Posts for June 1, 2026 (page 9)

In my modest, 3 bedroom childhood home,
stuffed with 2 parents and 5 children (8 year span)
where thrift was necessity,
gardening was not a priority

We thought everyone spent
family time digging nut grass
out of the lawn
(the bane of Dad’s existence)

But we did have
four prolific camellia bushes-
dark pink, light pink,
white and variegated

Original 1927 landscaping,
they hugged the house
and front steps,
revealing their bounty every Fall

Their blooms decorated
our tables,
the town’s annual Camellia Ball,
and our teachers’ desks

The biggest bush covered
a kitchen window providing 
a partial screen for  
two unexpectedlife events:

Peering through from the patio,
We watched our 5 year old brother,
chin split in our new (to us) station wagon,
get sewn up on the kitchen table
(rolled in a sheet, held down by Mom and Dad,
their doctor friend doing the sewing)

Three years later, as a nosy 16 year old,
listening at the kitchen window
in the dark, peering into the patio
I heard another doctor
(the father in lawof the kitchen table doctor)
tell Mom Dad’s brain tumor was fatal

And as our lives crumbled and
re-formed, the bushes bloomed on,
decorating our tables, teachers’ desks and the Camellia Ball,
but nut grass removal stopped.

someone left a book 
of verses 
on the train

do the words still whirl 
around in their head 

or did they wash away
like memories

in the sand 

They gather early
A street corner gang
Of creative thugs                  
Looking to pick the pockets
Of my heart

Roots offer sustenance,

Pooled rain creating a natural water bowl

For a passing visitor,

The dog bowing its furred head for communion,

Reverently sipping before being pulled along by its owner.

The trunk stands

Sturdy, Hardy, Stoic,

Supporting the boughs,

The needs of the rest of the tree,

Grounded against the storms,

The tossings and turnings of life,

Branches stretched to accommodate

Feet that are beginning to poke through worn sneakers,

Grasping hands that climb ever higher,

Reaching

Reaching

For the tippy top,

How far can the child climb?

Leafy canopy providing a natural awning

For a soul in need of shade,

A refuge of shadow,

A bulwark against parental tyranny,

A place to dream beyond the backyard,

A sanctuary

Claudia
by Marianne Peel  

She sits in the second row
at Wesley Village Nursing Home.
Huddled down in her chair,
she often nestles her head
into her son’s shoulder.   

Her eyes focused and unflinching
on the singers.  A ragtag ensemble 
in their best spring pastels
bringing music to those
who navigate the world
with walkers, wheelchairs,
three-legged sturdy canes.  

As we sing of a light over the horizon,
how wherever you go,
you  can always come home…
her face crumbles, and she begins to cry.
The music transports her someplace
far away.  Perhaps in memory.
Perhaps in longing.  Perhaps
in yearning for something
just beyond reach. Something lost.  

After the concert, I tell her
you are such a beautiful woman,
such a lovely audience for our songs.
I ask if I can thank her with a hug.
Her son gives me permission. 

Her son tells me she no longer
has words. But the music. The music
speaks to her.  Every time.  

She places her hand on my cheeks. 
Caresses my face in three-quarter time
with the palm of her hand.
I kiss her face. 
A contrapuntal gesture.   

And we share this duet                                   
over and over again.
Making harmonies
only the two of us
can hear.     

That old phrase, An embarrassment of riches, aptly describes
Most everyone I know.

Everyone I know, has a place to live.
Everyone I know, has a meal every day.
Everyone I know, has a friend or two.
Everyone I know, has too many choices.

But, not everyone I know is grateful.
Some that I know want 
    A grander place to live.
    A fancier meal.
   Even more choices.

I’m relieved they are satisfied with their friends.
I’m relieved I have more than enough.

[Poet’s note: No, I’m not a hunter. No birds were harmed, but I dearly love English setters, and Blossom was a remarkable girl, a wonderful companion who exhibited the instincts of setters.]

Blossom, my setter, takes a point
sharp as a blade
and blazes in inchoate passion — 
a thoroughbred in the starting gate.    

Doubt has no place here. 
She knows where quail hunch 
in autumn’s wheat stubble. 
Her nose, ears and flank twitch, 

register the scent of prey. 
A chilled breeze riffles
her feathered legs and tail. 
She trembles with savage restraint.   

The sharp blast of a whistle releases her.
This white-hot meteor hurls the covey skyward.

All the kids say there’s nothing
here, no future. They wait
for escape, their breath
held, muscles tense, ready
to spring like racehorses
from a gate.  

But it takes leaving to see
a place clearly,
weathering and time.
One day they’ll long for home,
find themselves missing
the way marram grass pokes
straight up through sand,
the scorch of a bare foot
descending a dune.

Maybe they’ll want for the dark
waves churning
jagged shards of glass
in the surf, broken bits
bound to return, washed
ashore once again, this time,
with all their edges smooth.

The day is almost over, 
almost time to call it quits.
I look back at the last 10 hours
and it feels like I haven’t done $h!t.

I know I’ve been working
because the pulse in my brain is strong
I pray it’s because I worked hard today
and not because something is wrong,

I have 2 hrs left to work
and those 2 hrs feel like a second day
I would quit this job, not really
because I have hella bills to pay.

I have no savings
not even a hundred dollars,
I can’t afford to get my cat’s nails trimmed
each time she touches me, I hollar.

Not just because it hurts me,
I know she’s uncomfortable too
I’m so stressed out right now
that my brain is now bruised.

I don’t really have time to write this poem,
I’m stealing hours from my working time,
It’s been a challenge for me,
but it will be submitted on time.

Enough about me 
and how I’m feeling right now,
I’m complaining like an infant,
no, more like a spoiled child.

Inheritance  

A fork, a scoop, a garlic press
are all that may be left of your inheritance 
when all is said and done,
or not said and not done,
because no one can tell what might be left,
as noted by the garlic press.  

I bequeath unto you, my only son,
this long-handled fork,
with its red and cream plastic handle
(although the cream may have been white once,
before me, before you), its value
passed down by the hands that held it,
that poked and prodded to lift
that steak, porkchop, turkey, ham—my mother’s hand,
then mine, now yours, three generations
of forking things over a safe distance from the heat.
I bequeath unto you this long-handled fork, unless,
like the press, it gives up the ghost
before I become one.  

Furthermore,
I bequeath unto you this scoop
with the smiling cow handle, a gift
from my brother, your uncle, commemorating the time
he and I spent two hours in a cow field,
and grew to love these beautiful creatures
as we came to know each one personally. And so,
I hereby bequeath unto you this scoop
from my brother’s hand to mine to yours,
for your scooping pleasure. Just remember
where that creamy, cold joy comes from,
which after all, was the subject of the film
my brother and I were hired to make,
in case you were wondering.  

And then there’s the garlic press, she sighs.  

An elegantly simple, gray metal structure,
forged like iron, tough as steel—pressing, pressing,
clove after clove, year after year, cutting through
those thick husks, squeezing, squeezing that luscious,
pungent goodness into sizzling hot skillets of oil.
How many meals have been flavored thusly?
How many moments of our family’s breath
deliciously tainted? How many lovers turned away
by my mother’s garlic dip? Now that’s a legacy!
Sadly, one you will never know, unless
you count the metaphor of giving your all,
to press out just a little more, because it takes effort
to press something to the end—like here, like now—
even when you break.