Grandpa's Haymow (The Secret Place)

 We appreciate what we have after we no longer have it

 

I unhook the latch on the door and climb over the ancient
threshold of the haymow erected when grandpa was little.
The wind moans and groans through the cracks in the boards
and the door swings and bangs on its rusted hinge.
The smell of hay baled in summer and stacked for winter
from floor to rafters to a peekaboo window
the fun of seeing without being seen. But there—

A cache of eggs in a bowl of straw.

Brown and warm, chocolate and tan

Hens who like to sit, murmur, and coo

Beneath a watertight roof safe and secure.

Puffed-up doves preen in the rafters.

One flies overhead, east to west, the length of day.

Temperatures drop, wind rifts through the cracks

The sound of eaves dripping,

November come calling.

But the mow stays dry, a refuge from the farm on the farm.

I write in here. If I were a bird I’d nest in here.

If I were an owl, I’d sleep in here. 

If I were a architect I construct this here.

But they don't make barns like this anymore.

The resident cat from a long line of felines is on patrol.

When dad had dairy there were many of them.

Does she have a batch of newborns curled in a ball

In grandpa’s hay mow? 

A melodic song from high in the rafters

Stirs the hair on my arm.

No common sparrow this trilling song. Doves don’t mind

Our looking at them but somewhere up there—

Where no light can shine, nor eye can see

Perches an uncommon bird warbling a song.

My breath freezes in frame like a cat on the prowl

But this diminutive bird

Compelled to sing of the day 

Remains hidden from me.

 

For dVerse, a poem about a building that was more than a building to me.

 

What Happens After "The Call"

I have a guest post on Anne Allen's blog, What Happens After "The call". 

My novel releases one week from today.  I hope you'll add it to your bookcase.📚 I just got an advance blurb from  Dave Essinger, author and editor. I'm geeked about it.

Let Evening Come is a compelling contemporary Northern coming-of-age tale, gripping in its conflicts and transfixing in its prose. - Dave Essinger, author of Running Out, and Editor, Slippery Elm Literary Journal.

I'm so grateful to all of you who have been willing to shell out hard-earned dollars for this book. It's very humbling and I hope you'll find it worthwhile.
 

The Elevator Pitch 📚and Last Call

The hardest thing for an author to articulate is the one-sentence pitch. I've made a hundred adjustments and it still doesn't feel right. 😕

Let Evening Come  is the story of an Indigenous person displaced from his ancestral home in Canada and the motherless farm girl from Michigan who befriends him. 

Since I'm within ten days of my book launch (shiver, shake, commiserate) I thought I'd give last call for my newsletter signup. Sign up by April 2nd and your name will be included in the drawing for an autographed copy with some other goodies. Signed first printings are worth a lot!! 😀 My heartfelt thanks if you have already done so. 

The Worm Moon is shining in my window like a headlamp, illuminating the snow-covered landscape such as you wouldn't need one. A beacon in the darkling night while the world sleeps.

A Dead Man’s Pockets

As sand falls from a sand dollar
on a windowsill miles from the seashore,
so do you at day’s end empty your pockets
of where you’ve been.

The seasons of the year left their trace

on you

til there was nothing

to drop on the dresser but lint in the folds of your hanky.

 

Leaves weighted by rain drop from a gunmetal sky,

swirl and land on the freshly dug grave,

the mound of dirt unsettled and coarse,

 

unlike your face clean-shaven on the blade of the mortician.

Lids drawn over the sterling blue eyes,

tie straightened and mouth closed,

tight-lipped, as our father never was.

 

The mouth isn’t right, my sister whispered

as the kneeler wobbled under our connected sorrow.

I checked his pockets, like a child for a coin,

climbing on a lap, cool, deep, and empty.

For Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings: In Memoriam 

Publishing Note:

A Dead Man's Pockets appeared in the 2021 Slippery Elm Literary Journal

I GOT BOOKS!

What the UPS guy brought me yesterday!

Now that I have my advance copies,  I'm counting down the days to the release of my novel on April 2nd. I'm extremely nervous about how the public will receive it. I practically have the darn thing memorized, but what you think is what matters.

