Outside These Walls,

I hope you are all managing okay.
This piece was inspired by a game of Clue that I played with my children yesterday.
Hope it makes you smile. 🙂 I did while writing it this morning. ❤️
The art is something I created years back. I gave this piece to my amazing sister Virginia—an endless champion of earth and all children.

the woodpecker

I hope you are navigating okay in the world as it is right now.

This morning, I’m listening to a woodpecker attached to the metal gutter, a floor above my studio.
For a few weeks, every morning, he’s been happily pecking away.
His reason for pecking is not what you might think.

I wrote this poem this morning and wanted to share❤️ ❤️

Stay safe, keep busy, and if you have sky available where you are, every once in awhile look up at the bright blue and the night stars 🌹

Bessie’s Echo

While my darling daughter was checking out my ‘Published Writing and Art’ page, she informed me that many of the links no longer connected to the published pieces. In an effort to correct this, I went through the entire list and connected each piece to its corresponding blog page, as well as re-linking to the journal or site where each was published. This is the one that got away. It was published back in 2017, by ‘Miracles Magazine’ (A generous friend who still works for the magazine had asked me to submit work). I’m re-posting my poem, ‘Bessie’s Echo,’ so the link can be updated. Thank you.

 

Bessie’s Echo

in the distance
faceless proclamations bounce back and forth between the rush of cars

years ago
would’ve been herds of cattle trotting for lunch bells ‘cross the road

perched on
a yellow Adirondack chair on my front porch, I drink flavored seltzer from a tumbler pretending it’s Dom

spotted bovine hooves
only echos now     like dairy farmers spirits loading Bessie’s milk on old Erie railroad cars

bound for the city
retired clanks and clatters float toward the bright sun that once fed fat cows golden grass

little birds
with bright yellow bellies flit by my front porch saying their good nights

or goodbyes

cows

cropped portion of a sketch drawn about ten years ago, someday I must redo this little sketch, the dang eyes are lopsided!

the pegasus clock in ICU15

very excited to have my poem, the pegasus clock in ICU15, appear in this excellent zine!
while you’re there check out fellow poet, Robert Okaji’s prize winning piece, A Further Response from the Hornet’s Nest

The Pegasus Clock in ICU15

such ridiculous tools. as if words could fix a bleeding brain.
preordained fabric dividers meant to separate us if you die.
divert eyes staring at the clock. remember I’d told you the
stories. oversized book. water-washed illustrations. pegasus,
my benevolent savior. the man in golden sandals flies me away.
clouds disconnect from bleached cotton and plastic pillows
sweating the sick. sister mary sometimes foiled my library day
with the winged horse. give someone else a turn annmarie. you
can’t take the book every thursday. blinded by Christian light she
couldn’t comprehend pegasus and me needling defeat between
fetlock and toe. so much tubing here. how many times might it
circle the world?
fall risk wrapped around your wrist. i remember
periwinkle choir robes. living angel singing out with bright lips.
mom, please wake up. Use your words. Use your voice. the
pegasus clock in ICU15 stammers. his magnificent  wings
unfurl. shimmering feathers brush away these hideous blinking
lights and institutional grey floors. fly it all away.

Apathetic Wrinkling – poem published

thrilled to have a poem published in MAN IN THE STREET, a very cool magazine with sumptuous imagery – thank you

Apathetic Wrinkling

There are parts that work well rolling on the floor. Leave me be. I will find my footing. Unlike her. Don’t you hear the screaming. The window, open like the door but less welcoming. Endless sobs hitting the birds outside. What is she crying about this time?

Wrinkles.

How she just can’t do it anymore.

Hell, who can?

 

There are no places to hide when you know all the rooms in your home. I wonder if she’s dying while standing on her feet. My ears are chained to this self-inflicted malaise. Perhaps the plasma screen will extend its curving armature and whisper encouragement as she continues moaning. Wrinkles. Too many.

 

Forgotten in the dryer, shirts crinkled like a baby’s ass.
Cotton shits wrinkles.

I should be the one crying.

I Will Die at the Right Time

“I will die at the right time” new poem published on the fabulous Her Story Blog – I hope you check out this wonderful venue of expression

I Will Die at the Right Time

At this rate, there will be nothing left for my children. Too much
falling outside the body. A two-headed llama with no head
belonging to me.

all to them
unintentionally by them

Losing ability to see value by which aging matters. Watching
bone-slow deterioration. Using my frame to anchor relations.
Trying to deduce life’s meaning–endgame research.

Sowing seeds of pain in backward gardens planted with wrinkling flesh,
falling from porous skeletons.

suppleness
fire, grace, motion, lightning
gone

Stolen–

without remorse from each sunrise.
The silver-edge moon no longer sensual,
goading their last warm breaths.

Not doing this to my flesh and blood.
I will die at the right time.

acrylic painting done a few years ago