Barefoot With Shoes

I’ve been scanning old (hard-copy) writings of mine from non-compatible computer files and whatnot.  In so doing, I came across a poem I wrote about summer and childhood and what we lose as we grow.  Perhaps because I so long for summer this year, perhaps because in my (biased) opinion, it’s pretty darned good for a maiden effort at poetry, here it is for you:

English: A depiction of the natural dry terrai...

Greeley, Colorado, my childhood home. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Barefoot With Shoes

Dirt Road

Nubbled, sharp, squishy
Powder dust between the toes
Walk along, little girl

There now — the road turns
Dust-sifted corn leads left-handed
Noon-time summer smells
Dry, salt-sweat, must, sun



Sweet, heavy honeysuckle
Hot rubber
Baked steel


The stretched snap of the screen door
The slow creak of the tire swing
The lazy cackle of the Rhode Island hen

A dog barks into a whiteyellow blaze of sun

Stop then
Change dust footing
For prickly grass, sudden shade

A breeze lifts the hair
And chills the sweat

Now —

A meadowlark
And a tightness in the throat

So much to feel, smell, hear


–Don’t forget–


Reach the hot green apple
Let the tart juices
Sharpen dirt-dulled mouth


Summer that never was

I see it so clear

Smell it
Hear it
Taste it
Feel it so clear

I could walk barefoot into it



Walk out of here into there
Walk out of now into then

Barefoot, chewing a green stalk of wheat


I am so grown now

No matter how I walk
I am still here

Still now

No matter how I walk
I am not there

Not then

Oh summer
Summer that never was

Even barefoot
I still wear shoes


Apple Tree

Apple Tree (Photo credit: Rovanto)

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A Small Poem Written Late Last Night


Cat (Photo credit: sylvia@intrigue)


What do they think of us?
These small beasts who look at us
Out of such containment,
Who love us so inexplicably?

When we pick them up,
Do they think it is alike unto
Their play with a mouse?

Are we their sisters and brothers
That they curl up
In the bend of our knees and purr?

Do they feel our hands stroking
As they do the grooming of their mothers?

Do they groom us
Because to them we are their kittens?

They are small so they sleep lightly,
Lest danger threaten.
But they trust us and let sleep overtake them.

That trust is enchanting.
Reassuring. We are indeed gods.
Their contained love is all in all.

We are not gods, we are monsters.
They should not love us.

But they do.

A Winter Poem

Duggleby in the Winter

Image via Wikipedia


Snow has a smell.  Cold, clear, clean.

Snow has a sound.  Deep, dragging crunch.

Snow has a touch.  Shocking, dry then wet.

Snow has a look.  White, thick, surgical.

Snow has a taste.  Chew, melt, refresh.

Snow has a feeling.  Rest, slow, sleep.

Snow has a purpose.  Softening, hiding, scrubbing.