“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones” — Albert Einstein

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Don't Say It's Not Blue

Tracks in the snow around the headstone
lit by the moon in their going somewhere—
sparrow, hedgehog, booted foot—
lit by the moon determined and blue
and there! a wreath dropped fragrant and green
blanketed by snow and lit by the moon.

For Poets United  midweek motif with focus on the moon

Monday, January 8, 2018

Monday Haiku

Feed me, mother said,
mouth open like a baby bird,
bread crumbs on the bed.
Spent shells fall to ground,
Redtail hawk drops from the sky,
Child runs and hides. 

Smeared blood, tearful face
The little bird wouldn’t die
Only a sparrow.

Linked to the poetry at the Imaginary Garden at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Under Our Feet

The furnace groans under our feet
and candle flames dance on a draft
as lights fastened to garland strung around the porch
swing in the wind, moving slow.

We're moving slow,
finding a foothold where once
one was,
shifting under our feet,
like sand at the beach,
shifting under our feet,
moving slow.

Dawn's first light streaks above the barn down the road,
the shed and the granary take shape down the road,
close but further than once they stood.
The ghost of a swing sways from a tree
no longer there.
The faithful dawn cares not for a changing landscape
nor human inability to let go.

Thursday, December 7, 2017


The wind waters my eyes as I carry a 5-gallon bucket of water from the hydrant to the molting chickens. I plug in a heat lamp at the back of the coop so the eggs don't freeze.They aren't laying as they should but still need to be tended, fed, bedded and watered. The temperature is dropping and chickens can't be without water, even when they're molting.

Snowflakes drift down from the overhung sky. The wind rises. I set the basket of eggs on a board in front of the bins where we store feed and containers at night so they don't draw rats-a measly four eggs from a flock of fifty- open the lids and eye the feed I have left for the week. Yesterday, I pulled dead pepper plants and some mustard and fennel gone to seed out of the hoophouse and threw it into these hungry chickens. Today, it was a jar of dill pickles that failed to pickle and a delicata squash with a soft spot. They like squash. The pickles lie untouched, along with the sprig of dill and the clove of garlic. Finicky.

I step off the board and it seesaws, tipping the basket over. The eggs roll out and one breaks on the hard ground. I scoop it up and put it in the cat's dish He eats good too.  Who says farming is hard?

Friday, December 1, 2017

The multi-cultural beach

Woman in hijab in line at the bath,
child clings to her hand with wondering eyes.
I wonder what they think of us-
bathing suits and messy hair,
bare legs and fleshy thighs.
I wonder what they think of us.

Monday, June 12, 2017

The Day The House Came Down

I hung a hummingbird feeder outside my window
The horizon is empty where a house once stood—
shingles crushed, glass shattered, beams broken.
I hung a hummingbird feeder outside my window.
The dump trucks are gone and the excavator is stilled.
The demolition work is done—that which withstood
tornadoes, storms, and depression fell in eight hours.
I hung a hummingbird feeder outside my window.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Standoff At The Bird Bath

Robin looks at Blue Jay
Blue Jay turns his back
Robin fluffs his feathers
Blue Jay preens and flaps.