Doors

How many doors have I closed?

Three houses have gone into memory.

Memphis’ door cracks open every Christmas

to let a card in.  The two in Hillsborough

remain shut, I don’t drive past these.

Should have left one ajar to stay in touch

with my neighbor but it remains locked

and sealed.  Others, their hinges needing

to be oiled, have creaked open.  Walking

the dog, basketball games, the kennel.

I still have one left, it stays blocked

most of the time except when the wind

nudges it open to let in a thought of you.

Dad’s Hip Fracture

 

 

It took only one slip
from your chair

to make your life as
fragile as the broken bone.

 

I’ve
fallen and I can’t get up

 

no laughs or sniggers

from the television
audience,

this time it is real.

 

Two

            from   

                        Physical Therapy          

            come            

                        to                          up.

                                    lift you

I know that you will not
walk again,

 

Curled up like an autumn
leaf,

you sleep. The pump that
carried you

through 89 years, failing.
For the last time,

it trickles the blood
uphill. Your last breath

so weak it could not puff
out a candle.

 

 

 

 

                                                The Broken Plate 2020

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                   

 

 

 

 

Dad’s Hip Fracture

It took only one slip from your chair

to make your life as fragile as the broken bone.

I’ve fallen and I can’t get up

no laughs or sniggers

from the television audience,

this time it is real.

Two

            from   

                        Physical Therapy          

            come            

                        to                          up.

                                    lift you

I know that you will not walk again,

Curled up like an autumn leaf,

you sleep. The pump that carried you

through 89 years, failing. For the last time,

it trickles the blood uphill. Your last breath

so weak it could not puff out a candle.

          

it trickles the blood uphill. Your last breath

so weak it could not puff out a candle.

                                                The Broken Plate 2020

                                               

Duke Energy’s Critical Peak Pricing Day

                             . . .one thing they don’t tell you ‘bout the blues when you got ‘em

                                 You keep on fallin’ cause there ain’t no bottom,

                                 There ain’t no end      Emmylou Harris  Red Dirt Girl

I’m not supposed to use too much energy

between 2 and 8 pm.  Don’t use the washer

or dryer when I can wash and dry

another day.  No worries here,

I don’t have enough energy to get off

the couch much less do laundry. 

These days; my plug is pulled—

not even the dog can lighten my mood. 

I spiral down; grab but miss pleasant thoughts

of buddleia blooming purple by the side of the house,

fireflies drifting upwards in the evening.

I ride these days out but it takes

longer to halt my drop.  Slowly, I emerge

from the darkness to admire drifting

scent of flowers, tiny spots of rising light.

                                                Bond Street Journal/Inkwell Aug 2023

BLUEBIRDS

The male, azure with cinnamon vest, points the way

to an abandoned woodpecker hole. The female weaves

a nest of pine needles, grass.  The young,

naked, blind, demand food.

                                    In the next room, the baby cries:

its diaper is wet.

A green worm in his bill, he waits in a nearby tree,

searches for danger, enters the hole.  He leaves, carries

a fecal sac far from the nest.

                                    The father turns up the volume.

The black snake shimmies up the tree,

parents peck and fuss; chickadees, nuthatches mob it. 

Defeated, the snake retreats.

                                    Shut that baby up.

                                    She rouses from the couch.

                                    I’ll give him something to cry about.

Feathered and sighted, the fledglings

peer from the hole. The father calls 

to the young: fly. 

                                                the water, hot.

The female starts another nest.

                                                the child screams.

Southern Women’s Review  Jan 2012

Snow in the Room

It is cold here but not as icy as your heart,

it is so frigid snow could fall into this room.

It would cover the wound in my heart

but blood would seep to the surface.

Icicles would hang from the chandelier,

daggers waiting to shred my body

as they fall. Spring will come, melt drifts

from the windows, wash me from this room.

Winter

I am not ready for your dragging days

You make them so short.  At my house,

you never know whether to be sleet or snow. 

If you must come, please bring big snowflakes

that sift over limp grass and then cardinals

will ornament the trees. You ice the deck that the dog

and I have to traverse.  Shrubs succumb to your weight,

never regaining strength to stand erect again. 

And your frost freezes to the windshield like glue.

Do send deep blue skies with sun sparkling off iced

tree limbs to let me know that warmer days are ahead. 

Don’t tease us with the smell of spring only to slam

the door shut with a storm.  Most importantly,

leave as quietly as you came.

Green Hills Literary Lantern   2021

Danger

One of my hearts can barely hold the ethereal scent

of morning’s mimosa.  The young, red-bellied

woodpeckers learning to eat the suet fills my smile. 

Soon they are pros.

George’s (the dog) face when he destroys the potholder is

beyond fun.   Jake’s bark when on the trail

gives me a rush.  It is this heart

that expands to hold infinite peaceful scenes.

But my other heart is an organ, pumping a few ounces

of blood with each beat.  It is dangerous to overload

this muscle beyond capacity.  It won’t rupture, just grow in size

until it pumps no more.  Both hearts will leave together.

                                                                                                Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine

                                                                                                            2020

Dad’s Wool Shirt

Looks pretty ragged,

left cuff will not stay

buttoned.  Both sleeves

have holes at the elbows.

A front button is missing.

Wool plaid–greys, maroons, navy blues.

It was my Dad’s but fits me well.

It is the warmest shirt I own;

must be at least twenty by now.

Gets me through our winters.

Another is gold and brown

but it has shrunk and no longer fits.

The one in black and blue has elbow

patches that were the rage way back when. 

These shirts don’t feel as warm.

The ragged shirt hangs in the closet.

It hasn’t been cold enough to wear it lately.

Can’t bring myself to throw it out.

I’ll leave it be; might get cold

enough to wear it.

                                                Avalon Literary Review

                                                Winter 2021

Mother’s Stapler

It sat on her desk

black as a snake, waiting.

It had a line at the hinge and padding on the bottom

gray as her hair.

Like fangs, the staples stood ready to bite into the collection of paper,

she stacked the papers just so; placed them on the silver foot pad.

The fangs descended and tried to capture the sheaf in its just-so-way

but the stapler caught her finger.

The blood sprang from the two tiny holes

with tears in her eyes, she pulled the staple from her finger.

I was sure that it hurt

she did not cry, just blotted the puncture holes with a tissue.

The coil reset, waited for another try

she re-stacked the papers, put them into the stapler’s maw.

Her last words described how she lived:

no more tears.

                                                                                    BackChannels

                                                                                    summer 2020

First and Last

Before I was born, letters

between Mom and Dad

showed that Blackie was a sickly pup,

maybe worms. She always came home

from the vet. Until that day. I knew

she wasn’t coming back.

Behind the house, Dad dug her grave.

I have memories of Mom:

hitting the softball

over everyone’s head,

helping me with the Gobi Desert

presentation for school,

later, at the rehab center, her withered body

dressed in her favorite maroon sweatshirt,

feeding-tube hanging out from under

the hem. We celebrated Christmas:

her children, grandchildren,

husband of 60 years

at her bedside.

I knew it would be the last.

At Weatherford’s, I received

her mahogany box of ashes.

                                                                        Up the River

                                                                        Albany Poets

                                                                        8^th Issue