Sunset     

Here we are at sunset sitting

on the sand listening

to the waves ease onto the shore,

gulls settle for the night.

It is the standard question: where did

we go wrong?  I have slipped

away from you like the half moon

setting in the morning. 

It fades with the rising sun. 

Did I make one

suggestion too many about how I would

accomplish a task when you have

not asked for assistance? 

I was only trying to be helpful,

did not see the tides of irritation

on your face. 

I wish we could come back

to that morning when we met.

But just as you cannot hold a wave

in your hand, we will never capture that sunrise.

                                                                                    The Piker Press

                                                                                    2024

Seeing My Mother

I avoid looking at myself in photos and mirrors. 

As I grew up, the mirror on top of the dresser

greeted me every morning.  In an early photo,

I have a gap-toothed grin, my left ear sticks

out from under my riding helmet. 

I like myself best in the photo

of me and my horse sailing over the jump,

hands and arms in line with the bit,

heels down, toes forward.  The latest picture

shows me hopping over the log,

hands grabbing mane and toes sticking out.

When last at home, waking to a morning

of clearing closets of the clothes

that my mother would no longer wear,

I sat on the edge of my bed,

stared back at myself in that dresser mirror,

lines around the eyes, longish face, left ear sticking out. 

These days, I try not to catch myself in the mirror

that came with the house but sometimes catch a glimpse

of my reflection when walking by.

I see myself

becoming my mother.

                                                                                    Unbroken Journal

                                                                                    Dec 2017

 Rain                               

The rain beats on the roof. Slowly,

the driveway washes away, leaving nothing

but a gully. Sheltering in the house,

I hope that the damage is not too severe,

gutters overflow.  Downspouts spew water

into the growing ditch, taking gravel

out into the road and you with it. 

Gravel will have to be added to repair the drive. 

But nothing will bring you back, you have washed too far downstream.

                                                                                                                                                                                                The Piker Press

                                                2024

 Rain                               

The rain beats on the roof. Slowly,

the driveway washes away, leaving nothing

but a gully. Sheltering in the house,

I hope that the damage is not too severe,

gutters overflow.  Downspouts spew water

into the growing ditch, taking gravel

out into the road and you with it. 

Gravel will have to be added to repair the drive. 

But nothing will bring you back, you have washed too far downstream.

                                                                                                                                                                                                The Piker Press

 Rain                               

The rain beats on the roof. Slowly,

the driveway washes away, leaving nothing

but a gully. Sheltering in the house,

I hope that the damage is not too severe,

gutters overflow.  Downspouts spew water

into the growing ditch, taking gravel

out into the road and you with it. 

Gravel will have to be added to repair the drive. 

But nothing will bring you back, you have washed too far downstream.

                                                                                                                                                                                                The Piker Press

 Rain                               

The rain beats on the roof. Slowly,

the driveway washes away, leaving nothing

but a gully. Sheltering in the house,

I hope that the damage is not too severe,

gutters overflow.  Downspouts spew water

into the growing ditch, taking gravel

out into the road and you with it. 

Gravel will have to be added to repair the drive. 

But nothing will bring you back, you have washed too far downstream.

                                                                                                                                                                                                The Piker Press

                                                2024

                                               

Paradise

                        after “The Water Lily Pond” Claude Monet

On the bridge of my paradise,

I watch the water lilies quilt together.

The coots paddle among them,

dive for wild celery.

If I remain still, they will swim past me.

Otherwise, they will paddle to a new opening

in the lily tapestry.  The purple gallinule,

with its long yellow legs and toes,

limbs that let it float

on the lily pads, joins the coots.

In the green-brown marsh grasses,

a marsh wren trills.  I can only glimpse it

as it flits among the reeds,

gleaning for insects.

Sprinting among the pads,

the water bug floats on the surface,

its feet making small circles as it oars about.

The decaying log holds the red painted slider

catching the sun.  At the slightest movement,

it will slip into the water. Lurking in the water,

the snapping turtle lies in wait. Dragonflies

helicopter in the air as they scout for bugs.

Evening looms, the sun purples the clouds,

the pond closes to the day.  Rafts of coots float

through the night, dragonflies and wrens hitch

themselves to the reeds.

But night brings new visitors to the pond,

the bull frog awakens to call across the water

for a mate.  The raccoon and her kits

search for crawdads in the shallows.

The pond settles in shades of black, grey and white. 

The night cools, the pond’s guests arrive.

                                                                        Zephyr Review

                                                                        2022

My Grave

It’s dark down in this box in this hole. 

Can’t seem to get enough light or air. 

