line of white cars
parked in a polite row
out they step, one by one
clutching oversized satchels
donning freshly pressed denim
and sky-high boots
unmasked and hugging
their privilege close
laughter ringing, high and bright
ignoring the sting & December’s cold bite
My art teacher paints these
virtual cloud lessons
speaking with precision
first, prepare your palette
use a rosemary brush
you must start with the white
then add in some Payne’s grey
above this green tree line
blend using gentle strokes
I do just as he says
my amateur eye sees
what my hand can’t get right
the sky is too blue and
I leave out the old barn
he’s painting a landscape
but as hard as I try
I’m painting a dreamscape
an impressionist scene
Off you g
Click Clack Click Mrs. Whalen’s heels echo down the long dark corridor of my mind she is holding my hand too tight walking too fast as I slip and slide beside her earlier, I stood at the end of our driveway nametag pinned on light green pinafore sunlight bouncing off ivory buttons my mom pacing watching for the bus that never came air draining slowly from kindergarten’s first day long shiny car pulls up blinding yellow like the sun nosey neighbor, Mrs. Whalen leans out, nails tap-tap on hot waxed metal rescue words exchanged Don’t worry I’ll take her Hurry up Get in Wave goodbye mom frantically waving two toddlers by her side as noisy car speeds off disappearing in a dizzying blur my heart is racing forward lurch and lunge screeching to a stop rush rush rush through schoolhouse doors Mrs. Whalen’s heels echo-roar while I hang on slip sliding down tile buffed to a shine in ink black leather Mary Jane’s rap rap rap on heavy door tap tap tap her toes count time Sister Bernadette with her scowl of welcome lets the door swing wide rosary and wimple mocking holy words exchanged Neighbor child Very late I don’t know Take a seat Now off you go Mrs. Whalen lets go my hand shadows fall 'cross silent rows quick retreat now echoes soundly click clack click down empty hall
Nanny leans
against a tree
in 1929
posed in profile
first hints of
life inside her
ballooning her dress
that falls just below the knee
revealing dancer’s legs,
though she’s not a dancer
those legs
caught papa’s eye
those legs
caught him swooning
still, forty years hence
nylons rolled
to her ankles
at the end of another long day
singing
oh dear, bread and beer
if I was dead
I wouldn’t be here
In 1929, she stood, in a dancer’s pose
So far from whence she came
So far from where she ended
There is an old trunk room
on the playwright’s estate
where I’m typing these lines
just for you
I’ve wandered the grounds
ambled through the old barn
read my fill in the library, quietly
crammed ceiling to floor
with dusty old tomes
dying to speak
I’ve prayed at a tombstone
beneath an old walnut tree
marking the spot on a hill
where he buried his heart
along with his dog
a very long time ago
I’ve watched a lone hawk
circling slow overhead
a gracefully hypnotic skydance
while lizards sunbathe
and rattlesnakes laze
and the touch of the poet remains
The Irish writer, Samuel Beckett, said “All poetry is prayer,” and for me that rings very true. After my father passed away in 2015, I began writing poems inspired by our relationship, which resulted in the publication of my poetry chapbook, Avians of Mourning. For me, it is a prayer that honors the past. The writer Amy Ludwig VanDerwater (author of Every Day Birds and Poems Are Teachers) said this book, “holds a daughter’s love in careful hands.” And Paul Corman-Roberts (author of We Shoot Typewriters) said it “is one of the most beautifully thought out and complete elegies I have ever read.” Avians of Mourning will be released September 4th, but is available until July 10th for pre-order. Pre-order sales help determine the size of the pressrun. If you’re interested in a copy, Click here to pre-order.
.
It was the ‘70s
Professor Dumbleton stood
at the front of the classroom
reciting a poem from memory
His back to us
chalk dust flying
with passionate intensity
as he spiraled the widening gyre
across the board
Things fall apart;
the centre cannot hold
And here we are again
In the midst of a pandemic
One man stands at the podium, unmasked
In the midst of peaceful protests
One man brandishes a bible, unrepentant
In the midst of endless suffering
One man sends a tweet, unhinged
Things fall apart;
the centre cannot hold
Things fall apart;
the centre cannot hold
The time has come
Our time has come
We are coming together to hold
each other
together
The azaleas are in riotous bloom
a profusion of pinks and reds
their wind-driven petals scattered
across the walkway
to our front door
a floral carpet no one will cross
Out back the roses are showing off
their first shy buds opening
yellow and peach and red
oblivious to the fact
that there will be
no garden party here this spring
Meanwhile, two neighborhood cats
are perched upon the fence
facing each other
tails swishing slowly
shaking loose the wisteria blossoms
onto the playground behind our house
the stage is set for a catfight
that the schoolchildren will not hear
Between the press conferences
and the daily news
silently we wait
while the rain falls
the flowers bloom
and the people hide inside
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