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

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