But I don’t need either, I am dead.  Dead to me,

to my friends, to the world.  I do wonder what they

are saying about me, I really don’t want to know. 

I’m sure some good, some bad. Maybe I was helpful,

maybe I had a temper. 

I guess you are supposed to ask forgiveness

of all those you have wronged, my bones will have become

fossils before I reach the end of that list. 

So I will make a blanket statement:  I am sorry to all those

I have offended.  That might keep me out of Hell

but I had so many good intentions, I am afraid my road

is already paved. 

It’s quiet down here and I like that,

time to listen to the worms converting clay into good soil,

listen to 17 year cicadas grow in their exoskeletons. 

I wonder if my soul will rise from this dead body to float

among stars.  Perhaps then I will live again to hear wind

in the trees, birds calling from their perch.

                                                                                    The Piker Press

                                                                                    2024

The Mailbox

Used to love walking to the mailbox

with its promise of a letter from my mother.

No matter that the letters listed doctor

appointments and health reports

marking my parents’ decline.  It was still

a note keeping me attached

to the last place I called home.

Outside of magazines, most mail

goes into the recycle.  Not too many bills,

they come in emails.  Occasionally a note

from someone thanking me for my donation. 

Frequently, the black mailbox lingers empty

as if waiting for the weekly letter.

                                                                        Writing in women’s voices  2023

For Sale

The sweet smell

of cured tobacco eases

out the barn’s door

into winter’s wind.

It holds odds

and ends of farm life,

a rust ladened disc plow,

an ancient toilet,

and sap encrusted hatchets

that once rang in the fields.

 A stack of standing sticks

slumps in the back corner. 

In earlier times, the barn held

tobacco ladened poles

hanging from the bars. 

Today, not much is left

of the hanging structure. 

The barn looks out over

empty fields.  Little Blue Stem

grows where cows

grazed.  Wind rustles

dried stalks. 

Snow crusts the ground. 

Half-barrel water troughs

reside on their sides

along with ones that held corn. 

Barb-wired fence sags

between cedar posts.

A “For Sale” sign hangs

by the open gate 100 ac +/-. 

Soon bull dozers and backhoes

will populate the fields,

tearing the ground to build

houses with ten acres each.

The tobacco scent and echoes

of cattle will disappear

under the smell of diesel

and truck’s growl.

                                                                        New Croton Review

                                                                        Aug 2023

                                                           

Flames

I light the candle in the jar,

it flames from the match

in blues then yellow, the spindled

point swivels in the breath of the house.

In a hearth, flames warm the home,

dry oak crackles, embers star up the chimney.

Morning ashes, incense of the dead fire,

grey the charred logs.

In a forest, a cinder sparks. The fire

devours everything.  Jumping a firebreak,

it swallows a house. Smoke clouds the sky

to bring on a storm.

Red embers escape to travel the wind. 

With the last tree enveloped in red and orange,

flames are contained. 

In the jar, I smother the flame’s

quiet flutter with the lid, leaving a ring

of black smoke on the rim.

                                                            Oracle  2023

Empty Boxes

I used a lot of empty boxes from the ABC store to vacate one

house into another.  They were just the right size for me to carry,

couldn’t make them too heavy for lifting.  I had some orange

plastic milk crates that were perfect for all my poetry files.

I was downsizing my house, kept all the bird books,

Mary Oliver, signed copies, the ones friends had written. 

Gave the rest to the library in hopes of updating their collection. 

I think they used them in the library book sale.

Some boxes had dividers which made them good for moving

small knick-knacks like the Hummel collection and artwork.

Used pages from “The Independent” for wrapping. Gradually,

the stack on the hearth became the line along the new living room wall.

The last became first: unpacked the bathroom and then the kitchen.

Next followed the books because I knew where they would go.

Slowly, the line along the wall dwindled to one box of items

I could not let go of like the picture of us at the Hotel Peabody opening.

Maybe it’s time to empty that box.

                                                                        Green Silk Journal

                                                                        Spring 2023

DRINKING

to forget.

Maybe Wild Turkey 101 to slow                                               

my crashing mind.

Whiskey on the rocks to erase hours.

Maybe Wild Turkey 101 to slow

the tenacity of alone.                                                

Whiskey on the rocks erases hours,                       

the burn cinders pictures of together.

The tenacity of alone                                              

is sucked under by the bourbon going down.                           

And the burn cinders pictures of together.                                              

One is all it would take

to be sucked under by the bourbon going down.

With my crashing mind

one is all it would take

to forget.

Red Dirt Review   Nov 2011