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 third poem published today by Red Eft Review. My thanks to Corey Cook for accepting all 3 recent poems that I submitted. I love this poem coming out now in late April, since I just hung out our hummingbird feeders for the summer.
This August morning
hummingbirds are at the feeder—
impossible creations dipping
into the nectar.
I wonder at their flair for flying
backwards, their nests no bigger
than a walnut shell, their weeklong
journeys on whirligig wings following
the flowers. It gives me peace,
thinking of small, irridescent lives,
momentary and breathtaking.
I love the rainy, fecund springs we had when we lived in New England. Tried to capture it in this poem published today by Red Eft Review.
It has rained for days—sometimes early fog
and a gentle mist that reminds me of the moors;
sometimes the wind and drench of squalls
from the Atlantic. Flowers love this spring,
but worms sprawl helpless on sidewalks
and die in the first patch of sun. The dog
comes home bedraggled from his walks,
happy and shaking on the stoop. I drape
my slicker over a chair with a towel beneath
to catch the drops, brew some tea, open
my journal. A perfect morning.
My thanks to Red Eft Review and editor Corey Cook for publishing my poem today.
On our evening walk we hear them
in a stand of oak and pine—the female’s
breathy notes; the male’s answer, deeper,
like tones blown across a stoneware jug.
Before their sortie over snowy fields
they whisper greetings to their mates—
an alliance voiced in shadow. Our breath
clouds in the twilight.
Just learned that my poem “Confession” (a vintage poem from 2018) was republished in Jama’s Alphabet Soup. My thanks to Jama and to Jayne Ferrer of Your Daily Poem for telling me. You just never know when something wonderful like this is going to happen, especially on a dreary March morning. Here’s the poem:
CONFESSION
There’s a spider in the bathtub.
I saw him last night, and he’s still there
this morning, though I gave him fair warning
when I brushed my teeth before bed.
I need to take a shower.
But there’s a SPIDER.
In the BATHTUB.
My Dr. Schweitzer is arguing with my Eek.
He’s small –
smaller than a shirt button –
and round and 8 legs look like 3 too many.
But he’s in the BATHTUB.
Where I SHOWER.
NAKED.
I turn on the water, and he wiggles
a couple of legs but the spray doesn’t hit him,
so I don’t get a pass from Karma.
Then my Eek takes over,
and I get a piece of toilet paper,
and he wiggles 2 legs again but doesn’t run
so my Eek doesn’t get to plead self-defense.
I try to make it painless –
a squish and done – but then I wonder
if he was just trying to say hello,
and the shower’s kind of lonely
without him in there waving at me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sarah Russell Poetry 