"Let Evening Come is penned by author Yvonne Osborne in the literary style and the interpersonal drama and coming-of-age subgenres. Author Yvonne Osborne has crafted a truly emotionally resonant novel that delves into themes of loss, displacement, and cultural conflict. The up-close and detailed portrayal of Sadie and Stefan's budding romance against the backdrop of their respective struggles was both captivating and poignant. 

I loved the way their unique dialogue was presented and readers will feel the dynamics between the lines. The exploration of cultural misunderstanding and the challenges faced by Indigenous communities was an incredibly poignant touch that is really focused on and never used as a gimmick, fostering genuine empathy and understanding. As the characters navigated adversity and sought connection across borders, I found myself deeply invested in their journey, rooting for their love to transcend the obstacles in their path. Overall, Let Evening Come is a recommended read and a compelling tale of love, resilience, and the human capacity to overcome adversity amidst cultural divides."  

--Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

I understand it can be intimidating to leave a review. Even if you enjoy a book, it puts you on the spot. But honestly, it doesn't have to be long. It can be one sentence, or even one word!  They mean so much, especially for a new, unknown author.  Editorial reviews might carry more weight but reviews from readers are more personal and meaningful to the author.

This Daylight Savings Times gives us late morning darkness but my inner clock tells me it's time for a cup of coffee! 

Graveyard Hierarchy

My son asked how much a tombstone costs
as we trace ancestry through the graveyard
and calculate dates—how common it was to bury babies.
 
Some lucky souls merit saintly companions
who guard their tombs with outstretched arms
or a wrought iron fence to ward off vagrants.
But look how the monied died just as young.
 

At the rear of the yard are the stones we can’t read—

all the names swallowed up by the cold.

Bare of epitaph, they lean against each other,

even their stones are tired.

 

Then there are the markers that only bear a number,

like the tattooed at Auschwitz.

One straggler is off alone and we wonder

if he wanted it so.

The rounded stone juts white from Earth like a tooth.

And what of those who couldn’t even get inside the fence—

separated from the gilded, even here.

To celebrate Swedish Nobel Laureate Tomas Transtromer, dVerse's Bjorn Rudberg asked us to write a poem of exactly 144 words, including a line taken from one of the Nobel writer's poems. In case you can't guess, it's all the names swallowed up by the cold.

More at dVerse on this renowned poet and how he captured the long winters of Scandinavia in his writing.

Note: All the photographs herein on my own. No peeping AI on my shoulder with his shudder eye.

She Took Venice

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful
though the surf smells and seagulls scour the tideline.

All along the shore the ocean unfurls its soul.

Beer with salty clams to peel, dip, and swallow.

The bar faces the ocean with a poolroom where poets rhyme.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

One size fits all with three ways to fold, wrap, and tie.

In Venice, where guitarists skate the boulevard

all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Sea birds ply ocean weed, piles of shell, and salty form.

Bougainvillea drapes the cafes. She collects all she finds.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful.

She took the ocean home - salt, shells and sun coils.

Maybe he'll come over with a hank of garden lettuce or another sign.

Because all along the shoreline the ocean uncurled its soul.

On the whisper of her sarong she crosses the wooden floor

and watches him cut grass, sun on his shoulders, tasting salty brine.

She bought a sarong in Venice where everyone is beautiful

and all along the shoreline the ocean unfurls its soul.

Tasked with the challenge from Poets & Storytellers to write a poem about a sensual piece of clothing, I immediately thought of a  trip to Venice Beach where the beach was littered with what the ocean didn't need, where sarongs were as popular as sun hats and, yes, where everyone was beautiful.

The Uprooting

The fate of a rose planted by my grandmother a hundred years ago released by Flapper Press

The Flapper Press is a literary magazine of Useful Words, Inspiring Stories, and Eclectic Perspectives and I'm very happy to be a part of it.

Also shared with Poets and Storytellers's "Lasting Impressions". No one makes more lasting ones than mothers and grandmothers.