Catching up!

Today I realized I’d forgotten to post a number of poems published this year (2020), so here they are. I hope you enjoy reading them.

 

 

Ribbons 16:2 (spring 2020)

icebergs drift and melt
and furious fires rage
will this earth dissolve
into rivulets
of decisions poorly made?

 

~

 

Frameless Sky, Issue 12, 2020

 

soft ripe plums
sitting on the sideboard ~
wouldn’t it lovely
to know you’re
so desired

 

 

Presence 66

tiny fledglings
with wings outstretched
take that first leap—
how old were we
when doubt began

                             ~

 

wind spilling
from copper rain bells
unbroken drought

 

                        ~

impossible
to count them
fireflies 

 

 

Little frog faces (tanka/kyoka)

 

One of two tanka appearing Eucalypt: A Tanka Journal, Issue 28, 2020

 

in the attic I find
your small Wellies                            
with little frog faces—
oh, those happy puddles
when you were only three

 

 

Note: We lived near Hampstead Heath in NW London for a full academic year, 1989-90, with our (then) three year old son, Adam. Oh, how he loved rain puddles and stomping in them in his little green Wellies. Getting exercise each day was never a problem with a child who loved the outdoors no matter what the weather. This poem is for him.

 

 

Half-light (a tanka sequence)

Milkweed by James DeMers (pixabay.com)

These tanka were written during the quarantine of Covid-19. My thanks to editor/poet, Marilyn Hazelton, for persuading me to combine some tanka into a tanka sequence.  A really good editor is priceless. It’s always an honor to have poems included in Redlights. Click on the link below if you care to hear me read it.

 

 

 

 

Half-light

 

August morning
just before the katydids
begin to sing . . .
the lake finally calm
with no ripples

 

milkweed seeds
scatter straight from
the cottony pod ~
such freedom to go
anywhere, everywhere

 

a spoon slowly stirs
cream into coffee
those quiet moments
when we lose
all sense of now

 

arm in arm
we walk together –
forty years & more miles
than either of us
can count

 

half-light—
walking in fog
where nothing is seen
but somehow we trust
it’s still all there

 

 

Red Lights, Summer Issue 2020

 

 

Chokecherry

 

 

the slow hiss
and sudden pop
of a pinecone in fire—
admitting the mistake
is a first step

 

*

 

had you lived
we’d almost be twins,
two sisters
so close in time
we nearly touched

 

*

 

this urge
to turn and walk away
     chokecherry

 

 

Mary Kendall (c) 2020

Kokako 32, 2020, a journal of the New Zealand Poetry Society
My thanks to the editors of Kokako for publishing all three poems.

 

 

Green . . . (Synesthesia in haiku)

Synesthesia in haiku ~

 

This haiku was recently published in Hedgerow, a journal of small poems ~ #130, Winter 2020

 

 

spring…
hearing green
and only green

 

 

 

 

 

 Haru = Spring