Friday, February 7, 2020


2016 ~ 2020


      Widowed, then finding renewed love.

            A move from the country deeper into

                                      the mountains.

In recent months, practice writing,

                                 practice poetry,

                                       practice painting.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Bent Mountain

            Watch them, ‘round they go.
            I straighten my legs and lean back for the ride.
                        ‘Tis always fun as they fly down the narrow road where we once walked.
                        (We ran, too, and kissed leaning against the sweetgum,
                         your burnished fingers lifting me swiftly,
                        my toes dripping clay from the creekbed.)

But, Oheka. The mountain of the Tutelo.
Full of surprises for the sojourner.
            As I said, quickly down the thin lane
            then whoosh
                                    and around
                                                            and down
                                                                                    then up again
            breaths held/breaths echoing down
                        dark green slides of pine and bear and berry.

Watch how the children laugh, eyes popping, a shine uncitylike.
Watch her grab his hand as he tightens the grip on the wheel. His neck is a vein of limestone now.
Their grey soft pup in the far back, tongue out, head back and forth as they turn
            and climb
                                    and climb again.

Off to pick apples, to taste wine, to listen to the music of those who followed us.
A melody, jarring a bit to the ears, but pleasant.
                        (Our songs were voices. You laid me gently on the yellow flowers
                         and hummed. The sun was setting over Oheka. Deer stirred,
                        turkey chased the locust. If my father heard us, he never said.
                        Your bare feet led us now. I sat on you and dreamed, head back,
                        as you whistled like the long brown bird.)

The car stops, and the woman walks over to the old cemetery. She lays a wreath for China Alice.
They move again, atop Oheka.

I take many rides. I’ve held on to wagons as they climbed the dips. I’ve seen the first autos,
mired in red mud. Frustration in bowlers, then driving out. Buses and pickups, I’ve ridden them all.
They don’t see me, of course, ‘tho sometimes it seems a little one in the back,
with pigtails as I had,
notices a change in the air,
a sense of good will,
a rope through many seasons that touches her nose to mine, unseen.

Below, the soft valley where we shared a long life.
We saw war. But we were companions and lovers/I felt your heart and you mine
through three generations then you stooped one day,
white hair still thick,
fell through the grasses.
                        I blew tiny kisses all over your quiet face, then covered you in rushes.

Now, I ride, and in my hidden pockets I carry you.
I feel you quicken as the people climb. I see you walk through fall’s orange sun as their glasses
            and their children play
                        and the woman and the man touch as we touched
                                                and fall in arms at the river
As I wait by the road for a ride back down.


                                 ~ Published in Artemis Journal 2018 ~

Thursday, January 1, 2015

A Horse Limerick

There once was a big horse named Pleasure
who decided she didn’t care for her rug
so against the fence and the pole and the barn she rubbed
all the while snorting, blinking, chewing her cud
and then flung her green coat in the mud. 

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Virginia Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Weyers Cave, Virginia, circa 1974, at the Eavey farm. My brother Billy in the front, with tawny hair, my Grandfather in the rear, with red cap, supervising. 

Monday, September 1, 2014

Deer Me

I’ve mended the white rope fences since May,
Pleasure watching, smelling of horse and mischief.
Every night after a storm, the wet rope and red clay.
Every evening when the sun is setting over Floyd ridge.
Some mornings in a rush before work,
but what horse cares for work?
Now, summer ends.
The pasture is high due to complications.
Husband builds a sturdy pine fence
as the horse watches.
The sun sets more northerly now.
And I run out after supper
To mend fences again.
Great White watches.
Someone once said that animals know more than we.
Oui, so it may be.
In the far corner yards from the big stone,
two snorts.
Two quick wisps of movement.
Two clever and young
taking off through the tall grass
winking with Pleasure.

Sunday, August 4, 2013


In summer at Weyer’s Cave, my grandmother’s garden
sifted through sunbeams in a green, fenced square beneath the screened-in porch
where in the heat of the day she would let me
sit on the cool divan and sort through the browned photographs
of my uncles, at war, thin, tan and grinning
in heated lands of lost flowers.

My grandmother’s garden had zinnias and marigolds,
blue hollyhocks, and bumblebees
amidst the cabbage, and pole beans, tomatoes.

The barn was further down the path
and further yet the little creek where my grandfather taught me to catch bream
and cook them in a skillet at breakfast with buttermilk biscuits and cow’s soft butter.
The white-washed shed held secrets of jellies, and last fall’s hams,
and a pool table.

The men we didn’t know were in the next town planning, they were, talking big,
thinking to stretch a highway and dig an airport in our Valley before another war.

But August at the farm, along the dusty lane, above the spirea,
a tomboy napped and
the sepia’d shots of brave uncles slid like dew-grass to the floor.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Hey, Sugar

Tangerine fur on Great White full of
steamed energy               
at three still young
bouncing, ready for the mocker who waits on spring,
three snowfalls in a row
with smoked mist rising
yellow rolling buses on the road beyond in slush
chilled No-Name Creek
morn of  the horse
searching the pasture
for new fescue after winter of teases, winter of curling by tall fires,
winter of silly slides down sloped ridges passing black birds
tossing sweet balls of cream’d white
to forget the chill
to seek green tips ‘mongst flakes
to think of the next, not the then, and swim in softness
through the mist.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

at the Paddock

just a piece of a poem this time, as an illustrated short story begins to take shape:

So it was on the crispest of January days, as the air left the hills for the tall blue sky                   
that the man was amidst his chores,
into the barn and out as every other day...

Till the horse reared
And slanted her puddled eyes toward the man’s distress...

Friday, January 25, 2013


snow falling
soft steps