The Wood Thrush’s Song

            Daily, the abyss drags me down into its depths. 

                        I try to stop my slide by finding refuge

                                    on its ledges but it usually wins.  I wake

                                                to face the day with trepidation.  What will happen

                                                            that will drag me down farther? I go about my                                                                                        day hoping to find the rope that will                                                                                                              pull me up.

            Walking down the hill, I hear a faint call. 

                        Could it be a Wood Thrush singing its flute-like song?

                                    I stop to listen; yes; it is the thrush.  I feel the rope

                                                descending towards me, finally stopping to tug me up

                                                            into the sunshine and cool mountain air. I will carry

                                                                        the thrush’s song with me throughout the day

                                                                                    keeping me above ground.

                                                                                    Backchannels

                                                                                    2025

It’s not going well

The rain

comes down,

separating us

like two

people adrift

in the

ocean.  I

raise my

face to

the downpour

hoping it

will wash

you from

my mind.

I spit

out the

sea and

rinse you

from my

mouth with

rain.  I

close my

eyes against

the pellets

of rain

hoping that

when I

open them

again, you

will be

gone.

                                                                                                                                                                                    Blue Lake Review

                                    Sept 2025

Smoke

The oaken barrel’s inside

is smoked to charcoal. Raw whiskey fills it,

the char imparts that smoky flavor.

Uncapping the bottle, I let the bourbon

and water mingle in the glass.

I sit in the over-stuffed chair,

drink in hand.  After a sip

of the golden liquor,

I inhale deeply, let the smoke drift.

                                                                        Brillig: a micro lit magazine

                                                                        2025

Behind the Dam

During the day, thoughts settle

like sediment behind a dam.

They can’t reach the spillway

to relieve the pressure

against the concrete wall.

But at night, some force

stirs them to the top

and they tumble out

the overflow apron,

seep from little cracks

in the dam’s face.

They whirlpool at the base,

scour the stream bed clean

leaving only boulders.

                                                            Brillig: a micro lit magazine

                                                            2025

Black Swallowtail Butterfly on Buddleia

The royal blossoms droop

at the branches’ end. Each purple cup’s

center holds a hint of carrot orange. 

Its scent laces the air.  A Black Swallowtail

alighted on the flowers, a gentle sway

of the outermost stem.  Slowly, the butterfly

fans its wings as it uncoils its proboscis

to sip nectar from each cup.

The folded hindwing is edged

in burnt orange ovals leading into sky blue

rectangles which merged into another row

of orange ovals. Its forewing holds two lines

of white splotches. The body dotted white.

Walking on the purple cups, the butterfly probes

each one for nectar. 

Come end of summer, its wings will be ragged.

                                                                                    Deep South Magazine

                                                                                    2025

Mom’s Sweater

I have a dresser full of sweaters

that Mom knit for me. I wear them

for doctor’s appointments, holiday pot lucks

that I need to look better than my everyday

long sleeve T-shirt and vest.

She never knit one for herself.

I have the one she wore all the time,

store bought. It has a Nordic pattern

of browns and grays on the top, cream colored

body, brown cuffs and plastic buttons colored

to look like wood. It fits me but I can’t button it,

still, it is warm and comfortable. She would tuck

a Kleenex into the sleeve. 

I draped it on the old rocking chair

for several seasons. Now, for some reason

I wear it rather than the ones she knit.

                                                            Green Silk Journal

                                                            2025

                                                            nominated for Pushcart Prize

Front Loader

Nightly, my mind sticks on the main wash cycle:

            chapbook

            surgery

            bits and pieces of the new Emmylou CD

            covid test

They tumble in a different pattern

every minute.  So colorful

but there is no escape from this cycle.

I’ve washed them many times

but they haven’t faded. I try

to rinse my brain,

I need them to be gone

for sleep.  I go to the medicine

cabinet for the spin cycle

to remove them.

                                                                        First Literary Review-East

                                                                        2024 for Jan 2025

Oh To Wash Off This Pain

Takes awhile to get into the shower.  I slip in cautiously,

use the grab bar, pull the bath bench in behind me. 

With the hand-held shower, I spritz water over me,

sit on the bench.  Low back pain stabs me whether I sit or stand.  

I let the water flood my back, pray to the Lords of the Quadratus muscles

that hot water will erase this pain. Easing the spray over my shoulders,

 the tension lessens. I whisper move on down. But today, as in every day           

the Lords do not bless me. I towel off, dress carefully to prevent

            loss of balance, creep towards the couch 

            to lie flat; the only position that helps. 

                                    For a few moments, the tide of pain ebbs.

                                                                                    Knee Brace Press

                                                                                    2024    

My Spine’s Story

Hey, this is me talking to you. I am important:

I hold your head and protect your spinal cord. 

How did you end up this way?

Started when you were young, I was an inkling

of what I was to become. At 19, one of those cushions

between vertebrae ruptured.  L 4-5 I think. 

Back then, you stayed in bed for 2 weeks.

Now I hear they get you up right away.

What could you do after surgery?

By summer’s end, I had healed enough so you could hit

tennis balls with your friend. You weren’t ready for horseback

riding for 6 months. On your first ride, I got jerked

up a small slope, thought everything had torn loose.

Growing older, I have become more of an “S”;

become a living devil, Pain. Now, at 71, my curve is 70 degrees,

some of my vertebrae are fused; my bones soft.

 What about surgery to straighten you?

That is out of the question, surgery would be long, bones not solid

enough to hold the pins, recovery a year or more.

Might end up worse.  The doctor agreed.

So today, I am bent like a snake, have shrunk 4 inches,

thrown my center of balance way far forward. 

Can’t reach up high anymore; have to use a stool.

From my chair, I count wrens, chickadees for Feeder Count.

Do what I can in the yard and lumber along.

                                                                        Knee Brace Press

                                                                        2024

A Fine Balance

Spring, a fine balance

between Winter and Summer.

The air doesn’t know whether

to blow cool and stiff

or warm and easy in April.

The blueberry halts its flower

production with Winter’s last blast

only to have bumblebees

go from bloom to bloom

for nectar in the next day’s warmth.

Deep depressions and momentary highs

mark my days and nights. The energy it takes

to flit from one to another balances each other

to zero.

If the day is sunny, I am able to dig the violets

out of the new plantings’ beds. If cloudy, it is all

I can do to stay out of bed.  I only have energy

for the mindless entertainment that pours into the house.

Will the scales tip in favor

of the clear warm day

or lean into the night?

                                                                        The Wise Owl

                                                                        May 2025