Poetry

The blue stem tall grasses surround me

A jaybird calls 

from a distant

scrub tree

His mate returns the call.

I am thinking of my mother

I think she found jaybirds a bit annoying.

My brother calls,

his voice 

and earthly vision 

soothe.

we talk of goat feed 

we talk of gifts given

and art through the ages.

The jaybirds flew away, the grasses move slowly.

Life. 

The buzzard casts 

A Shadow

Illuminating the beads 

Of sweat 

Upon my forehead 

As I shield my eyes

From the swoop 

Of wings and beaks

Silently taking

The rotting flesh 

Smashed by Firestone tires 

At a corner I saw a shadow

I might have conjured 

The turn

When did I speak

The leading or the turning

Had few words

And less meaning

I looked into the empty vessel 

Anger might have filled the bottom 

Before I could grasp the edges

The void came

And I eased the kettle 

Over the hill

Where the wildflowers will bloom next spring 

The sharp clip of wind

Caught us, right there 

At the old June Apple Tree. We braced our backs and memories as the spring peepers danced in the twilight of gushing streams. 

I think we knew of the changes around the western curve but why bother;

A new morning brings a flush of blue, a squawk of ducks flying over the bottoms.

It will take years, we thought, to find the bluebells. 

We have many journeys.

The crossings slippery, to be sure. 

There lies the promise of the last varnish on the painting.

You will know, said the sage, when it is finished. 

We never sat in the sitting room.

Darkened floors covered in tattered hooked rugs,

Starch still clinging to the gauze curtains

Long ago soot covered, still hanging

On past pride.

The boxer’s hand would scoot

The True Detective magazines

Aside. Trashy stuff.

I would peek at the pointy breast heroine in distress,

I could imagine and draw

Her in vivid detail making 

A story of my own.

I would sit on a stool near the hearth,

A daydreamer

Lulled by ticking clock and half burnt coal.

The boxer would wipe the tobacco drool.

The aunt would squeeze a nickel 

Conditional 

On good behavior.

The aging aunt would

Smooth her apron and nod

Away in her daydreams, not bejeweled

By the sudden wealth of nickels.

The rhythm of the sitting room

Promises denied

In McCall’s

And True Detective

Spilled around their feet

Piling up their hopes

In teetering stacks 

Where no one sits

And no one stays.

I was walking

In a ravine 

My feet were hot with sharp stones

penetrating the soles of my feet. 

The sky held a single cloud, not billowy. Still.

And so I wandered along a path, narrow and steep.

I am a grown woman.

I am a child.

I am a solo traveler.

I can hear 

the voice of reason.

But I reason

no reason to stop.

I daydream.

Dreams made under June Apple trees, as 

yellowjackets flit across 

dried crumbles of dust.

My feet move.

My dream floats.

There is no end.

This is the journey.

I take stock. 

At a corner I saw a shadow

I might have conjured 

The turn

When did I speak

The leading or the turning

Had few words

And less meaning

I looked into the empty vessel 

Anger might have filled the bottom 

Before I could grasp the edges

The void came

And I eased the kettle 

Over the hill

Where the wildflowers will bloom next spring 

Beneath the moon

Scurrying sounds

Near the edge

Unknown

Boundaries

Bend the night

To the edge

Of oblivion.

No bright colors 

Swirl

No sun shapes my view

The tiny moon glints

But does not guide.

I move alone

Into the night.

Charcoal skies

Beckons as 

Magenta ribbons

Flutter

In reluctant morning light. 

Yellow and green buds shimmy to

Renew our 

Earthly delights. 

At horizon's edge

I hear a sigh,

The woodpecker 

Drumming in the

Distance 

Brings my mind 

To rhythms

More urgent than

The unfolding dreams 

Languishing 

In eiderdown puffiness that does not want to yield. 

The buzzard casts 

A Shadow

Illuminating the beads 

Of sweat 

Upon my forehead 

As I shield my eyes

From the swoop 

Of wings and beaks

Silently taking

The rotting flesh 

Smashed by Firestone tires 

The sharp clip of wind

Caught us, right there 

At the old June Apple Tree. We braced our backs and memories as the spring peepers danced in the twilight of gushing streams. 

I think we knew of the changes around the western curve but why bother;

A new morning brings a flush of blue, a squawk of ducks flying over the bottoms.

It will take years, we thought, to find the bluebells. 

We have many journeys.

The crossings slippery, to be sure. 

There lies the promise of the last varnish on the painting.

