Grab a pencil and pull up a chair, this is the place for poetry!
Daisy of the plains, a wash of sunshine
in the ditch, beside the highway
where the tractors don’t mow
in the month of April,
letting Susan butter up every eye
that spies her, waving to motorists,
blissfully unaware of the punch
that left her named for a shiner
Thank you for reading!
strength, in the valley of edible roots
spicy tubers waiting for the thaw
to reign over the garden
until autumn’s last light
dignity in a quietly showy
face, graced with lace
standing tall a long, long
way from the solid ground
Thank you, readers! Just a few more flower poems to go. . . .
Fairie tricks ring the dead men’s bells
heartbeat secrets no tongue can tell
a thimble-full to tame the blood
a double dose brings sleeping floods
to tame his madness, deaf with pain
impassioned, driven, yellow-faint
the genius Dutchman’s pallet tells
where myth meets rumor, logic fails
bowing woodland hiding place
proud pink trumpets make your face
There’s a VanGogh reference in this poem . . . . that I had to look up because I wrote it a year ago! Thanks for reading!
at a bed and breakfast in the Catskills,
lost somewhere between 1985
and a lump of sorrow in the throat,
there it was on the plate:
little edible pink petals,
next to the fresh scrambled eggs:
local cluckers and garden bounty
served by a man who
drifted through time
and opened his house
to the likes of us: two idiots
who later came back with
a baby and then later
had no more laters together
I don’t remember: how did
it taste? The eggs were a little
bit of heaven fluff
whipped and forced into service,
but the chickens seemed happy,
and the garden outlasted
what was promised to be forever
Thank you for reading!
I can still hear her voice
talking about them, blooming
like a bright gentle flower
from the bushes along the greens and fairways
sweet and slow as a
southern afternoon, spiced up
like the wine-soaked pork chops
and etouffet she loved to make
I can still feel her hands,
floral with lotion and soft
as butterfly’s wings, plus
almost as fragile,
navigating the click of
knitting needles and crochet hooks,
lap billowing with the
ever-increaside tide of blankets
that gushed from her
old-fashioned, polite generosity
I can still hear the porch
screen door slam
on its spring, and the earthy
pound of horses outside in
the paddock, while birds cracked seed
and cicadas sang us into another
sultry Louisiana night
This poem pretends to be about Azaleas – but really it’s about my maternal grandmother, my Grand-mere – whose voice spoke the name of those flowers with the most beautiful music. She loved golf, she loved nature; she would always talk about watching The Masters each spring. Born in New Orleans, for many years she lived on my Uncle’s horse farm in Coushatta; I would visit her there every summer and the memory of it is as fresh now as if I had last been there yesterday instead of over 20 years ago. The photograph you see at the top is the closest thing I could find to resemble the wild beautiful landscape there.
Thank you for reading!
the field is a constellation of color
a vast universe dotted with petal’d stars
where harvesters buzz like bees
armed with scissors
for take-home delights
that don’t last
the crystal autumn sky watches
without emotion
throwing down rays of dust
to nourish the future,
who buds in quiet industry
in spite of the invading hoards
This poem is about the field of zinnias at a pumpkin patch that operates as a cut-your-own-bouquet attraction. I couldn’t find a photograph of it (my hard drive just bit the dust – argh) so you’re having to settle for making your own mental image instead. Thank you for reading!
buttoned up with meaning,
like clockwork in the sky
throughout the year,
a garland of desire like
a field of bristling suns
gravely marching to do
their business with the
great beyond, equal to both
sides of life’s coin:
weddings and funerals
joy and loss
take it or leave it,
stuff your pockets full of gold
I can’t think of marigolds without thinking about that old movie Monsoon Wedding, and the friend of mine who said that it reminded of her of her own wedding. Where I live now, they take on a new meaning, cropping up outside every store for Dia de Los Muertos. . . . Thanks for reading!
bittersweet early bloomer
drunk on the blood of winter
swollen in the sleeping soil
to thrust a graceful, frilled neck
that soaks up the delight of the sun
intoxicating passers by to
swoon in half-sorrow longing
the perfume cuts through
the air like an errant
discus thrown and then struck
by the jealous wind
so sweetness springs from
the grave where youth fell,
to sorrow-seed the fallow ground
Flower poems continue! Thanks for reading!
comfort kisses, here in this terracotta pot
window seat with a view
a sprawling forest of brick walls
in countless kitchens, the urban
jungle brightened with
a touch of the pretend:
no one cooks here,
but if they did there’s balm
for knife-slips in these leaves,
just don’t mix them up with the take-out
Thank you for reading!
(For the full Super Flower Moon, May 2022)
what more can I say about the moon?
my daughter read an article
on rabies that scared the wits
out of her, so I am thinking
about all the wild things
marauding out there
in the ghostly super light
the earth’s shadow
scrapes its way across her face
a raw red nail
turning the white lamp of the night
into blood and rust
breathing portents
across space and time
writing its own cautionary tale
across the sky
in the articles of motherhood
no one says how to soothe
irrational fears after they
have outgrown hugs and lullabies
what bedtime stories
can I tell besides the truth,
besides do not be afraid?
even the lilies and sparrows
face nature boldly every day
they sleep through
the moon’s fickle folklore
awakening refreshed again
with each new morning
Who else watched the total lunar eclipse last night? I was too excited about it and had to stay up to see totality – it was worth it. Who else has a kiddo that scares themselves reading random articles online, then refuses any kind of rational consolation??
The Poetry Patio