Category: poetry

To Do Lists

Image courtesy of shutterstock.com

Morning drifts
away with chores
I assign myself:
The must do, the needs to be done—
An endless list to fill a notepad
next to the calendar:
Feed the dogs,
Clean and fill the hummingbird feeders,
Change the sheets,
Do the ironing,	
Neatly fold the sheets from the dryer
so they align perfectly on the shelf in the closet--
Leave no time to think.
Even less time to feel.
Keep all thoughts,
All feelings at bay.
Use the list like a whip and a chair.
Let no old cliché hold any sway.
Whip the old “nothing ventured, nothing gained”
into a new pose of Nothing ventured, nothing lost
upon the circus stand,
a much easier creature
to manage this way.

Of Wounds and Winter

Image courtesy of PxFuel.com
Winter exists in this quiet realm:
The place of spring dreams
where from rich loam
colors emerge vibrant,
as if hope, become a virgin,
offered her hand 
to lessen Winter’s ache 
enough the wounded reach
to touch without wounding
in the trying.

Where Cloud Shadows Paint

Image courtesy of Shutterstock.com
still
quiet,
breath stops
a moment--
striations apparent
upon the red rock
in the distance--
sound
unheard
speaks a language
our ancestors once knew--
perhaps our souls once spoke
words lost to us now

yet here where
clouds paint shadows
upon the land
our souls feel
the rhythm
of a language
we once knew

The Heart

Image courtesy of sketchfab.com
An odd creature,
powers through a day,
decades, a life.

A four chambered
survivalist beast,
outlasting all fracturing
cracks of grief
when the spirit, will, mind
drift away.

In imitation,
a four chambered thing
beats on and on.

Ink, Time, Books

image courtesy of dreamtime.com
A few minutes every day,
at times, stretching into hours,
I write to you
in this book,
writing words
whispering mysteries
of the winds in the mountains.

At times, my words still,
shifting, settling then sighing
as moonstone white clouds rest,
caressing the tops of mountains.

I have burned hundreds
of ink filled books
over these many years
when disgusted with
the imperfection
of my scribbled pages.
The heat of their fires
never offered much warmth.
Now, I save my scribble filled books
though you may never see them.


Forty-five years,
I have written words to you,
yet you never knew,
and neither did I
until this moment.

A Small Moment

image is my own
Strong, the breeze this evening

bringing the scent of grilling burgers 

from a distant neighbor’s yard.

The sounds of soft sighs issue 

from the dogs at my side.



The hummingbirds perform

an elegant ballet concerning

territorial claims as the symphony

of their brilliant buzzing

makes us all look up.



Stillness—

Then—



A rumble in the distance.

The scent of rain at war

with the scent of grilling burgers

from the neighbor’s yard.

The drops of rain pelt,

driving away 

the smell of grilled meat.

Now, only the scent of rain remains.

The battle won.



Protected under the patio cover,

The dogs and I sigh.

My Mother’s Washboard

image from fineartamerica.com photo by H. Armstrong Roberts
The old washboard

stands in a five dollar flea market tub

with three faded, scratched up tall coke bottles,

a rusted plaid patterned lunch pail,

a red plastic mesh bag filled with used beach toys,

a broken hobby horse some kid rode once 

while yelling, Hi, Ho, Silver! Away!



Among this disregarded dusty junk,

the old washboard looks fragile 

as if the wood surrounding the corrugated steel

might fracture should a woman grasp it

intending to use it to scrub stains

from familial laundry

like my mother did with her’s.



I remember my mother’s washboard

standing in her soaking bucket,

filled with 20 Mule Team Borax, Biz, and hot water,

which stood in the concrete laundry tubs

in the basement of the house.



I remember how her knuckles turned red,

the skin raw looking, as she scrubbed blood

from a blouse, pouring salt from a Morton’s

salt container onto the stain then scrubbing

up and down, up and down on the washboard, 

then dunking the blouse twice 

to see if the stain was gone.

Pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk

pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk

pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk

The pattern, the rhythm, until the stain erased.



I have no soaking bucket, 

no Twenty Mule Team Borax, no Biz,

no washboard

to get my stains out.  

My spray bottle of Oxi Clean Stain Remover 

pales in memory

of my mother’s washboard.



For the Boy Who Would Not Stay

image courtesy of steemit.com

I decided to repost this piece since in the process of doing a little clean-up work on the blog I discovered the link to this piece was no longer available. 

I hold your reflection close,
But it slides, evaporating from my grasp, 
While dripping condensation.

My heart stutters with if only’s.
My soul begs, pleads, bargains 
With you to stay.
My mind whispers your name,
Calling after you,
Asking why you are leaving.
Are you angry that I told no one 
Of your blessed presence here?
Can you understand I was afraid I’d jinx it?

Somehow, I knew—
Knew you wouldn’t stay—
I felt it from the start.
A few weeks only—
And you’d go away.

My lips whisper.
My soul begs.
My heart stutters.
My body cramps,
Clamping down once again.
My brain knows it is time.

Time to wash the blood and gore away—
Time to let your reflection fade.

Your Wings

image courtesy of wallpaperabyss.com

Dreams
	fulfilled and abandoned,
	the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy--

Tears
	fallen,
	dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind,
and those never allowed to fall--
	

The skins of selves I used to be
	the wounded and scarred
	the shrunken down inside her skin
	the sacrificial to survival--



Take these things
I freely give,
adding all 
my wishes
my dreams
my hopes
for you.
Next,
Add all you want,
all you dream,
all you desire,
wish for and hope for
in your life 

Then weave of them a chrysalis 
bout yourself to cushion and protect
as you grow into your own skin.

Leave your chains of fear, 
your yoke of worries
with me.
I will bury them
deep inside my chest.

When you emerge,
your wings wet and beautiful,
you may perch upon
the branch of pride
growing from my soul
to flex and flutter your wings
until dry enough to fly,
beautiful as you have always been,
never to shrink
or curl away 
your wings again.

Morning Coffee

video is my own (this little one ventures closer every morning)
the coolness of morning enters

it drifts into the veins

chills feeling for a time—

when the hummingbird perches

to drink the fresh sugar water

I made for her that morning,

I smile.