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Sample
Poems
What I Learned in Kansas
I learned
to tell the difference
between the
smell of alfalfa and wheat,
to note the
breeds of Charolais and Hereford;
I learned
the purpose of burning
the
pastures to bring life again,
green and
tender as any hope.
I learned
how hard the wind blows,
driving the
prairie grasses
into
undulating oceans
of
whispering songs,
to hear the
swelling moans
of labor
hard under
the
relentless sun.
And I
learned the stillness
of the vast
night sky,
broad as
here to here,
crammed
with stars
and silent,
flickering lightning
as I
shivered.
I learned
that my lips could
recite the
words,
the secrets
of the prairie's strength
and that I,
too, could
swallow
those truths,
feel them
expand
rising and
rising like the hills
to meet the
clean line of horizon,
the moment
of flight.
I learned
in Kansas
the
difference between living
and
existing,
loving and
emptiness,
that the
heart can wander
from Olathe
to Liberal
and still
find its way home.
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A Visit to Lands' End
The rich colors of an autumn
catalog
warm my eyes on a darkening afternoon;
plum and chocolate,
the words roll in my mouth
like edible stones.
I can almost feel the sureness
of the herringbone and tweed
in tones of memories,
the deep hum of the earth,
relish the sound of houndstooth in
its sturdy complexity of olive and rose.
What else but a camel plaid
can set the world right
and promise the peaceful glow
of a scarlet wool cardigan,
knowing the storms of life
are no match for wide-wale
corduroy and a bunker navy turtleneck.
Published in Wisconsin
Fellowship of Poets' Calendar, 2008
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Girls at the Beach
They wallow
like mermaids
at the
water's edge, bare-chested girls
reveling in
this freedom they
will soon
forget past six years old.
After the
Labor Day weekend is probably
how they
get away with it, their
mother the
only adult on the beach,
taking this
last balmy day
to sneak in
topless girls at the beach;
I wish I
was six again, or at least
that my
soul was only six, full of
that
unconscious freedom
to be only
me, delight in the warmth
on my
child-like chest, before I
learned to
hide.
Published in Wisconsin
Fellowship of Poets' Calendar, 2010
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The Reaper's Yield
If you should call
when the earth is turned
and the black dampness
clings to my breath
then I would not be surprised.
If you should call
when the yellowed grass
lies in sodden, melted puddles
and the fetid sweetness
of manured fields fills the air
then I would expect it
to be so.
If you should call
when the regal whiteness
is wiped from the land
leaving only the pale washed sky
to cover the naked furrows
then I will have been waiting
to hear from you.
Published in Wisconsin
Academy Review, February, 1993.
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Phone Call From My Brother
When he calls,
I accidentally cut my hand
with the scissors
while opening a box,
the clean slice like a smile
across my palm.
My sister carefully carves
the roast, white pork
firm and juicy. She promptly
cleans up after dinner,
ivory linen napkins
perfectly folded at each place
until the next meal.
We turn the pages of the
family album
but the pictures, faded and brittle,
slip out, flutter to the floor,
and she says, Don’t bother
to pick them up.
Published in A Cup of
Poems, 2005
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Harley Bikers Come to Town
Commemorating Harley-Davidson’s 95th
Anniversary
I thought I might, maybe
want to be biker babe—
I mean, there is something curious,
exciting even to spot the rumbling
chrome and black machines,
symbols of rebellion and freedom,
a self guided destiny.
But, I don’t know…
Somehow it all seems too noisy
and the wardrobe rather limited
and awfully messy when it rains:
then who is the master of one’s fate?
I was fascinated to see the
first few cruise into town,
then packs of them swarm
the highways like shiny cockroaches,
then hoards cram the fair grounds
looking like war refugees—
I think I’m about over it.
Published in Wisconsin
Fellowship of Poets' Calendar, 2001
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