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
Category: Published Poems
First Scar
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
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
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The Piker Press
2024
Finding My Way
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 Mother When I Was Twenty Five
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
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
Sunset
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
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
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