My new chapbook is now available from Amazon and through Kelsay Books. I’m over the moon!
Emergence
Bird Woman
A second poem published in Red Eft Review.
Bird Woman
Nearing the shore at twilight,
she drifts in the wind’s current.
The lagoon below is still
as held breath.
Her eyes skirt the trees,
the marshy undergrowth
for a safe settling.
She tires easily now,
seeks sheltered landings
on timeworn wings,
her flight nearing
an unfamiliar shore
that beckons
with no promises.
Cherokee Purples
My poem “Cherokee Purples” was just published by Red Eft Review. My thanks to editor Corey Cook.
…
Cherokee Purples
There’s melancholy in picking
the last of these heirlooms
before first frost. The May potential
of seedlings. Yellow blossoms,
then tiny green fruits, hard as marbles,
in July. Deep red beauties, bending stalks
under their weight, radiant and tender
to the touch in August and September,
harvested in threes and fours, starring
in salads, roasted with garlic, eaten
like apples. This small bounty—triumph
of urban farmers who nurture, stake,
feed, and brag about their crop
outgrowing cages to sprawl
across the neighbor’s fence. Oh, the pride
in sharing one or two with friends
who didn’t grow their own this year.
And finally in October, the wistful goodbye
to a generous friend whose final gifts
grace a windowsill to ripen, seeds salvaged
for spring planting.
End of Autumn
The third poem published this week by Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
End of Autumn
The small purple asters,
still blooming,
bow their heads to late October winds.
I sit against the old oak. Its leather leaves
crackle, gossiping about the coming snow.
Passersby are zipping jackets, pulling hoodies
tight to cover ears. Though robins have headed
south, nuthatches and chickadees linger at the feeder,
even when yearling squirrels shimmy up to fill
their cheeks and race off toward the pine. Shadows
are long by four. I’m glad for stew simmering
in the crockpot and logs stacked for a fire this evening.
I rise and find a new ache in my bones. The walk home
feels lonely. My younger days have faded like summer
warmth, and the ancient north wind beckons.
Change of Seasons
The second of my poems published by Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
Change of Seasons
Summer turns sullen in August,
stubborn with laggard heat,
even as the maples start to blush
and geese grow restless, taking great,
noisy practice turns from pond to field.
Castanets of crickets fill the night,
and fireflies blink farewell. I gather
the zealous bounty of zucchini
and tomatoes, find caterpillars
living large on my prized basil.
Come evening, after the stagnant
midday, I feel the first cool breeze
of autumn. I breathe it in like a traveller
at the gate, asking for a drink from the well.
Breakfast with Squirrels
So fortunate to have 3 poems published this morning by Lothlorien Poetry Journal. My thanks to editor Strider Marcus Jones for the acceptance. Here’s the first one.
Breakfast with Squirrels
I take my coffee out back to drink in the cool
before another sun-seared day. Hummingbirds
keep me company, hovering between penstemon
and hyssop, buzzing my yellow cup before drinking
long at the honeysuckle. Dragonflies duel above
the pond, vying to rule this spring-fed kingdom.
Oh yes, the squirrels . . .
who peer at me from fence posts, sharp black eyes
and chatter, asking for breakfast. I toss some peanuts
into the flowers, and they are down in seconds, quarreling
over the best spots under draping plume grass or near
the daisies and lupine. They look like they’re saying grace
in a tiny sanctuary, perched on their haunches, tails
curled like a monk’s cowl, peanuts held in their paws
as a supplication to this summer morning.
Someone Else’s Memory
My poem “Someone Else’s Memory” was published today at Writing in a Woman’s Voice. My thanks to editor Beate Sigriddaughter.
Pat and I sit drinking cocoa
on a snow-clad December day.
Remember that Christmas Eve,
she says, when we were young
and went caroling with my cousins?
I gave you my blue stocking cap
you wound round and round
your neck to stay warm.
And in a rush, I remember the night,
the carols, that Bill sang loud
and out of tune, my new, not-warm-
enough red coat, and her cap
I found years later in a crushed box
on the closet floor, dirty from muddy boots
and dust, wondered who it belonged to,
how it wound up there—the cap I washed
and reached out the car window to give
to a homeless man, how he thanked me
and put it on, wrapping it round and round
his neck, grinning through broken teeth.
Hair
A second poem published today by Writing in a Woman’s Voice.
Hair
1
It’s a woman’s crowning glory, Mother said,
and she brushed my hair a hundred strokes
at night, rolled it in rags so my long curls
would bounce below the barrettes, wound them
around her finger each morning. She pulled
so hard my eyes watered. I hacked each curl
off with kitchen shears when I turned twelve.
2
“Don’t ever cut it,” he said, and his hands
were tender beside my face, then drifted
through, beyond. Mother’s mantra
became my own. I brushed until it gleamed.
Once he washed it for me like men do
in Hallmark films. His fingers tangled,
but I didn’t cry since women never cry
in scenes like that.
3
The doctor said it would fall out, but the clumps
in the shower drain startled me. I went to a salon
and told the girl to cut it off, right down
to the scalp. She cried and I cried and she wouldn’t
let me pay.
What I Picked for the Journey
My poem “What I Picked for the Journey” was published today by the wonderful Writing in a Woman’s Voice. My thanks to editor Beate Sigriddaughter.
What I Picked for the Journey
A strong walking stick that fits my grasp.
Oatmeal raisin cookies.
A few favorite poems.
A heart-shaped pebble for my pocket.
I’ll leave on a day that promises sun
and breeze and animal-shaped clouds.
I’ll find wild blueberries and spring water
pure as a child’s wonder.
I’ll pass the hours remembering
forsythia in April, the softness
of a baby’s skin, campfires, the smell
of bread fresh from the oven. I’ll sleep
where the milky way tumbles
through the night sky and trees whisper
to the wind.
Sharing October
The 2nd of my poems in Verse-Virtual. Appropriate, I think, on this first day of October.
The autumn rain last night
left the earth boggy, trees dripping,
sky fog-murky and chill. My dog
doesn’t brood over this. He sets off,
grass wet beneath his paws,
the scents of animals and earth
glorified. I watch him following
the zigzag of a rabbit’s trail
until he loses it, circles back, nose eager,
tracing it again. We’ve shared twelve years
of walks together, sniffing for rabbits,
chasing squirrels. He is faster than I am,
more earnest and wise, certain
of the people and things he loves.
Now he races back where I’ve lingered,
ankle deep in this poem, telling me it’s time
to move on, to celebrate his lovely morning
of rabbits and mist.
Sarah Russell Poetry 