A Mare's Swagger

I like a mare’s swagger,
up and down of head
as feet move in tandem,
ripple of muscles,  flick of tail.
Mares gleam in the sun, 
 
doin’ their thing, moving
through their day
the way I own the sidewalk,
poised and self-possessed—
until I register
 
the third time  a man’s look
follows me. Then I wonder
whether there’s spinach
between my teeth or
my makeup smeared and I
 
stumble, inside, for just a minute.
But on sunny days,
I walk my mare-swagger,
on sunny days, I walk heart-first,
and sparkling palm fronds wave
 
as though to catch my attention
with their double time glee.
On sunny days, I notice
sunbeams on water,  a dog’s
wagging tail. That’s the great thing
 
about being on the sidewalk
in sunlight, the windows
don’t reflect, whereas
on cloudy days, I see my  
reflection and all that I judge. 

                                                          Lummox Poetry Anthology #9. October 2020. Page 35.

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Aging Gym Rats

We regulars recognize each other
as we look for a secret to forestall
 
the inevitable, an elixir
to stop the nagging aches.
 
At the gym we see the old man,
bent back from too much desk work
 
shuffle between machines.
The wispy-hair perfectly coiffed woman
 
with bright red lipstick, black,
black eyebrows and too much foundation
 
pushing oxygen with her emaciated hand 
and we gym rats work a little harder.

                                                                       Gyroscope Review. Summer 2020, P.19

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An Owl’s Call at Dusk and Dawn
 
A hum fills the silence
between short, deep
owl calls. The hum that’s
 
my constant companion,
tinnitus. I don’t think about it
anymore—weave it into
 
ecstatic union with
sounds around me  
and make it song—
 
otherwise it’ll drive
me crazy. Because
there are no crickets here
 
there is only tinnitus,
so I weave that
constant high note
 
with the owl’s short,
deep ones and as self
glimpses self, I stretch
 
beyond loss of hearing
into that small death where
I can hear my own song.         

                                           Door=Jar Summer 2022, #23 p111-114

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Blood on the Leaves
 
She wandered among trees they used to
walk together. A little wren trilled
a question and a distant woodpecker
rat-a-tat-tatted at cancerous incursion.
 
She walked quietly from long practice,
hoping his diagnosis was not true, and
did not scuff ground-fall leaves, did not
stalk frantic doctors. An old logging road
 
twisted between trees, like her life with 
his big personality, and she wondered 
when loggers might return with noisy
chainsaws.  Slash left lying makes safe
 
refuge for chipmunks and allows them
possibility of escape. But his chemo didn’t.
Only drawn-out graying of cheeks. Then
death. Air is threadlike in suddenly thinned
 
woods, and takes some getting used to, like
the thinned life of a new widow. There’s
a patch of fur on the ground, claw marks
in dirt and blood on the leaves.

                                                                          Snapdragon, 6.2022

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Birdcage.
 
The cage was brass and
shiny, but built from pin feathers
pulled from her wings.
 
Now, she’s exposed, since
her perch has no bars, and
she might fall. She doesn’t dare
 
try out her wings. Teenage-she
laid the base of the cage, set
sockets to hold pin feather- bars
 
and a shiny finial to lock her in.
Kept prisoner by her marauding
teenage critic. Now, she has to
 
take a chance, beat against air
and rise, catch an updraft
but the critic circles above.

                                                         The Remington Review. 7.2021, Page 7

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Choices.​​

It’s cold in our converted garage

when sunlight goes behind the hill.

The cold gets in my bones

and not coffee,

not tea or a heating pad

will warm me—

 

Only the wrap of my lover’s arms

drives the chill out

and I look forward to the return

of his soft belly in my back,

strong arms around my chest

and warm breath in my ear.

 

But mostly

it’s what he doesn’t say

as we stand at the sink looking out

at raised planter beds

in shades of green, a double

white impatient, hanging fuchsia,

 

hot pink azalea.

We sway together

like tall pines bending

in the onslaught of life,

as we try to twinkle,

as pine needles do and

 

try to survive living together

raising our children,

paying bills, swaying,

not breaking,

as we struggle

with the choices we make.

                                              Better than Starbucks,   2020

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  The Dremel Tool

 

He touched my arm

and said his Dremel tool

 

could grind down

square turns on the plug.

 

I heard the whine

of the Dremel’s motor

 

through the garage wall

as a lover’s serenade.

 

Our rosemary bush caressed him

as he walked past

 

so the spicy scent was on him

as he supported the fountain.

