The corn people

Held in warmth and darkness, the embryos await the light

Grow whole and plump out of the broken

Push their rumpled heads out of the night


The babies tremble in the springtime wind

Their tender jade hands patting at the raindrops, their bodies

Stretching slowly toward the sun


The children dance in line in the furrows, grow like weeds

And reach to touch hands

Their rippling arms sway above their heads as they play


The teenagers are robust, thick-stalked and firm

Tousle-haired, energetic, virile

Eager to be full grown, productive


The mature are thirsty, reach their parched hands high

A silent shriek for answers that do not come and

For the life of the young borne against their bodies, for strength


The fruitful stand erect, yield produce of excellence and delight

And spent, bereft, but self-respecting

Wait in silence for the end. The good seed will go on


The aged shrivel into themselves, pointing crooked fingers

Against the clouded evening sky

Accusing, eerie, alone


Held in warmth and darkness, the embryos await the light


Watermelon, fireworks, new barbecue sauce, a child’s wagon, homegrown tomatoes, rose petals

Day lilies, cantaloupe, orange dream on a stick, campfire coals, a shocking sunset, ripe peaches

Sunlight on my skin, black-eyed susan, sea shells, the heart of a daisy, full moon, buttered cobs of corn

Fresh mown lawn, leaves making merry, mossy rocks by the streambed, bits of sea glass, grass stains

Rows of denim jeans against the wind, still water, a robin’s eggshell fallen, open sky

Bright bunting wings here and gone again, blueberries, iridescent dragonfly wings, hydrangea clusters

Concord grapes, ruffled fuchsia blooms, bruised bare knees, black raspberry ice cream, twilight

On a modern day dilemma

It is impossible not to finish something

If you keep plugging away at it.

This is what I tell myself

When my projects look overwhelming.


On the other hand,

I suppose it is impossible

To finish something

If you keep plugging away at it.


So it would appear

That the better part of success

Is knowing when to keep plugging and

When to quit.

In sickness and in health: a short opinion on life in the former

There are human experiences that find relief only in the writing of extremely tacky poetry – the kind that Uncle Joe would read aloud at his great-niece’s wedding, laboring under the impression that he has produced something clever while everyone else ate cake. (“Her mother and father did her adore, Little knowing what lay in store…”)

Thank you for indulging me. I’ve found there is nothing like a bad rhyme to lift the spirits.

A few years ago we vowed sickness and health

But what that entailed I couldn’t have shown ya

The germs staged a coup and attacked us by stealth

The year I had bronchitis and he had pneumonia.


The children were coughing, the fevers were rife.

I said “Hello, doctor? I thought I would phone ya

Hubby says when he breathes he is stabbed by a knife

I bet I have bronchitis and he has pneumonia.”


The comforting thing is that all of this landed

Into the first month of the new year we’ve known

So the rest can’t be worse than the scoop we were handed

When I had bronchitis and he had pneumone.


Unless of course somebody dies and gets buried

Or my mind says Goodbye pal, it’s nice to have known ya

…Or a cannibal sharpens his axe to debone ya

…Or the orthodox church takes a notion to stone ya

…Or the wrecker has an accident right while he’s towin ya

…Or a stranger says Here’s a black backpack to loan ya


All things considered, I’m just not that worried

Since I had bronchitis and he had pneumonia.

Dawning of the age

Early in the morning

Afraid of what they’d find, a

Sisterhood of grief and trepidation

Turned the final corner of the age to find an

Empty bed, drooping linens, risen Lord


Resurrection morning.


Eagerly we work and wait the advent

As His kingdom comes, His will is done, we

Scan the earth and sky for

Tombstones shattered

Energy unleashed, heaven coming down


Resurrection morning.