPETS OF COLD

The spring dew frosts the new grass,

air is brisk with the remains of winter.

Newly emerged, beech leaves

shiver in the sun.

The water chair floats

like an iceberg in the icy pool.

Over the mountains, a rain squall forms,  

snowballs down the hill.

Snow geese lift from the fields

on their way to the Arctic.

                                                                        Brillig

                                                                        2024

                                                                       

Glimmer of a Poem

I launched my poem into air

but I fell deep into my ebony

hole unable to fly with it. 

I need to climb out even if on my knees. 

But right now, all I have is a

shimmer of sunlight

at the bottom of this dark.

                                                                        Brillig

                                                                        2024

 First Scar

Being little I thought I was dying. One afternoon

I turned sharply, fell from my bike onto my left knee. 

I looked down, saw dark maroon blood

ooze from the hole I had gouged.   Cried for Mom

who came to inspect the damage.  She allowed

how it wasn’t much, took me inside to clean it.

Put a band aide on my cratered knee. After it healed,

I had a tiny scar.  I am sure I showed it off in school. 

Today, my knee is 71 years old, spider veins cluster

on the patella. I only imagine the scar on my knee.

                                                                                    Brillig micro lit mag

                                                                                    2024

Wishing You Back to Me

Wishing You Back to Me

I could bring you back but the wind

no longer lifts your mane.

Your eyes look into mine, not into infinity.

You walk freely, not stiffly and in pain.

We could gallop across the meadow,

your power rising through me. I listen

to you crunch your grain, grind your hay. 

I breathe in your sweet breath, kiss your soft nose.

I breath in your sweet breath,

kiss your soft nose. I listen to you crunch

your grain, grind your hay. We could gallop

across the meadow, your power rising through me.

Your eyes look into mine, not into infinity.

You walk freely, not stiffly and in pain.

If I could bring you back,

the wind no longer lifts your mane.

                                                                                    The Piker Press

                                                                                    2024

.

                                                                                    The Piker Press

                                                                                    2024

What I thought was lost/Finding My Way

         “composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found”

                                                                                               Mary Oliver

Many times, I lose my way

going left when I should have gone right,

going down when up was the better direction,

keeping quiet when speaking was the best path.

I stumble over boulders trying to map

an easy route but find there is none.

On the way to a peaceful path, sometimes

on my hands and knees, I clamber

over rocks.  

I find in wandering,

many questions go unanswered.

Wasted paths turn up

at the strangest moments,

letting me find the lost.

                                                            Remington Review

                                                            Spring 2019

What I Should Have Told My Mom When I Was Twenty-five

            Before she died, I don’t think

I appreciated all my mother did for me until I left home.

I would thank her for keeping the house so clean,

I get mine dusted, vacuumed once a month,

I am lucky to dust mop the dog hairs.

No more tears

            I didn’t know how much energy

it took to keep the house clean, laundry done,

grocery shopping; now I run out of energy

with any of these tasks.

No more tears

            After my brother and I left,

she took care of the barn

and horses: feeding,

turning out, mucking the stalls.

No more tears

            I thank her for going forward

even though her hands were ravaged

by arthritis. Her stoicism amazed me

even when in the nursing home,

even with her last words:

no more tears

                                                            Heron Clan XI

                                                            Apr 24

What I Should Have Asked My Parents

It is too late to ask where did you met.

What was your first date, what kept you apart? 

What did you study in school? 

What was your wedding like? Mom, after you died, I found

your wedding picture, you were beautiful.  Was it strange

to have your father officiate at your wedding?

There are only a few pictures of you in your wedding dress.

When did you get the cocker spaniel, Blackie? 

When did you move into your first house? 

It is too late to ask those questions.

Did you get married before moving to Oak Ridge  

What did you do at the plants?

What did Dad do? What was it like to live in Oak Ridge? 

I have read the books, it sounds a little grim. 

Were you happy when Fred and I were born? 

Why did we move to Kalamazoo? 

All these questions, it is too late to ask them now,

too late to ask them now.

                                                                        Remington Review

                                                                        Spring 2024

The Last Ledge

The abyss haunts;

full of darkness. Sunlight waits

for me to return.  Blackness

cries of broken hips or worse. 

It teases me with the taste of that loss.

Eight weeks of sitting; waiting for that cracked bone

to heal; to return to driving for groceries, lifting

them into the car, into the house and walking

the dog. Unable to stop my plunge, I grab a shelf

to halt my fall. 

The abyss haunts;

what if another fall drops

me lower

into the chasm?

Will it be

a slip

on the ice?

Maybe something

worse

leaving

me helpless

to the whims

of others?

Will I

find the

last ledge?

                                                                                    Bond Street Journal

                                                                                    Aug 2023