Poetry and Journal Writings

Pigtails, cowboy belts and new summer jeans.
A long ride to the lake. I can't wait to get fishin'!
I have to take Sis? Mooom . . . how mean!
Hurry up little sister, there's no time to lose.
Cut a new pole, dig a can of worms,
Run out on the dock and find your own place.

Pleading, with nose twisted,
A worm gingerly pinched between two fingers,
I finally agree to bait my pathetic sister's hook.

The day wears on and on, hot and quiet.
Shh, Sis, or you'll scare 'em away.
No, Sis, we can't go back, we haven't caught a fish yet.
Little sister just doesn't understand the fine art of fishing.

I said a little longer.
"But I'm hungry."
Just a little bit longer.
"But I have to gooo . . ."
Sis, please, it won't be long . . .

Angry and tired and not impressed with my catch, she pulled in her worm,
And with a quick flick of the wrist, off the hook she did pluck it.
With hands on her hips, looking me square in the eye she declared,
Anyone, who would sit out here all day for that, is dumb enough to fish in a bucket!

"Spiders"

Weaving silver threads

Catching moon beams in their webs.

Diligent spiders.

"Harvest"

Autumn surrenders;

leaves clacking and frost biting.

Earth lets go her yield.

"Snow"

Soft snow beckoning,

Falling with deceptive lade,

collapsing my soul.

"Winter Survival"

Hole up, snuggle up.

Irish coffee, good book, good friend.

Many warm memories

I remember the heavy round wooden tables
Built low to the ground,
Just right for kindergartners.
He would always sit close.

Out-of-doors on the playground was a giant oak.
He made me an acorn pipe, then taught me how.
I made lots of acorn pipes, giving them all away;
Even his.

He stood quiet with little fists pushed deep in his pockets.
But I didn't notice.

The sun was golden
Shining through high windows
Down on the low round table,
Particles of dust dancing merrily on the beams.

He handed me a present,
And as the royal blue paper with tiny pin stripes Crossed the sun's rays
The stripes lit up like diamonds.

Gently opening the paper,
Careful not to lose the sparkles,
I could feel the whole class watch.
I was embarrassed.

Inside was a book about a velveteen kitten.
She was black and feminine.
She wore a pink bow,
And she was fuzzy to the touch.

I treasured that book.
As time went by I rubbed the kitty's fur
Until she was loved slick and smooth.

I don't remember saying thank you.
I'm sure I did.
Surely the teacher would have reminded me;
There in front of the whole class.

Over four decades ago - yet -
The memory of that special gift is as clear and bright
As was the sun beam that day.
And I would like you to know Jimmy Wilson;

An ordinary day in Kansas.
The two year old runs out to play,
The new baby fusses.
I make her comfortable.

The light streams in the long narrow window,
The sill deep-set in Kansas limestone.
I can see dust particles floating on the sunbeam
Busy undoing the morning's work.

It's getting serious about turning cooler now.
Harvest is in.
The leaves are falling.
The radio sings a tune I don't really hear.

An unsolicited voice assaults the room.
The voice is full of consternation.
The words are splashing out too fast to comprehend,
Running together, blurring the senses.

I was shaken from my hypnosis by the tug of a chubby little hand,
attached to a worried face.
There were tears on my cheek, and my throat was painfully tight
From the anguish of a denied scream.
I lifted my child up and hugged her hard.

I held my children to my breast,
At once keeping them safe and mourning their future,
As the radio kept saying over and over,
Oh my God, Oh my God, President Kennedy has been shot.