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Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Monday, December 07, 2015

What I Think About On My Morning  Power Walk

What a glorious morning!
Fall finally shows its face. 
Poem: how the leaves fly up in a sudden burst
then fall like a shower of graduation hats.
No. Wrong season.

The neighbor’s whirling dervish dog
spins like a cloud of dust
or a small tornado.
Mercy! What is that about?
Wounded visions , manic mutts?

Strike swift cadence,
set steps to a silent mantra:
The black dress 
in the back of the closet,
black in the back, black in the back.

Round the first corner,
gradual upgrade, crunch of gravel,
embracing wind. Why three houses
on this street posted  “No Trespass”?
Did I remember to lock the door?

Purple crepe myrtle drapes
over fences, long slender branches
dripping with blooms.
Wave to thin , old guy on ten speed.
Silver hair, silver bike.

Pass the lumber mill. Headline: 
Fat Redhead Mowed Down by Log Truck.
Just wait. Six more months
marching 4 miles and it reads:
Thin Redhead Dispatched to Eternity.

In my brain I dance 
to a beebop of birdsong,
second wind kicks in, ears start to ring.
Tendons tingle, back starts to itch.
Tomorrow I’m musing the meaning of life.


Thursday, November 12, 2015

for Janie Wilkie

Tableau From Another Time

I walked home from school
in the days when a child could still do that

in the days before 
the wall-mounted telephone
fell into disrepute

I carried my books in a plastic satchel

It was plaid with a red handle
and a metal clasp that looked like brass
but wasn’t

All the houses I passed on my 4 block trek 
were either white or gray
except one

tiny pink shotgun 
with a tumble-down porch
and screens full of holes

The lady there didn’t like kids 

to cut across her yard
with its patches of brown grass
sprinkled between the weeds

She glared
from the kitchen window
and sometimes
knocked on the glass

so I  would cross over to the other side of the road and quicken my steps till I was past that house

I crossed the street
without a crossing guard,

I walked home from school sometimes alone

or else I rode my bike
barefoot and without a helmet

with no fear at all

but for an old woman in a sad pink house
on a corner lot
of an old shell road
in a little town
where danger was a stranger

Sunday, November 01, 2015

Remembering Helm

When I first posted this…….over a year ago…I had lost a dear friend to cancer…not the first. And one of the few people who read it and immediately understood what I was saying was Helm. He commented that it reminded him of a friend who faced her crisis with humor. Now that we have lost Helm, I am often reminded of his wiry humor and brilliant talent. I miss him.

Making War

Gremlins play hockey here at night
on knife blade skates sharp and bright
Pucks crisscross the cold tile floor,
crash against the closet door

Charging on from room to room,
they fire off lightning shots of doom,
gambol closer to the goal 
and spit out laughter coarse and bold


a hoarse and threatening voice
demands (as if I had a choice)

Beware yourself-

I answer back
(with courage that they know I lack)

I’ve bubbles here, robust and thick
enough to break a hockey stick
I puff them out with my short breath
These quivering rainbow balls of death

I hear a snort, a chortling yelp 
then realize that it’s myself
Sitting upright in the bed,
a warrior’s scarf around my head 

They still play hockey in the dark
Still cavort and shout and bark
I chase them back with bubbles fat
Sometimes I wield a nerf foam bat

The score gapes wider than before
But I’ll not be frightened anymore