First Milk

The calf falls into the world, it struggles to stand on spindly legs,

stumbles beneath its mother for that first milk.

I lurch out of bed to face the morning.  (day)

Stronger now, the baby sticks close to its grazing mother, trots to keep up

when she moves to another bit of grass.

I watch the sun shoulder the night away

Cud chewing time, the cow kneels to the ground,

the youngster beside her.

In the thicket, I hear the wood thrush pipe in the spring morning

Grass glistens in the warming sun,

the calf careens down the hill.

And I take 3 little pills to keep up with the day

                                                                        hellebore  2019

Casting Salt

Like sleet, the salt comes out so fast

that it over runs the teaspoon

and scattered on the floor. 

Mother, superstitious as she was,

would remind me to take a pinch

and throw it over my left shoulder.

This to ward off evil spirits

and protect my soul.  I wonder

if the cake will fall.

But I leave the salt on the floor

knowing I might spill more

or snow the floor with flour.

I put the cake in the oven,

check back in an hour

for any effects of my sloppy work.

But no harm done, the cake rose

in the pan and is golden brown

on top just like the recipe said. 

I sweep up the mess I made.

                                                            Selcouth South  2019

Gathering Dust

Her name, I don’t recall but she was black, black.  She had kittens in my mother’s linen closet, I

only remember two, one was ebony, climbed into the car’s engine, the other we named Toby, gray and white.

My collection of cats: Pewter, wood, ceramic, whimsical, true to life, one-inch square painted in Paris, ruby red from a long-ago friend.  Salt and pepper shakers—white with black spots from a patient I treated.  Not exactly my style, but she insisted.

I have had two cats: Puff, he was feral, took two weeks to catch him in the apartment, had tapeworms bad.  Ivory came with a fake gemstone collar, took that off right away.  Puff, he used up one of his nine lives, swallowed an embroidery needle with thread.  I found it in the litter box.  Ivory had one ear amputated, a tumor.  Now I have two dogs, the greyhound trained to chase small fluffy things and a boxer/pitbull who has forgotten Ivory.

Maybe, if I wrap the figurines up, take them to the thrift shop, someone will buy the salt and pepper shaker.

                                                                                    selcouth south  2019

Hurricane Rain at Holden Beach

It slips from the clouds out on the horizon.

It marches towards the beach,

great drops pelt the waves with dimples.

It pocks the sand like blasts from a BB gun,

pastes each grain to its neighbor. It sands

the driftwood that washes ashore. 

It rinses dust from the sea oats,

salt from the car.  It pummels the window,

falls softly as the wind drops.

It trickles down my back through the leak

in my raincoat. It needles my skin as I lean

into the wind, wishing it would wash

you from my mind.

selcouth south  2019

Sunday Rain

Cascade to wash me clean,

stifle the day’s monotony.

Plummet from the sky,

erase death’s thoughts that stain my brain.

Tumble the energy of your drops

into words on this paper.

Thunder spill from my ears

so I can hear the bluebird’s song.

Flood me with blue sky, wispy clouds,

honeysuckle’s sweet scent.

Drown the gray clouds, drench my mind

with thoughts of the future.

                                                            selcouth south  2019

Thinking of You on Holden Beach, Labor Day

Early morning sun dyes the sky

lipstick pink and pumpkin orange.

Evening’s sun will replace

these with shades of gray.

Waves thunder onto the shore,

shaking the ground as I walk.

The wind blows foam off the storm–

whipped waves that come in sets of ten.

Foam skitters across the sand,

melts into receding waves.

Above the tide line, the sand

is loose and hot, below, it is laced

with footprints of laughing gull and sanderling.

But this is how it is:

Afternoon sun bores into my brain.

Wind lashes dry sand that

roughs up my legs as I walk.

Remains of fishing lines, Styrofoam cups

assault my eyes. I walk anyway,

hoping the wind will blow you away.

                                                            Silkworm 2019

The Last Year of His Life

My brother and I clean out Dad’s room

at the assisted living facility.

Six bags full of

 paper: shopping lists, letters

magazines: Physics, Science

receipts: utility bills, credit card

I use a few bags to cover framed photos

to take home. Mt. Denali, the pileated

woodpecker picture I gave him for Christmas.

In a black lawn bag, we stuff

the suit he wore to Mom’s memorial,

sweat pants, his khakis, shirts, items

we thought Goodwill could use.        

                                                The Maynard

                                                            4/2014

Counting Pills

                        If dying was easy, I would have done it sooner

Would you believe

me if I told you

I wasn’t really

counting pills?

Would you believe

me if I said I wasn’t

ready to go?

The whiskey bottle

is empty, so too

the pill bottles.

The white, blue,

green and cream

are supposed

to make me happy.

Despite their efforts,

I remain in my black hole.

The pills slither down.

I slow down.

I feel the atria lurch

followed by the ventricles.

The rhythm falters,

draws to a close.

It doesn’t matter.

                                                            Black Coffee Review

                                                            August 2019

Top of the Bridge

I climb onto the bridge’s railing,

toss your name into the wind

but it revisits me like the swallow. 

I think I have captured you but

then you shift away like the fog

underneath the bridge. 

The mist net will not catch you.

I watch you float down the river.

I think I am done with your memory.

But I am not.  Grayness mists

around me.  I shiver in the dampness.

I will forever be cold.

                                                                                    Poetica Review  spr 2020

’54 Chevy

It was faded blue with a white top.  What I remember most are trips

out West taken most every summer.  That car took us to Yellowstone,

Grand Tetons, Bryce’s Canyon, Wind Rivers and to New England

for the Presidential Range in New Hampshire.  Dad built storage boxes

to fit in the back to carry all our camping gear: tent, sleeping bags, utensils. 

My brother and I sat in the back doing the usual brother/sister stuff:

“Mom, he’s on my side of the seat!” and “When will we get there?”

Dad took care of that car: changed the oil, checked the timing,

gapped the new spark plugs.  We had to get a new car for our new hobby:

horses. The old Chevy just couldn’t pull a trailer.   I don’t remember

what happened to the old car, just that another Chevy replaced it. 

I’ve had several cars since, two Vegas, three Subarus, and a Nissan truck.

Some of those cars had lots of miles on them but none has ever taken

me as far as that old Chevy.

                                                                                    Muddy River Poetry Review

                                                                                    Spring 2020