Silent, the pond frogs and crickets,
the moonlit rails of Illinois Central
stretching south toward New Orleans,
the hens nested in Joe's back yard,
his one cocky rooster.

While heavy eyes still flicker dreams,
I waken to a circadian rhythm
that beckons the Main Street baker
to knead fresh loaves; delivery boys
to toss the daily in darkness.

I lie open-eyed, listen for the yellow stylus
of skinny legs to scratch
four-toe warnings around a hen house;
the labor of his frantic wings to heft
plumed weight to fence-post advantage.

Rooster, throw back
your red-crowned head
and call the sun!
I'm waiting for your song
to bring me dawn.


(From Aligned with the Sky)

On the table lies a battered suitcase
filled with remnants of a time gone by
some long forgotten
some still remembered
pieces of our pas
ancestors we wish we had known
loved ones we still grieve
vestiges of lives and loves
Now scattered across the table
piles of photographs pass
from sister to sister, each of us
finding the remnants we need to keep
and hopefully breathe life into
for generations not yet born
a patchwork to be made from remnants
saved in Mother's battered suitcase.


(From Sherri with an I)

Trees line the highway
Spectral silhouettes against the blue-black sky
Soldiers of childhood, endless dreams
Guarding their posts here, in the birth of night

Worlds of thought awaken inside of me
Abandoned places,
Brown patches of field roll by
Inviting my imagination to come out and wander

My eyes scan the miles of industry
And I dream of when my time there will come, too
When my great wheels will begin to turn
My smokestack begin to smoke

(Previously published in Highland Park
Poetry Winter Muses' Gallery, 2018)

Please take your metaphor
Like Edwin Starr asked
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing!
Take your hook in hand
And please get off this land
Take your numerous bee stings
Take your tired mantra
Because your words don't carry weight
Like Frank Sinatra!
You may see us as paupers
But who are you, Cindy Lauper?
No woman or man gets to have fun at our
Expense,
I wouldn't even liken you to Bruce Willis
Because you don't even possess a Sixth Sense...
Candy Man...
All you have is a sense of foreboding and doom,
And 2 sequels that loom...
Over my old neighborhood of Cabrini Green.
So again, I ask you Candy Man to take your
Metaphor...
Like Edwin Starr said
What is it good for?
Absolutely Nothing!
Please take your hook in hand, mantra and multiple bee stings
Then go somewhere else and on to other things.
I see the last time you got help from Jordan Peele,
But heck even with him at the helm you lack skill.

If you held Natalie
You would know of her rings
And ringers that you saw by
Peeping through her keyhole.

If you held Natalie's hand
You would know about her
Fingers and short bit nails,
And short nailed bites.

If you held Natalie's note
You'd understand the coyotes
on wintery nights and sigh.
The feelings behind her.

If you held Natalie's sentence
Longer than her note you'd know
About her life pebbled in indecision,
Requisition, and ablation.

Winter lies in the
icy dewy drop 
across the white blanket
under the snow sheet
of a display flourish
cover in tranquil
A landscape transform
into a somber view
of the frosted slide
skeletal branch
alone in the decay form
by the thick white layer
of the cold scenery
with frozen beauty 
lay into a slumber
in the deep thought
of silent calmness
by the melancholy memory
fill the loneliness 
with emptiness promise 

Top of the mountain,
reaching out to touch
the clouds
so close they could
be in your pocket,
so cold up high,
the view down to 
Cape Town below
showing tiny wonders,
little buildings and cars,
like a child's set of toys,
the sun shining clean	
and bright,
the rocks full of puddles,
the curving paths 
pulling voyagers on
twists and turns for
pictures or quiet
moments of contemplation,
the mug of hot tea in the café
offering welcome warmth
as the sun dances down the cliffs
to the rippling ocean below.

I seek respite after completing chores
straining my old muscles. 
I sit, watch black sky from the picture window. 
My thoughts turn to varied images of seasons past.

In spring, lilac breeze cradles the porch swing.
My flautist-neighbor in his red dahlia garden
plays a slow jazz tune in mid-summer.
Trickles of water gleam from Dad's dull spigot
in morning sun.

Yellow-breasted meadowlark sings of autumn 
from a farm fence post.
Bald eagle tilts onto an amber field.
Leafy river meanders through woods. 

Winter rain puddles on the porch
of a friend's tattered prairie house.
Photographing the deserted gray ocean, 
driftwood navigates rocks.
Over mountain peaks, winds carry clouds in purple sunset.

I drift into sleep in a thrift shop armchair . . .

Waking at dawn to a routine day in my waning years,
I resolve to open my senses to peace.

Deadheading the isolation,
              he told me, that was the way.
Good back-yard conversations
              made friendships for years to come.
Now his garden in weeds,
              no new neighbors to chat with.

Across the old concrete street
is an old birch tree,
peeling white bark, a strip a day,
while leaning toward Cheyenne,
whispering now...go now...
while time is still on your side.

Denver-eyes, Reno lips, L.A. smile,
dimples from some long ago relative,
and untamed hair, today in stripes.

Moon enters through windows,
getting ready to mark,
on old cotton sheets,
their bodies with yesterday's wine.

Broken dreams know better,
tiptoe out, to return
another day, another time,
another hope...

After the winter with its snow
a spring vacation did we plan.
We trace our trip on several maps
and imagine the scenic drive.

Our destination? Florida,
where palm trees by Gulf breezes blow.
Like the pelican and his friends,
for a seafood diet we will strive.

Our schedule will include some naps
and walks upon the sandy shore.
Our stresses gone, we will relax.
We count the days till we arrive.

We pack our shorts, can't wait to go.
Grab sunscreen and our favorite caps.

Moon craters pucker like lips to kiss
then smile as passing clouds
paint their mustache disguise.

Woodland sounds surround like an embrace,
settle a soft farewell
to summer's buzzing mirth.

Refreshing sweetness of air tickles
laughing leaves loose to fly,
bless the soil where they fall.

A cyclical curtain slides, rain comes,
chases warm memories
onto wet eyelashes.

We seek pleasure in having winter's frost gone,
buried, until next January's season. Now
in search for greenery that April showers us with
there's an undercurrent of something new,
something not yet discovered.

Ready to be objects 
for adventure, warmth and fun
and breathe in the flowery scent of jasmine,
this excitement of the unknown
lures us closer into April's mystery.

We're all Aphrodites. 
Just waiting to delight
in temptation.