Tag Archives: womenpoets

Monica Devine’s Poetry and Pictures

The Ancestress

I am an old woman sitting on the beach
pink scarf   holding back   windblown hair

a mother makes bird calls
to her children playing

they come running whistling   a secret code
huh.  a family of birds
beating wings   forever young.

growing up was a long paddle then
slicing the wind   feeling the board   slip
out from under you

fallingdown, standing up

falling down, standingup

wave riders make their own delight
like babies   learning   to walk.

the sea pitches windflower caps
in harmony with   ringing sand    underfoot

you hear the possibility of
pure clarity, good health

though season’s children don’t recognize
these   sad    retreats.

water builds and fills your ears

for you are now    swimming  with the ancients

glancing back
from time to time   you preen
to shore up morale?

 

I am an old woman sitting
on the beach
pink scarf     holding back windblown hair

I’ll sleep high in a monkey pod tree tonight

legs dangling in silk trousers,
butter cookies in a tin under my arm

dreaming of the young long boarder on her knees

paddling smooth strokes & with
fluid grace punching through

the    wild surf  of her youth.

MONICA DEVINE
Writer, Photographer, Nature Lover
What keeps me afloat: Exploring art, playing music, living in the mountains, wandering (following the trail ahead), wondering (looking up at the stars)…and writing it all down to share here, with you. I write poetry, children’s books, fiction, memoir, and non-fiction, because, we are so much more than muscle and bone: We Are Made of Our Stories.
I consistently wander off the beaten path, and I GO NOWHERE WITHOUT MY CAMERA
All photos and entries are copyrighted by author and cannot be used without permission

Druid Hill Drive by Terri Kirby Erickson

Terri Kirby Erickson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Terri Kirby Erickson recently posted 5/28/58 on Oops50.  We now share a poem she wrote…enjoy!

Druid Hill Drive

©2009 Terri Kirby Erickson

(Except from Telling Tales

of Dusk, Press 53)

 

On Druid Hill Drive,

we were laughing, wiggling

flashes

of mismatched clothes

 

and spindly limbs,

who spun our parents

 

in circles as we dashed

in and out of assorted kitchens,

the sound of banging

screen doors loud

 

as cannon fire, family dogs

barking like mad

 

from the porch.  With bikes

to ride and trees

to climb, forts to build

and bugs

 

to catch, there were

barely enough hours

 

in the day for all the things

we wanted to do before

bedtime, when sleep

 

grabbed us like an undertow,

dragging tired children

 

to their weary rest

and back again,

for another round

of summer.