MARBLED SPIDER
Its web stretches
across the trail. A deer fly brushes
its sticky center. The spider
watches as it struggles.

As the web stills,
the spider crawls down,
wraps the body in a cocoon,
injects its venom.

The spider sucks
its capture dry, snips the silken
husk from the snare,
removing any hint of death.

Broken threads
repaired, the spider slides
under a leaf, legs poised
for another capture.

jellyfish whispers jun3 2015

MARBLED SPIDER
Its web stretches
across the trail. A deer fly brushes
its sticky center. The spider
watches as it struggles.

As the web stills,
the spider crawls down,
wraps the body in a cocoon,
injects its venom.

The spider sucks
its capture dry, snips the silken
husk from the snare,
removing any hint of death.

Broken threads
repaired, the spider slides
under a leaf, legs poised
for another capture.

jellyfish whispers jun3 2015

No Kill Kennel
I know
the neighbor’s dog lives in the weather:
rain/mud, snow/sleet, hot/cold.

I know
when the dog stops just short
of its five foot chain, it wants to roll
in the grass, smell the green of the horse’s meadow,
drink from the clear stream.

I know
the dog was forced to live in its foul soilings.

I cannot
watch the filmed appeals to save this dog, this cat, this horse.

I can
walk the kennel dogs,
listen to the dry leaves crackle.

to be published in The Homestead Review Spring of 2015

Mushrooms
I see them under last year’s fallen leaves.
Burnt orange, fire engine red, and a small one with blue spots
just the size for a forest toad to sit. Some have a notch in the tissue,
perhaps eaten by a box turtle. The mushroom pokes
up from the musty earth floor. At first, it is squat and fat,
like a Buddha. Then, like an umbrella, its top opens.
Come Fall, the mushroom’s cap will drop its spores
into the forest wind.

The desert cracked as the spore dropped
to the sand. The top unfolded; its stem
dangled below. Behind protected bunkers, officials
heard the blast rushing towards them;
saw blinding light; felt the winds that followed
across the scorched desert. The top
spewed debris into the heated air.

Some mushrooms will kill you,
the red ones I think.

The Homestead Review
Spring 2015

Green
There are 231 colors of green according to Sherwin-Williams.
I should be able to write a poem about the greens
of the woods and forest floor with this many colors.
The may apples are their own shade, you know the one I am talking about.
And the emerging grape vines are covered with a satin finish.
Fiddle head ferns have several shades, the head is wooly
and darkens as it unfurls to become a jade feather on the woodland floor.
Young poison ivy is tinged with red and finally a glossy finish.
The color of growing maple leaves is as soft as the leaf itself.
Honeysuckle, oak are not among the 231 shades
but you know the colors I mean.

Homestead Review
Spring 2015

Laying Flooring
Can’t even walk downstairs
and remember the length,
best to mark the section,
take the board with me.

Measure twice, saw once

Damn, can’t see the screw’s slot
to fit the flat blade,
best to put my glasses on.

Better to light one candle than stumble in the darkness

Had to learn to cope molding;
messed up one piece, sliced my finger,

Practice makes perfect

His voice echoes in the empty room.

Agave Fall 2014

Keys
I have two house keys on the same ring;
look so much alike I put a dab of yellow
paint on mine. The other is to the house
I called home for 44 years.
Dad bought it because it had a barn and pasture.
We paneled the walls, got new carpet, replaced
the barn’s sagging foundations.

The house was empty after Mom died–
even though Dad was there.
After he left, emptier still.
In the end, it contained only mattresses,
a computer, a couple of old chairs, and lamps.
Everything else went to Goodwill or a friend’s church.

It has been sold for a month now–
house, barn, and 7 acres in the middle of town.
Don’t know what happened to the computer and old chairs.
Asked Dad what I should do with the key;
he never answered.

II

Took the key off today
Dad is gone, no reason to return.
I only need the key with the yellow paint.

Poetry Quarterly Jan 2014

Oak Leaf
I didn’t get there in time for Dad’s surgery.
Drove along the interstate watching
winter oak leaves hang on in the wind.
The next day, he was pretty out of it on morphine;
thought my brother had killed himself
and that it was WWII.
I tried to orient him. Watched the therapists
put him in a chair. I knew he
would never walk again.

We have been trying to call you.
I had been in the shower.
You need to come now.
Decisions have to be made.

He was on maximum blood pressure meds,
on a breathing machine sucking for air,
he looked like he was hurting.

Dad has a living will.
My brother is 10 hours away,
let me call him. Then please turn the drugs
and breathing machine off.

His breathing remained regular
and blood pressure low,
I didn’t think he would last long.
Told him it was okay to leave.

He hung there in the wind
until my brother came.
Then his breathing got irregular,
his pressure lower, and he let go.

Broad River Review
2/2014

Still Life
I
Feeding,
tipping brown head
beneath the lake’s water,
its blue legs pedaling in air,
lone duck.

II
Mallards
idle by river’s edge
green headed male, drab mate.
Brown water ripples their shadow
downstream.

III
Floating
on jade water
amidst the feeding birds,
strings of razorbills winging, a
loon wails.

Judge: Robert Parham
Number of qualified submissions: 47

1st place: Jenny Hubbard, “Philip Larkin (First in English Literature, St. John’s College, Oxford) Takes a Job Shelving Books”
2nd place: Barbara Brooks, “Still Life”
3rd place: Sharon A. Sharp, “The Pursuit”

Honorable Mentions:

• Janet Warman, “Love Pantoum for Andy” • Jeanne Julian, “The Light”

Judge’s comments: “The prize winning poems could hardly be more different. The first place poem, ‘Philip Larkin….’; is a sonnet capturing not simply its literal subject (Larkin) but reflecting as well the tone of his work and his temper (one suspects). It is a poem complete—no small accomplishment. ‘Still Life,’ the second place poem, offers completeness in an utterly Eastern fashion, its fine and quiet imagery both its heart and its being. In third, ‘The Pursuit’ illustrates well how qualitatively close these top poems were. Confident in its form and the weight of its refrains, the poem settles within itself, a pleasure to read.

Roller Skates
I remember my skates,
simple really, compared to today’s.
A platform for your foot and 4 metal wheels.
A key to crimp the skate to the rubber sides
of your sneakers before you could take off.
We didn’t have sidewalks so the road was our rink
or the concrete floor of the basement,
swing yourself around the black plumbing pipe.
Push–glide, push–glide if you could call
it that on the rough surface. I tried making a turn,
fell, took a chunk out of my knee, still have the scar.

The town’s only rink was supposed to be integrated
but black children were not allowed.
Wanting equality for everyone, Dad enlisted us for a test.
My group: white kids, the other: black and white.
We paid our fee, got skates with wheels
and boots; rolled on to the smooth, wooden floors,
with loud music, flashing disco lights.

Can’t remember if the other group got in,
Mom came and took us home.
Later, the roller rink was torn down
leaving an empty lot in its place.

Boston Literary Magazine
9/2014