Duck Pond


As spring comes
to warmer day,
the ducks stopover

for lunch and such.
They float and flit
atop weedy pond;

webbed feet about
paddling, wadding,
rinsing dirt and grime.

Oiled feathers dry;
flickering in marshy pond
a craze and rage is about…

Dizzy, darling ducks
dip your golden bill deep;
no quandary to solve.

Spring spins and swirls;
a frenzy, fury of such fun.
Look atop those logs…

“Please pass the frogs.”

Ahh… bird watching in days of spring. Sorry about the ending toads bloggers.

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Eagle Wings

Elderly day-sun
steps across my view
tensely obscures
my anxious joy.
Circling, circling high…
atop transparent sky,
opaque is my low stage,
solo flier in flight.
My steady pounding
heart beats, in tune,
with your massive
wings, small am I.
Soaring, soaring circles;
rings in empty sky
full of only your
white head, waltzing.
Lake flies swarm,
sociably seeking supper.
Unwavering, I study
solitary in my scrutiny.
I’ve had my evening
meal; what’s yours
keeper of the skies
wander, warden, watcher.
Eyes a flashlight
down dark tunnel;
with precision gives
a scoop and clutch.
My back twinges
from day’s activities
my dog gathering ticks
rolls on forest floor;
you high above.
Lowly I stretch,
spread my wings
to gaze, gawk, gape.
An elderly sun
settles beams behind
darken horizon;
you loop and vanish.


Island View_edited-1

Drip, drip, drip…
Tongue touching, tasting, telling
down my parched body;
dripping through my hair:
tawny, tangles, twisted,.
Wet with summer rain!
Waiting, waiting, waiting…
Dry, dusty days drawling by;
too hot, too hot!
Heat piercing living things;
pounding, pounding
to the very root of life
Splashing, splattering, spraying;
as dark clouds float by
missing my patch of earth
lusting, lingering, leaving:
weeping, weeping;
for a good summer rain.

Inspired by Goldie Grand a few years ago when we were experiencing drought in Wisconsin. She said, “I’d like to feel the rain on my tongue again, but I don’t know where my umbrella is!” Lord, please send the rain to those waiting for You to replenish the earth.

Woman of Faith


I come from women of faith
where trees sway in the breeze,
picket fences surrounding the yard;
Busha Apolonia felt secure
standing about her grandchildren.
Hand-me-downs abundant, became
the fabric of the Great Depression.
Three generations residing side-by-side
among drying laundry and newspaper
which told of the declining world.
Beatrice, granddaughter, stands
firm at Busha’s side for the future
would bond the two in many ways;
as WWII would tear families
apart… another war to face.
Perhaps, it was the difficult times
they had to endure that built strength
into their character. Both knew
how to make a three-meal chicken
to help stretch the waning food funds.
Yet, Beatrice didn’t remember being
hungry or sad during the 1920’s.
Little or nothing was how families
lived. It was a time to seek God;
to trust, to limit, to hope, to love.

I never knew my Busha Apolonia or my Grandma Rose. Only stories of them from my mother, Beatrice, could I trace my family line. These three generation of woman lived through some heart breaking times. It was their faith which shined.



Elect are the turning of the seasons;
dusk loitering long at veil of day
designed by Him, it is twilight.
Roams the brute in woodland room;
juvenile beast after night’s prey
searching for a meal from the Above.
When gather last of day, evening comes
in den, burrow, nest, or cave to slumber;
so goes man from his daily efforts.
Does he too rest in stillness from his work?
“He appointed the moon for seasons;
the sun knows its going down.
You make darkness, and it is night,
in which all the beasts of the forest creep about.
The young lions roar after their prey,
and seek their food from God.
When the sun rises, they gather together
and lie down in their dens.
Man goes out to his work
and to his labor until the evening.”

Italics lines are taken from the book of Psalm 104:19-23; most likely King David as author, written around 1500 BC. David’s Psalms have always inspired me. Written often as lyrics to music and during great times of affliction; his emotions carry though ages of time.

The Meadow

If one could capture a spring morning in words;
it would be this morning in the grassy meadow.
The coo, coo, coo of mourning doves in far distance,
the chattering of select song birds- I know not
their heritage. Sun draped across my shoulders;
cool breeze dancing through my tangled hair.
Pungent smell of last year’s meadow grass among
blades of fresh greens, new tree seeds sprouting high,
slithering snake low… sunning, sunning to keep warm,
and blue, blue sky stretched from east to west;
hopefully, will too, touch your heart on this spring morn.

Be still past late dawn…
as meadow fragrance lingers;
new spring languishes,
lengthened by longer daylight,
captured on a spring morn.


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