A Writer's Life

I rouse the cat from his house
with a thump on the roof
He stretches his double-thumbed feet
and emerges from his bed.
I fill his dish with Rachel Ray's
premium blend and he follows me
out to the chicken coop.
The water is frozen.
Inside the chickens are warm
and the trough is dry and empty.
They titter totter down the ramp to the outdoors
with straw stuck to their feet
(those feet that make a healing broth)
and I scatter feed and fill the water as the cat watches.
You take care of your animals before you take care of yourself—
childhood admonishments stick in my head
as things from childhood do.
Part and parcel of this adult package
I would be less without.
Once orphaned we all take our seats
at the adult table. So I fill my coffee cup
sit at an empty table with a blank page
and think about what I will write today.



This little walk through morning chores is linked to Earthweal's open link weekend. Sunday, remember, is a day of rest, even for farmers, writers and environmental activists!

Wranglers, Whiskey and White Socks

The mustachioed cowboy
with grass stains

on his knees 
plays the slide guitar for me.

The barmaid fills shots,

the whiskey flows,

wranglers, white socks, 
a band of four.

Mustache in a Stetson
bends over the keys

feet work the pedals
smiles for me.

A Quadrille for dVerse, the pub where poets hang out.

Feeling Small in a Multitude of Ways

If the sky were any bigger it would kill me clean.

like an iceberg into the melting sea.

The sun colors the sky best before it breaks dawn—

each wisp of cloud a red kite on a string.

It enhances the tree clinging to life, to its last wind-torn leaf

like a child to her mother through the fence of the king.

It’s bigger than a barn from afar, that tree

limbs full of birds’ nests unraveling in a breeze

and I don’t know how it escaped the clear-cut of the king.

Too lazy to have walked through a field of grass

to stand under a tree, the vast sweep of its shade

and pay homage to that which is braver than me.

Too cowed to lobe arrows at the wall of the king, 

my capacity to feel small is undiminished  by lies

as the sun travels its arc across a blood-splattered sky

and I finish out the day in a multitude of small ways.

Humbly offered for Poets and Storytellers and likewise for Earthweal, the weekend open links for writerly laments.

The Hungry Boyfriend

lounges in the recliner with his pressed coffee and remote,

top shelf at the ready, knuckle in his mouth.

Only the best for the double negative boyfriend

who loves her and promises he won’t do it again

but he’s always so hungry, hungry, hungry hungry.

Curtains drawn, super heroes on the tube

he waits for her to come home with food.

A high-flying career guy who now pushes carts in the rain

it isn't any wonder he's hungry for her.

He gobbles up friends and eats self esteem

devours her cash like a casino machine.

Lock your phone with a thumbprint, sleep with a knife,

when a double negative boyfriend sneaks into your life.

But she tells all who will listen he won’t do it again,

not nothing to worry about from this DN boyfriend.

He’s calm and connected, swallows his pills dry,

hitches his pants and polishes the knobs,

patiently pacing for the mouse to arrive.

But she did it again and ruined his mood

empty handed up the walk, bitch where’s my food!

Alone in the House but for Poets and Storytellers