The golden light of Autumn is never false.
It makes no promises.
Declares no eternal love.
With every shifting breeze it shimmers,
gleaming with such beguiling light
that the most hardened eyes grow moist
with desire for what cannot be held by force,
convinced by the most ardent kiss,
nor restrained by…
When writing a poem check for leaks.
Remembering that words like swift water
take no heed of the damage they leave.
At times a poem feels air-tight and ready
as if every word you have chosen
seems sea-worthy and right.
Yet always a poet must wear a surgeon's gown
Anonymous was a woman,
so some people say
and it weighs on mind if it’s so.
The silence of women throughout the ages.
Even the countless pages
their inspired pens have inked
are stripped of their names
and the fame they justly deserve.
There is sadness in the shadows
A cat on your lap.
An immoveable object,
foolish to resist.
I was browsing through a catalog this morning and came across a tee shirt with the words “ She believed she could. But her cat was asleep on her lap, so she didn’t.”
Brilliant! And, oh, so true.
When I was a young girl, around five or six years old, I would sometimes spend an overnight visit with my grandmother.
We spoke very little. Not because we were shy, or weren’t enjoying each other’s company. …
I got to this poem through misdirection.
I awoke at 3 am (something I do not recommend)
my mind humming with thoughts of bees.
Their fuzzy black and yellow bodies
their dark knees coated with pollen.
How on a cold morning in early Autumn,
clinging to a night-chilled flower
“Hello, Mummy,” I say as I step into her room for a weekly visit. It is a room she has occupied for more than six years. A small but cheerful room in a memory care unit of a local assisted living facility.
“Hello,” she answers with an uncertain smile. In…