Grandma's Chicken Coop

Grandma's Chicken Coop


Gathering eggs when young,
My sister and I,
Place small bare feet,
In carefully chosen positions,
Among the sawdust and droppings,
On the rough wooden boards,
Of grandma's chicken coop.

The summer sun at its zenith,
Has soaked through the shingled roof.
Sweat drops trickle
Down our necks,
Down our backs,
In erratic trails, unreachable.

The musk of the coop,
Strong in our noses,
The fine dust stirred upon entering,
Adheres to our damp faces,
Makes a golden ribbon,
From the knothole in the wall,
To the crusted floor.
Each minute particle,
Drifting in a lazy haze,
On the shaft of light.

The hens sit heat-stupored,
On their multi-tiered nests.
Methodically,
Left to right,
Top row to bottom,
We collect the warm, brown eggs.
Holding my shirt hem,
I gently lay them
In my spontaneous calico sack.

Our thieving complete,
We retreat,
To grandma's cool, dim kitchen,
With our booty.


L

Quilted Countryside

Quilted Countryside

Scattered across the counterpane,
Knots of cattle and sheep with lamb
Roads threading over soft folds.
Needles of sunlight piercing the clouds.
Plowshares feather-stitching the fields.
Circles of oats, squares of timothy,
Diamonds of alfalfa, rectangles of rye.
Farmhouse yards with calico flowerbeds,
Striped cat and spotted mongrel dog.
Velvet waves of golden grain.
Corduroy rows of grass-green corn.
Denim blue ditches crisscrossing fields.
Warm woolen warp of wheat.
All pieced with the plowing,
The planting,
And harvest.

L

Story of a Marriage

Story of a Marriage


When we first met it was a fairy tale.
Through the mist of bliss we kissed.
We married to live "Happily ever after."
Volumes of romance in our first years.
Mysteries to solve, adventures to live.
Then growing times with Mother Goose Rhymes.
Fewer romances, less mystery, the daily news set in.
Reader's Digest crowned the toilet tank.


Life became a Gothic Tale,
With jagged cliffs of finance,
Yawning caves of exhaustion,
Grey ocean waves of encroaching years.
Granite walls of taking for granted.
The classic horror story.

Self-help and how-to litter the coffee table.
Bible, tear-stained, dog-eared, lying open.
Redemption’s story.
From the furnace, pure gold,
Impervious steel.
Hero and heroine become
A love story once again.

L

The Bee

The Bee


Needles up, needles down.
Plying of the needles.
Ten stitches to the inch,
On the frame basted quilt.
Four year old Olivia
Under the frame,
On the floor,
Sees knees.

Knees and sensible shoes.
Granny Stanton's brown calico,
Crocheted house slippers.
Marta pink roses, faded with washing.
Mama's navy pin dot, polished white oxfords.
Aunt Bertha's green check, Lizy's dove gray.
All the knees wearing dresses.
All the feet in well worn shoes.
Olivia serves tea in tiny dishes
To the doll that came from Sears
Last Christmas.

The murmur of voices,
Hums and hovers overhead,
"New beauty parlor opening on Hershall Avenue. "
"Aunt Patsy is going to have another baby.
They're hoping for a girl this time. "
"Uncle Thomas is looking mighty poorly these days,
since Clarice passed on. "
"Price of potatoes has gone plain out of sight!
How's a body to live?"
"Wasn't Sunday service just real nice?"

Olivia places her head on mama's polka dot knees,
Drifting off under the blanket of conversation.
Mama's hand stops quilting,
Reaches beneath the frame,
Stroking the strands,
Of silky brown hair.

L

The Wind and Mariah

The Wind and Mariah


The screen door is brazenly snatched from her hand
By an impudent gust.
Racing, careening currents chase the old woman,
Across the porch and down the steps.
She clings to the railing in self-defense.
Rambunctious blasts knock tulips to-and-fro,
Riffle the silk rose on her venerable black hat.
She is blown through the garden gate,
Onto the boardwalk.
Her furrowed face crinkles in delight.
No mere zephyr, this callow wind of Spring!

A clitter-clatter, chitter-chatter vestige of leaves,
Is harassed down the street,
At a pace the vintage lady can no longer attain.
She places a protective palm atop her velvet headgear,
As draughts tug and tease,
Attempting to insinuate themselves under the brim.

"Don't get any notions, " she cautions.
"Useless to fancy my hat'" she maintains.

A final jerk, an unseen smirk,
Wind rushes off,
Leaving Mariah, breathless and blown,
To totter on her way.