 

I juggled plug, pump, and tubing

and inhaled the heady scent

 

between us. The fountain

played its water-music

 

as I stepped into his arms

and basked in the warmth

 

of his rosemary hands

where anything was possible.

                                                      Lothlorien Poetry Journal, March 2026  

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Eulogy for One Not Dead

 

She will dance into that good night,              

not burn and rave at close of day,

shuffle-dip, sway her way,

not rage against the dying of the light.   

     

She’ll don flash shoes and Lindy Hop

into that long sleep—she’s danced the

Bankhead Bounce out of a decayed marriage

and will dance into that good night.

 

She knows to heel-toe her way                                    

over bumpy bits, not burn and rave

at close of day, has schooled catatonic teens            

and will not rage against the dying light.

 

She knows the pirouette that centers.

Her dance is not to rage

but to live her days. She’ll lace up pointe shoes,

leap into that good night, arms wide

 

to the great unknown. She’ll release

once-sunshine tresses and

purposeful upon that supposed-sad height

she will fly into that good night.

                                                                      Lothlorien Poetry Journal, March 2026    

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Grandma's Hands
 
Low palms capture light in their long
boney fingers and maiden hair fern nestles
in shade, waiting its turn to feed
and I wonder why, why am I so tired and
 
have to suck in my stomach
to button the pair of jeans that used to
hang at my hips, and I think about
my mother’s middle-aged friends–
 
like the one I’m turning into–
smiling complaints about spreading
middles and the power of gravity, and
how those smiles hid the desperation
 
of foot soldiers losing the battle to stay
slim and youthful—because the enemy
is winning, this enemy called age.
And I wish for acceptance of the

fine lines and sagging jowls—
those lines that show you’ve lived
and laughed. I remember Grandma’s
shy embarrassment of the age spots
 
on the backs of her hands, and regret
I didn’t take her beloved hand
in both of mine, and wait for what she
never said about turning seventy-five.

                                                                          Indigo House Review. March 2021.​​​

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Harvest Time,
 
I have no regrets about paths not taken,
career not pursued,
fetus lost before viable,
harbor no regrets about material choices made—
 
although I want a do-over for some relationships
and maybe I’ll have that opportunity
next time through, but now
looking back, I see the choices I made as a path
 
through mist. I trust that the ground
will be there when I lay my foot down, receive me
when I stumble and drop. Solid terra firma
bruises my knee, scrapes my palm
 
forces me to pause, nurture punctured skin
with clean water, A&D ointment, and
beige Band-Aid. When I rise, because I have to rise,
I can’t hide in bed all day¾the way waits for me.
 
Waits for me with trappings of fall underfoot
those red-hued or golden leaves lie about
like discarded dresses, and I think of preserving
their luminosity between wax paper, sew them
 
into a robe with a high collar I fling on like a mantle
and in that act, I own the colors. I look in the direction
my toes face while mist kisses my skin with promises
that the way will be there when I step out.

                                                                                      Dodging the Rain. June 2021.​

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Homestead

 

On the porch of my grandfather’s home,

the one built by his grandparents, a breeze 

ruffles my hair, soars to deep-breathing trees and

 

undulates fields of cow-corn. Silver Queen,

planted for our table, beckons and soon 

a cousin will plan a weekend of shucking and

 

cooking dozens of ears of corn, dozens and
dozens, and we will harvest the sweet, juicy                                         

inner kernel, to freeze for a winter’s

 

feast. Tall, tall pines nod their heads

like a convocation of magicians, and we

may have to harvest those magnificent pines

 

to pay taxes, but for now we plunder deep,

rolling woods. A white birch, the last remnant

of Grandma-Old’s wild garden, tosses limbs

 

like a pouting ingénue and coyote give voice

from those deep woods we plunder while

ancient oak tremble as they take up the query,

 

—how long will we be on this land—

 

on dirt roads where great grandfather taught

mother to drive, taught her to shift, taught her

to stay in the middle of the road by aligning

 

hood ornament with outer edge

of the road. And once she’d mastered

all that, drive all the roads again, in reverse.

 

Reverse along the ravine, reverse between

gate posts, in reverse ‘round the teardrop

where the now-dying Linden tree, planted by

 

Gran and delicate-tough as her, makes

me wonder about the future, about

replacement, renewal or a clean slate, and

 

I wonder, will our children, all working

in cities and towns, will one of them,

will some of them find another way to pay

 

those taxes and, in their old age, sit here,

on their ancestor’s porch, as they bear witness

to the fruits of bygone days, lives long past.

