Front Porch

plastic orange flags
flap frantically in the breeze
between newly-leafed trees
and sweet spring grass

who know,
in their state of natural being
how to bend, to sway, to swoon
at the touch of a breeze,

their fickle dance partner

Unleashing the Poet Within

A few new poems by yours truly written at a retreat led by Nevin Comptom Trammell.

The Irregular Heart

The irregular heart
knows not the confines
of chamber walls or rhythms
of the lub-dub doctrine

Look there, in the corner
where pigments swirl
birthing a fifth chamber

an irregular heart
made new
for a new way
a new day
a new doctrine

**********************************************************************************
Litter

A mirror image lies
beneath the soaring boughs
of a white oak tree

it's astounding,
the luxury of it all

as golden hues of fallen
and to be fallen
compete for my gaze

it's reminiscent,
the duplicity of summer

when crepe myrtles
drop their pink petticoats
on the floor

rushing into another season

**********************************************************************************

A Journey in Two Stanzas

on a journey
with words suspended,
between the lines
old thoughts upended

hands moving cautiously
left to right,
voices give wings
words take flight

Lead and Follow

What I saw on my morning walk:

a butterfly and a bee
dance on the face
of a flower

it bows its head
in ecstasy
and I pause

wondering
if they are
willing partners

and who leads
and who follows?

The Great Plane

each morning
i raise the window,
a small part of the day
slides in

with its bent rays of light
or not
its riot of color
or not
its stretching, yawning sounds
or not

each morning
i raise the window
to gently rock my life awake

some days are clear,
on this morning
dew clings to the glass
the tell-tale trail of a snail

who’s crossed the great pane
in the night
loops left to right
or is it right to left?

each morning
i raise the window,
sometimes just a crack
other times fully open

a window a mind
a heart a soul
it’s what slides in
or not
it’s what bypasses reasoning
or not

that sends us looping
across the great plane
left to right
or right to left

Crossvine

Walking in search of,
I stub my toe on a blossom

fallen in the middle of the trail,
this orange and yellow bell-shaped flower
sits weighty in the palm of my hand

like an engraved invitation
to look up

high, in the canopy of hickory
and persimmon, sycamore
and beech,

whose leaves thwart
my aching gaze

I move on
in hopes of a revelation,
but none comes

so I return to stillness
in the cabin at the edge of the woods

where birds
of brilliant color and song
converge on feeders

materializing from a tangled arbor,
dissolving into it

leading my hungry eyes
to rest on blossoms,
orange and yellow bell-shaped flowers

suspended in the newly-greening air
singing their spring song

and everywhere I turn
they are there,
where my journey began

Foreign Tongue

Your common name, fire pink

misleading

as to your true color

Like many labels

put upon,

one size does not fit all

There is comfort

in category, in recall,

but surely there is room

for the heart

to name

what the body sees and feels,

without benefit

of language,

foreign to your tongue.

Song of Morning

I raise the window in haste
so as not to shut out
the song of morning

the ebb and flow
of wind through the leaves
easily mistaken for rain

messages tapped out
by the chickadee,
releasing a kernel
from a safflower seed

bees bobbing curiously
at the window screen,
the drone of their buzzing
a sedative

the faint chirps
of newly hatched bluebirds
safe in the nest

all commanding my attention,
demanding nothing of me
except to sit and listen

and appreciate their voices
as they waft through an open window
washing me clean

with the song of morning

Yellow Throated Warbler

a yellow throated warbler
passes through

impressive markings
around the eye and cheek,
a masked bandit
in search of food
and fodder for the nest

he chittles,
he chortles happily

looking up to see me peering
through the window
he flashes his sunny throat
my way and adds a wink
just for good measure

this is spring at its finest

How Deep the Pool?

Into the looking glass
water tumbles.
How deep the pool?

A hungry lap never says no

to
the
fall

or what may manifest

from
the
fall

like a whirlpool,
or a trapped pod
too delicious to release
spinning round and round
until all that’s left
is right for the feast

that falls from the sky
again and again
singing a raucous melody,
seducing the onlooker

until they cease to care,
how deep is the pool
that holds them
and the trapped pod

enraptured

Ghost Heron

i welcome the greening
except
i’ll miss
the fishermen,
their knee to chest gait
through the muck

they don’t mind the intrusion
except
they’re pulling the curtain
inch-by-inch
across the stage
of my gaze

until the eye rests here,
at the edge of a thicket
instead of there,
along the shallows
of a meandering creek
where fishermen
dine in private

except,
here i sit
on the other side of waiting
for the fall,
wanting memory’s apparition
to emerge

when the greening
will retreat again
from sight

Every Drop a Jewel

dew carpets the lawn

every drop a jewel
suspending from the tip
of Spring’s tender shoots

every drop a tear
cleansing the film of winter
from my eyes

every drop a prism
bending morning’s light
into a halo

I raise the window
inviting colors to drift in
on a gentle breeze

every breath a feast
offering sustenance
to the hollow places

every breath a step
ascending from night
onto the plane of a new day

every breath a peal
ringing the spirit awake
from a long slumber

Open Road to Home

cotton batting clouds

eclipse a clear blue sky

white thread of a contrail stitches

a quilt of contrast

sets my mind to wondering

how many hands to quilt the sky

how many generations of women

bent over a frame

lowered from the ceiling by pulleys

after the table's been moved

after the chairs made their music,

scraping a tune across the hardwood floor

i should keep my eye on the road

but that sky, that crazy quilted sky

sets my mind to wandering

down the open road to home

Dandelion III

i dared cast my gaze
toward the sun
an eclipse
the lowly dandelion

who pushed its way through
grit and gravel
to birth a single flower

its brilliance burned
bands of light
on my retina

now a golden orb floats
in the dark pool
of my mind’s eye

a constant source of light
when the gray pall of winter
descends

Dandelion II

Fatigue [its own form of gravity]
will keep you low
to the ground
seeking food, shelter,
a place to pause

a wisp of an orange butterfly
drifts into a puddle of sun
the edge of its wings tattered
as if beaten atop dry grasses
or the jagged winds of an endless journey

it lingers in mid-air
then collapses on the blossom,
delicate black feet part compact petals
urgent as an infant
it suckles nectar from the heart

the waning scent of summer
drifts on the air
fanned by tattered wings
slowly rising and falling
to the pulse of another season