L

Just words…

Just words…

“Clumsy!”
“What have you done now?”
“I don’t care who started it!”
“Wait ‘til your father comes home! He’ll teach you a thing or two!”
“How’s the weather up there?”
“You think you’re so smart!”
“What is it, again, that you do for a job?”
“Stupid.”
“Can’t you do anything right?”
“Think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“I should have found some way to get an abortion…”
Just words…

All learn language, hear words
From the day of birth til death.
The lotto winners of life hear
Phrases of love, encouragement.
But there are those, too many,
That have a secret, invisible friend,
A friend to help them survive words pounding,
Chipping, slapping, knocking down,
Everyday, after every long day.
“Clumsy!”
“What have you done now?”
“I don’t care who started it!”
“Wait ‘til your father comes home! He’ll teach you a thing or two!”
“How’s the weather up there?”
“You think you’re so smart!”
“What is it, again, that you do for a job?”
“Stupid.”
“Can’t you do anything right?”
“Think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“I should have found some way to get an abortion…”
Until even a secret friend can't survive,
No longer wants to be alive,
Tries to find an end,
For himself and his secret friend.

L

Fall Roundup

Fall Roundup


Cows caterwaulin’.
Calves all a bawlin’.
Steers buttin’, brawlin’,
Cowboys swearin’, callin’,
To the heelers as they run.
Black, tan, brown,
From the hills herded down,
Cattle drive of old renown,
Fills the road that leads to town.
Almost there.

The bull breaks away,
Belligerence on display,
Cowboy patience starts to fray,
Been a long, hard day.
Cutting horse is spent.

The hills, golden, dusty dry,
Geese above southbound fly,
Wind through aspens gives a sigh,
Frosted leaves drop and lie.
Fall roundup.

L

Eternal Moment

Eternal Moment


Such beauty and mystery,
Old, ageless in this moment.
My baby, cradles her baby,
Gently to her breast.

Sunlight filters through slatted blinds,
Dark, light, shadow, bright,
Patterning her face, her hair.

The room sits still…

Our eyes meet,
Heart to heart, soul to soul,
In this timeless silence,
Daughter to daughter to daughter,
Back and back and back,
To the mother of all.

L

Lake

Lake

Hush, as a breath held…

Sky admires fiery fall finery
In the cerulean blue below.

Turtles bob and submerge,
Bottle-glass green, inquisitive.

Hovering osprey fold wings,
Rocket crashing onto finned prey,
Rising, winging away,
Trout silhouetted torpedo position,
To the nearest pine bough.
Breakfast is served.

The wake of a yard-long otter
Echoes the formation of south-bound geese
Toward a grayed and sodden deadfall.
Pulling gracefully onto the weathered wood
Grooming begins.

The rustle and rush of field mice
Crackles through the year-end grass,
The chill air eliciting urgency
In the hoarding of seed
Insulating of dens.

Rain tiptoes across the lake.
Thirsty earth sighs.
A north sough ruffles and pleats the darkening water.
In earnest the rain gives its all.

L

Bravado

Bravado

Queue of quail
Crossing the road
Right in front of my Subaru
And I’m doin’ fifty.

Male quail
In the lead
Shows no fear
And no sign of turning his
Brood to flee.

My foot hovers
Over the brake pedal
Ready to apply pressure
“Please fly!”

Mama quail
Turns tail
Followed by a flurry
Of fleeing offspring.

Papa quail
Toes the yellow line
Holds his ground
As my car streaks by
With only a slight ruffle of his
Feathers.

L

Bear with me here…

Bear with me here…


Bearing two X chromosomes
Entitles me to bear children
Married to an XY
With rights to bear arms

Bearing with each other
We barely scrape by
Life is good
But sometimes just barely

XY gets chummy
With XX at work
When confronted with
Bare-faced truth
XY bears the blame
Bares his soul
I bare my teeth
I bear the burden
Contemplate burial
Of self or XX
But life goes on...

L

First Kiss

First Kiss

Where do you go to be alone?
The basement family room of Johnny B.
He with his duff colored hair nipped just beyond the scalp
In the classic crew cut, wearing blue jeans rolled at the cuff
Plain white t-shirt ala James Dean.
My hair confined in a ponytail and wearing denim cutoffs,
Sandra Dee wannabe.

Both thirteen, and thirsty for knowledge.
Television volume cranked up
Parents one flight above
Know we are watching
Days of our Lives.

We sit on the couch side by side.
Shifting, inching
Ever closer to one another,
My mind racing.
"Is he going to kiss me?"

His arm slips around my shoulders.
"Is he going to kiss me?"

My palms are sweating.
"Is he going to kiss me?"

The awkward angling of
Heads, noses, chins and teeth clinking,
Attempting the pose never before attempted.
And then ... the lips come together!