                                                       Willawaw Journal,    2022

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Leashing a Teen

 

I worry about my teen starting to drive,

wanting to go off by herself as she

pulls hard at the leash, yes

 

we’re holding on

as she pulls the choke collar tight

and it’s taking both of us

 

just to stay the path

as she sniffs the undergrowth—

because we know, oh yes, we know

 

the meat in there that attracts her and

where we buried our favorite bones.

Yes, we have to hold on

 

hold on, double up the leash,

hoping it's strong enough

hoping we're strong enough

 

and you know, it would be nice to have

a pair of elbow-length padded gloves,

the kind they use to train attack dogs—

 

cause sometimes        the teen turns on us

like a bitch in heat, and                  snarls with

narrowed eyes                                  but we remember, oh yes,

 

we remember and reach out slowly to her

like those who calmed us so long ago

when we snapped the leash

 

so we hold on tight, sometimes

taking turns sometimes together,

as we slowly give her full reign.

                                                        Door=Jar, 2022

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My Lover.

When he passes me I don’t see grey hair—
I feel his arms around me and hear whispered words.
His hand trails across my back,
down around my curves—
making promises to my senses.
 
When he lectures our daughter
on the importance of doing the work first,
she leans forward on her elbows
eyes follow him
from the fridge to the cutting board to the stove,
 
attention fixed on him like a perfectly tuned string
which his words run up and down
like an Eric Clapton rift.
I walk quietly then, listening
to the melody between them.
 
When he passes by
I do not see a round, softened belly.
I remember the day before,
the throw from third base to first, that broke
the laces of the first baseman’s glove.
 
My lover passes by,
the back of his hand caresses my cheek,
slides down around and opens behind my neck.
Cradling my head with his irresistible touch
he reminds me that I am his and he is mine.

                                                                                   Lummox Poetry Anthology #9. October 2020. Page 35.​
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​​Signature Required
 
She holds the divorce Judgement
and cold slinks in, slithers
along floor, scents
a warm ankle, curls up calf
behind knee
curls ‘round thigh, buttock
to the waist and enters
like an epidural, spreads
along hips, over tummy
up ribcage, back of arms
down past elbow to hands
fingers
cold,    cold     fingers
and movement is difficult,
movement becomes
painful and so it’s time.
Time to move, time
to sign and be released.

                                                      Door=Jar Summer 2022, #23 p111-114

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What She Gave Me      
 

I want to see the moors of Cornwall again,

ride unruly stallion across wide open moors,

feel that fear-control as I claim the magnificent beast.         

 

I remember the strength of my sister's presence,

her belief in me, her laughter at my control of the stallion.

Wind caught my hair, whipped skin, expanded heart

 

and I turned to her, big eyed with fear-amazement,

triumphant at staying in the saddle.

I drank in her image, horseback next to me,

 

as I held reigns with both hands, feet deep in stirrups,

riding, driving, demanding compliance

from the big heart of the stallion.

 

And isn't that just like the race we try to run,

the balance we fight for between work and family.

So, I want to walk the moors of Cornwall,

 

breathe deep the flowering heath,

feel the strength of my sister's presence,

take in hills of pink Ling and Heath, yellow Gorse

 

and revel in the strength of another's belief in me.

Honor that expansive deep-breath, elation-fear

of a girl stepping into life. 

                                                                            Verse Virtual, March 2026

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Why I Won’t

 

I’m not allowed

to slide the smooth

sharp edge

along my vein.

Not allowed to cut

little slivers

along my leg.

I’m not allowed

to inflict my mutilation

on others, 

wound others

with my internal critics.

Not allowed

to slip

into oblivion

which would release ripples

of horror

to unknown places

and touch unexpected people

because suicide

is like that.

It vibrates in the air

long after you’ve gone.

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Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow

 

There’s a pink glow to the sky and it’s hard to tell

if it’ll bring blue skies or masks spring grey.

Beginnings are like that.

 

The bottlebrush shrub fades with the season

as its long red blooms wither to soft clumps.

Soft like me these days. These days I like me.

 

The neighbor’s fence glows with new stain

on new wood. It’s bright, cheery, and

reminds me, renewal isn’t trivial.

 

It isn’t trivial that clothes fit, and it’s important

to get a good haircut, and yes, it’s essential

to take care for myself. So, when the stupid workmen

 

drop fence boards on my maidenhair fern, then

break a sprinkler head, well I have repair to do.

