Thinking About Faith

My poem is up at the wonderful Poetry Breakfast this morning. My thanks to editor Kay Kestner.

Thinking about Faith

I’m not talking religion here, 
although it’s nice to have that too. 
I’m thinking of the sun-rising-every-day 

kind of faith we take for granted—
that cars coming at me will stay 
in their lanes, that planes 

will land. It’s deeper than expectation—
that the dinner party will go well, 
or the Amazon delivery will arrive 

on Tuesday. It’s more akin 
to assurance—that when my friend 
says she understands, she does. 

Faith is more solid than Emily’s hope, 
more bedrock, but it’s beautiful 
like her feathery allusion—

that you’ll come home every evening,
that we will share our day, 
that you will hold my hand.

Mother’s Recipe Box

My thanks to Your Daily Poem for publishing my poem this morning as part of their Poetry Parade for Poetry Month.

Mother’s Recipe Box

Friday night baked beans with salt pork, molasses, 
and just enough water to keep them covered, 
simmering in the bean pot her mother used. 

Refrigerator rolls, dusted with flour, punched down, 
rolled out to rise again as doughnuts, cloverleaf rolls 
for company, hamburger buns for picnics. The dough 

kept a week in a big bowl covered with wax paper 
that took up most of a shelf in the icebox, its recipe card 
with Mother’s school teacher penmanship, splotched 

from yeasty hands and buttered fingers. And oh my, 
the Jello concoctions—celery, slivered carrots 
and pineapple in jiggly lime or orange with a mayo 

and sour cream topping. And the congealed 
Christmas staple of cranberries from the grinder 
with orange bits and that ubiquitous celery. 

Some of the cards have friends’ names—Hilda’s cherry pie, 
Wilma’s meatloaf. Some have culinary graphics in a corner—
wooden spoons, checked aprons, Italian chefs winking. 

My daughter asked for the box awhile back. It blesses 
her kitchen from a high shelf. I doubt she has ever used 
the recipes, but she knows its legacy, its secrets.   


 

Autumn

My thanks again to Corey Cook, who took 3 of my poems to publish in Red Eft Review. Here’s the second one.

Autumn

Sugar maples are the first to turn,
mottled orange and scarlet with the green,
trying on the season. I need a sweater
now for morning walks.

The geese abandon summer ponds
in keening, migrant skeins to follow
shorelines south.

In twilight, remnant fireflies
glint urgent calls to mate, hopeful,
as we are, for one last tryst
before winter.

Ode to my Purse

My thanks to Corey Cook, editor at Red Eft Review for publishing this poem.

The one that’s 10 years old —
its leather soiled and supple,
lining grayed by a thousand
ins and outs of billfolds, keys,
candy. The purse fits me,
softening with use, sagging
into the middle of itself, scarred
by day to day, but refusing
to concede to age, zippers
still meshing, handle still
carrying its weight, stitching
still strong.

Interview & Review in Quill and Parchment

Gotta crow!!

Quill and Parchment has published a review of my collection Today and Other Seasons and an interview in their November issue. My thanks to editor Neil Leadbetter for this honor. Here are the links.

For the review: http://quillandparchment.com/archives/Nov2023/book3.html

For the interview: http://quillandparchment.com/archives/Nov2023/inten.html

Please Come In

The second of three poems published by Verse-Virtual.


I see you so seldom now,
after the move, covid,
different mates and politics.
We’re like Frost’s two paths,
decided on luck, fate,
promises we kept.
How are you, my friend?
Do we know each other now,
or just times past, shared
when we were young?
Sit down. Have some tea
and the cookies you taught me
to make that afternoon in August.

Leavings

My poem “Leavings” was just published by Silver Birch Press. I’ll post the poem here, as well as a link to the Silver Birch site. On the site, I tell a little bit about writing the poem.

Leavings

Leavings are untidy. Remembering
what you want to say as the car pulls away,
or the cell phone drops into your purse,
restraint in an embrace, the casual

see ya, when you ache for more.
There was that time my mother died—
a stiff, proud woman who did not touch.
She lay in bed, while her brothers and I

hovered. We asked if she needed a blanket,
if she wanted music, if she were hungry,
thirsty. At each offering, she jerked her head
from side to side, tight-lipped, angry.

Then the young, Hispanic hospice aide reached
out and took her hand. She knew what leavings
needed, what my mother couldn’t bring herself
to ask for, what we didn’t understand to give.

My mother sighed and held that gentle,
reassuring hand. The aide leaned in, caressed
a wisp of hair on her forehead. My mother smiled,
and took her last breaths.

Yokogami Yaburi

This poem just won a “Poem of Merit” award in the One Sentence Poetry contest at Third Wednesday literary journal. It’s also one of the poems in my poetry collection I lost summer somewhere.

 

Yokogami-yaburi
is Japanese for tearing paper
against the grain —
like that article you want to keep
but don’t wait for scissors
and rip into the story so the gist
is lost, or being stuck at 40
in living-the-dream, left holding the bag
of groceries or laundry or dirty diapers,
so you hide your stretch marks in a one-piece,
toss your hair like Farrah, and smile at strangers
on the beach while the kids make sand castles,
or open a bottle at 10 a.m., or shop for things
you’ll hide when you get home so when he asks
in two weeks you can say, “Oh, this old thing,”
or spend the afternoon online with men
who suggest a motel tryst — men whose photos
look suspiciously like the guy on page 34 of GQ —
just to see how far you can tear against the grain
before the gist is lost.

– Sarah Russell
First published in Third Wednesday

The Fold

I’m so honored to have this poem published in Third Wednesday near one by Ted Kooser. Fine company indeed! This poem is also included in my poetry collection I lost summer somewhere.

The Fold

          “The corners of death fold us into ourselves”
– Loretta Diane Walker

Mother and I are sniping. This visit
has been that way. The farm is rundown
as she is now at 94, bent over her walker,
bare-knuckled in her independence.
She says I mumble. I say she never listens.
We know this game. I’m packing to go home,
and she calls, “Do you want breakfast?”
I mutter yes, knowing she won’t hear.
It starts again.

I’m her favorite and visit least. I’ll look back
on this weekend, feel guilt. She will win
another round. This time when we hug goodbye,
there are no tears. As I drive away I glance
back to make sure she’s in the doorway,
watching.

Sarah Russell
First published in Third Wednesday

46 Catherine St.

From my poetry collection, I lost summer somewhere.

I hid behind the spirea bushes over there, by the steps,
chewed the bitter leaves, watched old Grandma Yonkers
in her lace up shoes and cotton hose mince slow,
slow, with her squeak-wheeled shopping cart,
an hour to the store and back. She never saw me,
or at least she didn’t say. The house is run down now.
Probably was then too, but kids don’t notice shabby
when it’s theirs. Screens are rusty, porch sags,
sidewalk buckled higher from the oak. Dad said
it should come out, but it’s outlived him and will outlive
me as well. Its acorn caps made high-pitched squeals
between my thumbs I crooked just so. We’d rake
its leather leaves in piles at the curb, light fires in the twilight,
watch embers spit into the blueblack dusk,
the scent of autumn in my hair.

Sarah Russell
First published in I lost summer somewhere