"What do you plan to do with your one, wild, precious life?" -Mary Oliver

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.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

One Sentence Story

The "get well" card arrived too late.





Saturday, April 22, 2017

Happy Earth Day

Robin in the maple tree
scoping out the scenery.

Redheaded woodpecker
walking down a tree.

Little brown sparrow
splashing in the bath.

April on the rim.
May rushing in.




Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Not All Of Me Will Die


Sorting through handkerchiefs,
sweaters and hats,
war time correspondence,
linens and scarves.
Ironing pillow slips, the smell of perfume,
suspenders, and medals,
silver and glass.
Baseballs with scuff marks
grade cards with C’s,
cribbage boards and erector sets
nails and tacks.
Wooden checkers and wooden rosaries,
German missals in a safe,
mink stoles wrapped in newspaper
love notes written in haste.
Non omnis moriar
says an ancestor’s note,
but steam rises off the board like
mist off the lake
and unanswered questions
drift off in space.


Linked to the Garden, peace bracelets, poets and writers.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

G.I. This and G.I. That

Now that our mother has died, almost exactly four months after father, it has fallen to me to stand in as the family archivist.  At first this seemed a daunting task. After all, they were married for seventy years, and after our grandparents died, mother became the keeper of their prized belongings, namely pictures and correspondence dating back to the turn of the century. So, here I was with over a hundred years of family history to sort through. Daunting. Yet....as I sat amoungst yellowed boxes of cards and letters, from airmail wartime correspondence to envelopes addressed only by name and town (as that was all that was necessary), the dots connected and the lines crossed. I sat in a living room emptied of their physical presence yet stacked to the ceiling with the lives they led and the people they touched, and the task became easy.

Following is a poem I found with dad's pictures from India and China and Tinian in the Mariana Islands from where the air assault on Japan was staged during WWII. I will continue to share their lives and accomplishments that this might be true:  "Not all of me will die".

Here I Am

Here I am, sitting on my G.I. bed,
My G.I. hat upon my head.
My G.I. pants, my G.I. shoes,
Everything free, nothing to lose.
G.I. razor, G.I. comb,
G.I. wish I were home.

They issue everything we need,
paper to write on books to read.
They issue food to make us grow,
G.I. want a long furlough.

Your coat, your shoes, your G.I. tie,
Everything free, nothing to buy.
You eat your food from a G.I. plate
buy your needs at a G.I. rate.

It's G.I. this, and G.I. that,
G.I. haircut, G.I. hat.
Everything here is government issue,
Gee, I wish that I could kiss you.