Tag: poetry

Butterfly

Sarah Russell11 Comments

My poem “Butterfly” was posted today by Silver Birch Press in their “Bugs and Insects” series. My thanks to Melanie, the editor of Silver Birch. The poem was first published in the anthology Is It Hot in Here or Is It Just Me.

Butterfly

A yellow butterfly floats above the dandelions
and bindweed.

I bought this rundown place unseen—
transplanted my roots to unfamiliar soil
closer to children and grandchildren.

I breakfast on the derelict patio before the sun
rises through the trees to scald the day.
The yard needs a gardener’s hand. “Next summer
after I get settled,” I promise, aware I am speaking
aloud to the butterfly, my visitor most mornings.

She must be female, I think, with the care she takes
of her lovely black accessories against the yellow
of her wings, the jaunty matching spots of makeup
above her eyes, the tilt of her feathery antennae.

I’ve never seen her land, always moving as I do
from painting rooms and finding flooring
to battling sugar ants who found the kitchen
years ago and like it there. She is a friend in this city
where my children move at a tempo not my own.

The butterfly’s time is short, as mine will be—
just enough to make this last place home
until the day when decisions are made for me.
I’ve promised not to fuss when that day comes.
For now, with the butterfly, I’ll follow the breeze,
feel sunlight and dew, live free.

My thanks to Rose Mary Boehm

Sarah Russell11 Comments

Way back in 2014, when I was just starting to write poetry again and had never been published, Rose Mary Boehm approached me and said she would like ten (10!) of my poems to publish on her blog. I didn’t know what poems of mine were good or bad, so I sent her 20 and told her to pick. She gave me confidence and my start, and I’ve never looked back. I hope other poets out there will find an angel to guide their first efforts.

Recently, she republished my poems, so here’s the link. Thanks, Rose, for believing in me.

https://houseboathouse.blogspot.com/2014/01/featured-poet-no-22-sarah-russell.html?q=sarah+russell

My Mother-in-Law Boby Clariana

Sarah Russell14 Comments

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

Confession

Sarah Russell6 Comments

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.

Bird Woman

Sarah Russell3 Comments

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

Sarah Russell4 Comments

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

Sarah Russell1 Comment

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

Sarah Russell5 Comments

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

Sarah Russell8 Comments

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.  

Hair

Sarah Russell9 Comments

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.