In Absentia

​Some may say she’s a fatherless daughter

Yet, that’s not what he taught her
Every cell of her being
Sings with his strings of DNA
The immediate way she searches the sky
When birdsong sounds nearby
Some may say she’s a fatherless daughter
Yet, that’s not what he taught her
​The loss was sudden, relatively so
And the absence too new
To fully sink through
While the pain strikes each day, harder
She’ll never believe she’s a fatherless daughter
This is offered for the Rondele prompt at I’ve been absent for quite awhile, from September to January we lost two parents and one has been in and out of the hospital and rehab 8 times. My mom is still recovering (actually quite well) from a second broken hip (now she has a matched set). My dad (who was a great teacher, but who also suffered from depression) passed away in December.  It is still surreal, and hence the poem.  Please forgive the deviation from form, in the last line…my first attempt to process my dad’s passing poetically.

Sky Scattered

She is clouds
Scattered across the
Breathing night
Shifting from white
To grey to
And without notice
Releases tears
So hot
They scorch the
Plants they
To save

This is offered for Poetry Pantry at Poets United,–my mother-in-law passed away, (it’s okay, it was time, but still sad), my father-in -law had another stroke and a heart attack, he is recovering–however, I woke up with this fully formed poem in my mind.  Went to bed thinking of how scattered/fragmented we feel in these situations.  All the best to everyone.

Body of Evidence

Time does not believe
In beauty or
Make no bones about
In the end
We are only
Spirit and skin
Quit sucking
Your belly
Be momentous
Live in the light
Fate waits
To tip
Our toes
Into night
Where we’re
Left to waltz
On our imagination’s
Dance floor

This is offered for Poetry Pantry at–this week my mom fell and fractured her thigh bone, and while I was waiting to board a plane to see her, my husband texted me that he was at the hospital. His father had a stroke, and couldn’t speak. You never know what curves in the road are coming. And it makes me realize how much we have to enjoy the moment.

A Beaked Battalion

A division of white plumed dowitchers
March in time to the pulse of subterranean
Stabbing the soil with scythe beak swords
They secure a squirming victory
Then squabble over who shall eat
The spoils

This is offered for Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, open link night–I finally made it over there!  A bit of wordplay for the white ibis that frequent our lawns and delight me every morning walk.

Still A Question

I am from
Mockingbird mornings and nighthawk nights
Where life spirals between the branches of a Mulberry tree
And playing house in the shed out back
Unless you want to (ick) play “War” with the boys
I am mountain air, pines and dusty trails
Homecooked meals and powdered milk
Purring cats and Peterson’s bird guide
Parental Bacchanalian parties, with sibling silent vigils
Canyon filled summers and book laden school years
Redwood love and tropical fantasies-that became reality
Flowing words, images and love for the magic that dances between
Hard decisions and a weak sense of self
Miracles, sadness and the swift fist of reality
All this has made me alternatively, tender as a fresh baked cookie, and hard as lessons learned
I never knew where I would be until I got there, and who I am is still a question

Whistling in the Wind



What once was

Is not



The war

To try

And regain



Is just a whistle

In the wind

And yet we still cup

Palms around

The flame of


This is offered for Robert Brewer’s Poem a Day, to write about resistance, and Poetry Jam poetry where Alan asked us to write about flame.  Still struggling with the harsh reality of my parents aging, the new need is meals delivered.  My mom does for a CT scan tomorrow for dementia.  It seems like the hits keep on coming, yet we hang onto hope that things will get better…wishing all good things to you.