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
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.
Here is the second poem published by Rusty Truck.
Havana
Early morning on the wharf, sharing a thermos
with Juan Pablo. He’s brown and scuffed
as old boots, tough like that too, eyes squinted
with age and sun. He knows the ocean
like his woman’s face, reads stars, wind,
waves, like poems. He’s mending a net, hands
stiff and scarred, sorting gnarls and frays,
ash falling from a Camel held square
between his teeth. A tourist interrupts,
though no one’s talking, wants to hire
the boat to fish tarpon. Juan Pablo grunts
and nods toward a salt-soaked sign
with hourly rates. The guy says he’ll be back
with his wife and kid. Juan Pablo watches him
stride toward a hotel, New York cadence
out of step with the lap of water on pilings.
He snorts, then gathers up the net, half done,
stands with a stumble to favor his bum knee.
He jerks his head toward the seamless join
of sea and sky. C’mon, he says, taking the stub
of Camel and grinding it under his heel.
That cabrón can hire another boat.
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.
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 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.
Loose roof shingles —
a couple on the ground
after last night’s wind
when the trees creaked
and rubbed themselves
like old men. Can’t put off
the mending. I loved once,
before I knew how love
works, how roofs leak
when it rains.
– Sarah Russell
First published in Poetry Breakfast
Jimmy Pappas was instrumental in introducing me to a cadre of wonderful poets through Goodreads who commiserate, critique one another’s work, and share common goals in our writing. Jimmy is a Vietnam vet who will publish two books of poetry this year about his time in Vietnam. Jimmy told me the poem I chose to share is one of the first ones he published. You can learn more about Jimmy Pappas and his poetry here.
When it was time
to wake me up
to go fishing,
he stood at the end
of the bed and held
my foot in his hands
as if it were a piece
of crystal, the way
he must have done
when I was a baby,
but I was too tired
to wake up and
too young to understand
how much he needed
me to be his son.
– Jimmy Pappas
First published in Poetry Breakfast
Sarah Russell Poetry 