You will know, said the sage, when it is finished. 

The bottomlands are hushed 

Tiny ice crystals crunch beneath my feet

Gauzy skirts of mist lift slowly in morning light.

Leaves lazily loaf on a swollen stream, 

narrow light beams find slips of shadows 

Blinking away morning light. 

Blue bird sky

above me,

I remember boxes 

Along the lane 

And bluebirds 

Before the sky was soiled 

And the bluebirds 

Flew

Away 

There is one thing 

You could say about us

We are survivors 

I mean, we’re born

Believe 

Then disbelieve 

We learn

And then find it was

Probably a waste of time.

Time, that’s a useful tool!

We are survivors 

Our babies hold 

Like lifelines, 

Our lovers

Strip us of bodily fluids,

Our bodies search 

A lifetime 

In need of need.

Finally, all we have is:

What Astro Turf is 

To a mule.

I bought something 

I’m never gonna eat

And that made me 

Lose some sleep 

You told me just

Drink this wine

And that would make

Everything fine

Here I am so far behind

Bitter pills and awful wine

Trying hard to ease

My mind.

I found something 

I could not keep

Climbed a hillside

Rocky and steep

Threw that thing as far

As I could reach

And still I found

No remorse or peace

No remorse or peace

I looked inside for

What was lost 

All I found was 

Overwrought 

I asked you what

You thought

You said

All is lost 

All is lost 

I opened up that can

Dated 1976

I thought that might

Do the trick 

Show me what I need

To fix 

All those things that 

Rot so quick

Rot so quick 

A flight of birds

Rustle through the

Sakura blossoms

My head fills with rapture

And I fall dizzy

Under the perfume

Floating away

My memory bank is flush

With spring 

Charcoal skies

Beckons as 

Magenta ribbons

Flutter

In reluctant morning light. 

Yellow and green buds shimmy to

Renew our 

Earthly delights. 

At horizon's edge

I hear a sigh,

The woodpecker 

Drumming in the

Distance 

Brings my mind 

To rhythms

More urgent than

The unfolding dreams 

Languishing 

In eiderdown puffiness that does not want to yield. 

Squashed bug colored

Scratching at seams

Unraveling 

Picking

Here

A silver thread

Loosens

a thousand eyeballs strain and lift corners 

Here.

There.

It's cloudy 

Very cloudy

A perfect storm

Jaundiced eyes 

Squashed bug colored 

Swim across the morning pools 

Surveying 

The sear of pain 

Trees tinged in scarlet and copper 

Goldenrod and

Asters tangle 

at the road's edge;

Squirrels scurrying,

Birds heading south.

A stillness covers

The long shadow

I cast upon the dust. 

My inner grasshopper is flitting about

Ignoring 

Impending frost.

The sharp clip of wind

Caught us, right there 

At the old June Apple Tree. We braced our backs and memories as the spring peepers danced in the twilight of gushing streams. 

I think we knew of the changes around the western curve but why bother;

A new morning brings a flush of blue, a squawk of ducks flying over the bottoms.

It will take years, we thought, to find the bluebells. 

We have many journeys.

The crossings slippery, to be sure. 

There lies the promise of the last varnish on the painting.

You will know, said the sage, when it is finished. 

Under the spell of 

Old souls,

Deep cracks 

And fire warmth, 

We wondered:

Is it haiku? 

Get them kids to the house

My daddy said.

This is where I learned 

How it feels to be

Protected.

And how to make lard. 

The bottomlands are hushed 

Tiny ice crystals crunch beneath my feet

Gauzy skirts of mist lift slowly in morning light.

Leaves lazily loaf on a swollen stream, 

narrow light beams find slips of shadows 

Blinking away morning light. 

Pregnant perfume

Lingers on petticoats drenched in moonlight.

Locusts and lilacs waft in the air, 

drooping lacy edges mingle 

upside down in palest 

white clouds. 

The lilac’s tender mercies mirror the sky, aquamarine and violet. Hush, Hush. Breathe. Tis all. 

The locust is brittle, 

graphite and gnarly, good for fenceposts; 

so I’ve heard.

In the hedgerow, the locust tree

demands attention. Her crown is

precious, jeweled in white. Her body is

gritty and you dare not shake her limbs.

Soon enough the moon’s shadow 

will skirt the vale, shallow whispers ride the wind. 

A flicker, a moment. Stillness.

In the twilight, the locusts and lilacs 

drop their petticoats to the ground.