There’s a lot of cleanup when men leave.

 

But now I can see my white geranium with the tiny red

dot in the center, the dwarf hot-pink Azalea 

given me to commemorate my sister’s death.

 

The Brunfelsia, called Yesterday, Today and

Tomorrow, reminds me I’ve evolved when its

blooms open violet, change to lavender, then white. 

                                                                          Verse Virtual, February, 2026

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  Your Grease Monkey
 
Life now is a lot like a model A,
back when they were new. Everyone’s
trying to create a horseless me—
 
one that can be left out of the barn,
out in rain, one that’s
self-sustaining, not self-deprecating.
 
And it seems to be coming along,
this journey into a future
that includes the Gull Wing.
 
This journey, where women
develop cleaner lines
to slide through their encounters—
 
yes, it seems to be coming along,
this journey
where women invent new suspension
 
to withstand bumpy bits,
low-profile tires to hold curves.
This journey,
 
where they don’t need someone else
to buff wax, check air,
wipe the dip stick. All right, all right,
 
they need a specialist to pull
the carburetor and retool the fittings,
but their girlfriends are really good
 
grease monkeys and get in their guts
to change the air filter before they choke
on their own pollution. So yes,
 
it’s coming along, this journey
to a horseless me where everything’s
different and yet so much the same.                                                                        Stickman Review, V20N2​


Your Left Ear,
  is mine if you make her cry, and
if you think I’m any ol’ hay-seed,  
go ask someone ‘bout Fred. 
 
That swaggering bully with
easy blue eyes, tight jeans
and loose shirt, yes, ask someone  
if they know why Fred
 
wears his baseball cap with bill
cupped low over one ear. Now
mind you, I meant to take
 
the whole thing, but I hadn’t the skill
back then, to slice just between
skull and soft lobe, slice straight up
without damaging a hair, nope
 
I hadn’t that skill back then, but
it never mended right. Like her heart.
His ear’s still mangled they tell me.
 
So, I’m just saying, you seem
like a nice fellow and I’d be
glad to see her happy, but your
left ear is gone if you hurt her.

                                                           Dodging the Rain. June 2021
 
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YESANDYEs

 

A copper‑leaved plum tree

leans over the neighbor’s fence, drops

squishy fruit on our drive and I wonder

how long this house will be ours

 

because he sleeps on the couch

won’t touch me, doesn’t want me

and maybe doesn’t love me. I sway

and almost faint, because it’s not enough

 

if he doesn’t hate me, not enough

if he likes me—like is a four-letter word

between lovers of thirty years and

the possibilities frighten me.

 

Will I live on yoghurt and nuts or

grow my own veggies and keep laying-hens

or let my hair go Rastafarian—maybe dye it

metallic red, ignore scandalized church‑goers,

 

and yes, a red streak behind my ear

would caress my neck. I tip my head back in an

Adirondack chair and see stars strong enough

to be seen in a city-brightened sky and I listen

 

to the mutilated silence of a city where

someone is always in motion

and yes, the possibilities frighten, as I salute

stars that call, yesandyes, the possibilities.

                                                                                 Poetic Diversity. November 2020
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Lefferts Street, Brooklyn NY

 

Friends gather

like castoff theories of scholars  

to see how they might fit together

—and make sense—

at this party in Brooklyn.

Because alone they drift,

rotate edges

in search of companion angles

until their joining

is precious wisdom

pulled from fields of smoke.

                                                      Lothlorien Poetry Journal, March 2026

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What Jack Did for Dan

 

When Holly died,

Dan refused to sleep in their old bed.

Jack found his brother on the sofa,

ants had invaded the kitchen,

swarmed dirty dishes,

paraded around crusted dish towel

paraded in lion lines up a wall.

Jack sprayed vinegar

and ants ran in frantic circles, drowned

in vinegar ponds and he wrapped carcasses

in paper towel coffins.

Jack picked clothes off chairs, floor,

table and loaded the washer,

stared at the steel drum

and remembered Holly’s

tilt of head, smile, wordless

affection saved just for Dan,

and how that look used to lift up

this heart now mourning.

Jack found his brother, his friend

in front of the TV, impaled by grief

on a sheet-wrecked sofa since he refused

to sleep in their bed. Any bed.

Jack brought two glasses of Johnny Walker Black

and sat next to his brother, the salve of love on anguish.

                                                                                     Lothlorien Poetry Journal, March 2026