Gross!

Bug Splat

Bug Splat

Bugs splat the windshield
At sixty-five miles per hour.
Mashed and mangled moths,
Bombed butterflies,
Kamikaze katydids.
Yellow, green, and red guts,
Smeared across the glass,
In gory, glorious color.

L

Country Water, City Water

Country Water, City Water

The “chick-chick-chick” of the sprinkler
Announces the season of watering
Sun-dried earth.

The “chuck-chuck-chuck” of the circle system
Works its way around
The verdant field of alfalfa.

The “KOOSH-KOOSH” of the water canon
Sends streams flying.
Rainbows are born
In its arc.

But city yards are dainty,
The watering done delicately.
Silently the plastic heads rise to the occasion,
Emitting mists of moisture
“shhhhh…”

L

Cacophony of La Paz

Cacophony of La Paz


Church bells bong and dong the hours,
Baja trucks, and buses bustle,
Barking dogs chase children chanting,
Cars with drivers ranting.
Generators.
Accelerators.
Vendors.
Mechanical music blaring.
Doors open.
Doors close.
Squeaks, clanks,
Gratings, grindings.
Cooing of doves and purring of pigeons ...
Then the whirrrrr-chink of bicycles
Ridden yet another mile past possible.
L

Cross Country

Cross Country

Long drive.
Driving alone, even longer.
I jab the radio’s selection button repeatedly.

White noise.

Then NPR and Lake Wobegon,
Wrenching rap,
Frenetic south of the border trumpeting,
Alto, por favor!
Country’s broken hearted
“Don’t need no rear view mirror,
I ain’t never lookin’ back”
Twang…
Ah, at last.
Crystal Blue Persuasion.
L

Lance

Lance

Four Years
And counting

It’s better now,
There have been enough years
You don’t look “just like your brother”
Now you just look like you.

You haven’t changed
Just my memories fading,
Remembering now occasions
Extra sweet, warm and funny
Tender times.

Remembering less,
Living more,
Seems traitorous at times
How can you “forget someone”
After thirty-two years
Of love and hate
Bills and babies
Faithfulness, infidelity

You heal
Soul scar
Jagged and deep
Looses its angry red
Fades light, white
You heal
And today I saw you
And you were simply
You
L

Are You Aware?

Are You Aware?

In the place where you rest
Are you aware
That you are a grandfather
Now, for the very first time?
Birthed by the child
Who walks in your footsteps
Working in the industry
That tried to exterminate
Your soul.
And not so strangely
Your firstborn longs
For the day he walks
In the forest,
Works in the wilderness,
That gave your soul flight.
And are you aware
Of my love?
L

The Pool

The Pool

The scorching heat of the day lies like black velvet on her skin
as she sits silently, crossed legged,
on the cracked, crazed sod of the orchard,
her slim silhouette dim under cover of two a.m. darkness.
The leaves of the trees hang limp,
not a breath of relief from
an errant breeze.

By the mean light of a scythe moon
she can grudgingly regard
the hunching, hulking bulk of the above-ground pool.
She had always longed for one,
had begged him for one.
She had always thought she would put one right there,
where that one was sitting now.
His answer was always,
"No, we don't have the money."
"No, we don't need one."
"No, it's too much work."

She can see the glassy surface of the water
lying open to the night, no covering, unprotected.
Rising, she strides across the seared night lawn,
moisture starved blades of grass shattering under foot,
crunching like broken glass with each step.
She comes to the edge of that pool,
that fat, water-glutted, squatting polypropylene pouch.
Her ring-less left hand grips
the rim of the pool
as her machete-wielding right raises heavenward,
then brings it down with all the force within her,
rending the soft plastic tissue.
Ruptured, the tepid water gushes over her body,
down her belly, over her knees, to pool at her feet momentarily.
The starved earth gulps the life giving release.
L.

Homemade Dress

Homemade Dress

I spun around, around, around.
The skirt of cotton calico flared wide,
Spread and rippled and fanned the air.
I fell, gasping, delighted, into a chair.
Mama had sewn me a new dress.

On the bouncing bus ride to school,
So as not to crush the crisp,
I sat on the edge of the seat.
I so wanted to stay neat,
For it was Picture Day.

In the center of the classroom,
Blond and bright, demure,
In pink satin and patent leather,
Clustered together,
Stood the Princess and her court.

Her rosebud lips pursed flawlessly,
Her ice-blue eyes casually,
Viewed my dress and me from a distance,
And said with that glance,
"Homemade, isn't it?"

My dress hung limp, folds flopped down,
No more spinning around, around.
"Line up, class, for the picture."
We lined up for the class picture.
It was picture day.
L