Storyteller Poetry Review has just published 5 of my poems about my wonderful mother-in-law. Some have been published before; some are first-timers. My thanks to editor Sharon Knutson for this opportunity to share an extraordinary life.
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2025/05/honoring-mother-in-law-part-2.html
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.
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.
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.
Silver Birch Press published this poem today in their “Mothers” series. My thanks to Melanie, the Silver Birch Editor.
Thirteen Ways of LookIng at My Mother-in-Law
After Wallace Stevens
An Arkansas farm woman, Boby loves
Sunday drives after church to see what folks
are planting and to tidy up the family graves.
In spring, when the fields are ripe
with fresh manure, Boby takes a deep breath.
“Smells like money,” she says.
Honesty is her virtue. She told me once
“You’re not exactly what we hoped for.”
Boby has no use for corsages. “Give me
something I can put in the ground.“
She has eight flowerbeds—
lilies, gardenias, azaleas, roses.
Each granddaughter and great-grand
has a quilt pieced from a lifetime of scraps—
prints, plaids, ginghams and a bit of lace.
“They look pretty good from the road,” she says.
Her mother lived on the next farm over,
her uncles just beyond, ripples of family
for a thousand acres, bickering, loving,
gossiping, mourning.
Boby buried two husbands. The first was hers
for a quarter century. The second just four years,
“a bonus” she said after forty years a widow.
We spend fall weekends shelling wash tubs
of pecans—300 pounds some years—our fingers
raw and stained dark as the delta loam.
Always a stray underfoot—cat or mongrel dog.
They show up on her doorstep. She shrugs
and takes them in. The cats are all called Katie.
She played piano at church as the congregation
dwindled to a half-dozen stooped, gray forms.
She never cared much for the preacher.
When she turned 90, Boby announced she’d give up driving
October first. Took us awhile to figure out her birthday
was the 6th, and she knew she’d flunk the eye test.
She killed a rabid skunk in a neighbor’s driveway
with the shotgun she keeps under the bed.
“Sorry I can’t stay to visit,” she told her friend.
“I’ve got a cake in the oven.”
Now 96, she lives alone, as bent, stubborn and fragile
as wisteria, children scattered from acreage bought
a century ago. No money in farming these days.
“They’ll carry me away from here in a pine box,” she says.
First published in Third Wednesday Poetry Journal.
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.
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 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
“. . . we learned the cost of attachment.”
David Sloan, a poet from Maine, captures aging and frustration in this poem about chickens. There’s a great interview with David on The Houseboat — a blog I highly recommend, that has an eclectic assortment of artists and poets. Read the interview about his writing process here.
Some nights I feel I’ve lived too long,
when the moon’s a squint-eyed mute,
oak branches turn fish bones,
and the wind’s a whimper.
I hobble out to the shed, our old chicken
coop. How you’d loved those hens,
made the mistake of naming them —
Blackie, Maude, the rest. We never figured
out how the owl got in, but we learned
the cost of attachment. The path I cleared
through the woods is overgrown now,
so I lean against the maples in the yard.
How many more tattered moons
will seek me out? You embrace this waning,
but I can’t find a way to love the less.
You said, Yes, we lose leaves, but we gain sky.
I say, Give me back my legs. Let me
scale this tree, turn panther, pounce
on an owl under a hatching moon,
pillow the night with a fury of feathers.
– David Sloan
from his book The Irresistible In-Between
Sarah Russell Poetry 