Dandelion

in the middle of a dull gravel road
where no tires tread
a lone dandelion breaches
the hard-packed surface
and grows in a puddle of sun

its leaves are not free to unfurl
like its kin in the meadow
but held in the grit of contraction,
birthing its one golden eye

a beacon
should it survive
for the passerby to pause,
crouch low and gaze upon the face
of a humble flower

who owes no apology to the rose
or the orchid for that matter
for its lowly residence
or eagerness to invite itself
into the landscape

its saffron mane of summer
signals plentiful nectar
to buzzersby and butterflies
and in the fall, transforms to silken
gossamer globes

awaiting the stir of a gentle breeze
or the pursed lips of children
to blow their seeds in ever-widening arcs,
landing where they may
emerging in spring among kin in the meadow
or alone on a dull gravel road

Fall's Harvest

there comes a time

in this season

when you look up

in disbelief

body, earth

parched ground, skin,

the gaping mouth of

a shrinking lake

all cry out

to a barren sky

that only rains

falling leaves

who driven by wind

deceive the ear

but dazzle the eye

with their golden, scarlet, russet hues

would i trade showers of color

for showers of rain

in these days of drought?

ask me tomorrow.

today, i feast

on fall's harvest

I Brake for Turkeys

The other day, I'm driving down River Road and an oncoming car blinks its lights at me. If I were in Houston, this would mean there was a cop ahead with a radar gun and an itchy, ticket-writing trigger finger lying in wait. In rural Tennessee this courtesy signal can mean any number of things: 1) beware, farm equipment ahead blocking all lanes, 2) beware, fresh roadkill ahead, 3) beware, Billy Bob is on the loose again with a chainsaw and a pick ax, [see item 8 on my list of Good Things to Know] or 4) ____________ fill in the blank.

I slowed down and proceeded cautiously on this twisty-turny road. After several minutes of not seeing anything out of the ordinary, I wondered aloud what the fuss was about [yes, I was alone in the car and yes, I do talk to myself out loud in said vehicle on occasion]. Just then, I picked up movement on the left side of the road in my peripheral vision.

A wild turkey hen appeared to be playing a game of peek-a-boo, bobbing her head up, looking around, then ducking down in a tall patch of grass. Now folks, this is not "normal" turkey behavior, so I knew something was up and braked to a stop. After one more peek (or was it a boo?) she stepped from her protective cover followed by another hen and a brood of chicks. They casually strolled past me and disappeared into what was surely greener grass waiting for them on the other side of the road.

I moved on, happy in the knowledge I hadn't increased the roadkill percentages that day. Then it hit me, the conscientious motorist was not the pace car for the turkey parade, nor would he have even known momma turkey was about to step out with her brood, so I again slowed down and sure enough, on the next hill was a man walking toward me and away from a broken down van stopped part-way on the road. I didn't stop to offer help as he was nearing a local tavern where he could get help and a cold adult beverage.

This little haiku bubbled up later in the evening [after an adult beverage, I might add]

I brake for turkeys
their heads bob across the road,
safe till November

The Vine

move through thorns
past copperheads
without being pricked
draw back a fistful of blackberries
warmed by the midday sun

a tangy, sweet squish in your mouth
the flavor of purple in summer
lauds over the aubergine scarf
now hanging limply in the corner
like a barren vine or slumbering snake

Move over Big Boy

Yes folks, there are reasons to celebrate the tomato.

Yesterday, the FDA declared it's OK to eat tomatoes again. Whew...glad to know that nightmare is behind us. If that's not enough to send you rushing to your local grocer, consider how good the tomato is for you. Under slick, shiny, not always red skin is a fruit (or is it a vegetable?) packed with vitamin c, lycopene and are your ready for this...small traces of nicotine.

If knowing all of this makes you want to revel in the street then you are not alone. Head to East Nashville in a couple of weeks and you can join other tomato enthusiasts at the:



There'll be parades, tomato art, children's carnivals, a Bloody Mary making competition, recipe contests, a Tomato King and Queen pageant, music AND a tomato Haiku competition. Now folks, I'm not a big fan of prescribed forms of writing, but at the encouragement of my sisters in the Eastword Writers Group, I dipped my pen in the sauce and here's what bubbled up:

tomatoes can-can
to salsa or not salsa,

my stomach rumbas

Mourning Light

The day puddles at my feet,
a soft robe sliding down my skin
as the last rays of sun
drop to the floor

the lawn is littered with the delicate feathers
and down of a dove,
pink and gray confetti

scattered after a predator’s parade

from the shelter of a walnut tree

a single voice chants low
its mourning song
the peony bows its head

crying creamy petals of sorrow
on an emerald carpet
where only moments ago
two rabbits played chase, unaware

I cradle myself, knees to chest
in the tattered chair,
the caramel-colored shawl
drawn around my bare shoulders

here I’ll sit
at the sentinel’s post,
gazing out as the shapes of Creation
fold into each other
to be rekindled

at morning's first light