BLUEBIRDS

The male, azure with cinnamon vest, points the way

to an abandoned woodpecker hole. The female weaves

a nest of pine needles, grass.  The young,

naked, blind, demand food.

                                    In the next room, the baby cries:

its diaper is wet.

A green worm in his bill, he waits in a nearby tree,

searches for danger, enters the hole.  He leaves, carries

a fecal sac far from the nest.

                                    The father turns up the volume.

The black snake shimmies up the tree,

parents peck and fuss; chickadees, nuthatches mob it. 

Defeated, the snake retreats.

                                    Shut that baby up.

                                    She rouses from the couch.

                                    I’ll give him something to cry about.

Feathered and sighted, the fledglings

peer from the hole. The father calls 

to the young: fly. 

                                                the water, hot.

The female starts another nest.

                                                the child screams.

Southern Women’s Review  Jan 2012

Snow in the Room

It is cold here but not as icy as your heart,

it is so frigid snow could fall into this room.

It would cover the wound in my heart

but blood would seep to the surface.

Icicles would hang from the chandelier,

daggers waiting to shred my body

as they fall. Spring will come, melt drifts

from the windows, wash me from this room.

Winter

I am not ready for your dragging days

You make them so short.  At my house,

you never know whether to be sleet or snow. 

If you must come, please bring big snowflakes

that sift over limp grass and then cardinals

will ornament the trees. You ice the deck that the dog

and I have to traverse.  Shrubs succumb to your weight,

never regaining strength to stand erect again. 

And your frost freezes to the windshield like glue.

Do send deep blue skies with sun sparkling off iced

tree limbs to let me know that warmer days are ahead. 

Don’t tease us with the smell of spring only to slam

the door shut with a storm.  Most importantly,

leave as quietly as you came.

Green Hills Literary Lantern   2021

Danger

One of my hearts can barely hold the ethereal scent

of morning’s mimosa.  The young, red-bellied

woodpeckers learning to eat the suet fills my smile. 

Soon they are pros.

George’s (the dog) face when he destroys the potholder is

beyond fun.   Jake’s bark when on the trail

gives me a rush.  It is this heart

that expands to hold infinite peaceful scenes.

But my other heart is an organ, pumping a few ounces

of blood with each beat.  It is dangerous to overload

this muscle beyond capacity.  It won’t rupture, just grow in size

until it pumps no more.  Both hearts will leave together.

                                                                                                Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine

                                                                                                            2020

Dad’s Wool Shirt

Looks pretty ragged,

left cuff will not stay

buttoned.  Both sleeves

have holes at the elbows.

A front button is missing.

Wool plaid–greys, maroons, navy blues.

It was my Dad’s but fits me well.

It is the warmest shirt I own;

must be at least twenty by now.

Gets me through our winters.

Another is gold and brown

but it has shrunk and no longer fits.

The one in black and blue has elbow

patches that were the rage way back when. 

These shirts don’t feel as warm.

The ragged shirt hangs in the closet.

It hasn’t been cold enough to wear it lately.

Can’t bring myself to throw it out.

I’ll leave it be; might get cold

enough to wear it.

                                                Avalon Literary Review

                                                Winter 2021

Mother’s Stapler

It sat on her desk

black as a snake, waiting.

It had a line at the hinge and padding on the bottom

gray as her hair.

Like fangs, the staples stood ready to bite into the collection of paper,

she stacked the papers just so; placed them on the silver foot pad.

The fangs descended and tried to capture the sheaf in its just-so-way

but the stapler caught her finger.

The blood sprang from the two tiny holes

with tears in her eyes, she pulled the staple from her finger.

I was sure that it hurt

she did not cry, just blotted the puncture holes with a tissue.

The coil reset, waited for another try

she re-stacked the papers, put them into the stapler’s maw.

Her last words described how she lived:

no more tears.

                                                                                    BackChannels

                                                                                    summer 2020

First and Last

Before I was born, letters

between Mom and Dad

showed that Blackie was a sickly pup,

maybe worms. She always came home

from the vet. Until that day. I knew

she wasn’t coming back.

Behind the house, Dad dug her grave.

I have memories of Mom:

hitting the softball

over everyone’s head,

helping me with the Gobi Desert

presentation for school,

later, at the rehab center, her withered body

dressed in her favorite maroon sweatshirt,

feeding-tube hanging out from under

the hem. We celebrated Christmas:

her children, grandchildren,

husband of 60 years

at her bedside.

I knew it would be the last.

At Weatherford’s, I received

her mahogany box of ashes.

                                                                        Up the River

                                                                        Albany Poets

                                                                        8^th Issue

’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

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

Looking into Silence

The quiet of the house when the dog

is gone rings undisturbed.  Wind

purring through the pines is another quiet.

So is the crunch of a horse’s hooves

in sere autumn leaves.  Evening has its

own calm as night bugs begin their chants.

Perhaps the quietest is snow sifting through

branches, settling on winter’s Little Bluestem. 

The silence of a closing door.

                                                                        Poetica Review  spr 2020