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.