An ekphrastic poem

Kutenai Duck Hunter, 1910, photograph by Edward Curtis

The century-old sepia photograph
drew me in —
a young Kutenai
in his painted elk skin canoe,
poised in the autumn dawn,
cradled in the body
of the long ribbon lake.

Among the dark reeds,
his back to us, he blends
into the shadowed mist;
a hunter motionless, fixed,
waiting for his prey.

In the distance, unaware
of his focused gaze,
the green-wing teals
are busy preening and feeding,
before the rising sun
lights their jeweled crowns.

He sings to their spirits,
asking for a sacrifice --
a whispered song, a siren song,
soothing and soft,
like the slight breeze
ruffling delicate feathers…


A journey

Photo by Renee Fisher on Unsplash

In December’s solitude,
The winter sun,
brief yet blazing
in a breathtaking blue sky,
sends me an invitation
to the white dream
outside my door.

Amid glistening cedars,
skates laced,
I am a lone dancer
in a winter ballet,
spinning and gliding
across a crystalline stage.

Dogfish dream
of warmer waters
beneath translucent sheaths;
the faded ribbon grass,
anchored and still
in the dense mud,
softly whispers:

do you remember?
Yes, I answer —

There was a time
I was pulled under
to the shadowy deep,
not knowing
how to surface,
to break free
from the deadening cold;
to breathe again…


A memory

photo by Valmir Dzivielevski Junior on Unsplash

Dawn broke
over the top of the hill,
revealing spring warblers
flitting among
the high branches.

We heard the horses just then —
bursting forth from the barn,
racing toward the gate,
toward freedom.

And I began to see the signs
in you that year —
your desire to be free,
to leave me — our life — our future.

Was my love too fierce?
Was yours too tame?
I know one thing for sure,
my love never wavered —

I would have walked
through fire for you.

Thank you for reading!


A free verse poem about forgiveness

The poet as a young girl

I kept the black and white photograph —
the sun was shining,
you in your bathing suit,
sitting on a blanket of summer grass,
holding three year old me —
I’m leaning away from you,
my face filled with distress,
my arms reaching for anyone but you.

the body speaks volumes

On every birthday I remember,
you told the story
of how you saved my life
when I was born.
In those moments, you smiled,
your face beaming
like the brightest of stars,
proud of having made me,
having saved me,
yet, I felt the shadow
of unspoken expectations.

I…


A soulmate is not what you might think —

Photo by Branimir Balogović on Unsplash

Sometimes,
I felt you moving away from me
in small ways — 
words not spoken,
feelings unarticulated,
spontaneity unexpressed,
trust not given.

Sometimes,
I felt you close
when unexpectedly
you touched my cheek
and said, I love you —
the distance breached.

Little did I know when
you came into my life
you would be the catalyst
for expanding my soul,
shaking me up and
turning me inside out —

In the midst of it all
I was awakened,
redefined in ways
I could not have imagined
until years later.

I read somewhere that
a true soulmate is not
someone who…


IN RESPONSE TO LI’S PROMPT-HIRAETH

A poem about long ago lost love

Eddie Fouse for Public Domain Pictures

Do you remember
the Luna moth cocoon
we found one sultry morning
near Yellow Spring?
A lowly caterpillar
in a snug, silky wrap
on its way to transforming
into an exquisite, luminous moth.

And so it is with love,
our hope that it will transform us.
Sometimes I could see beyond
the misunderstandings
and the mundane day to day,
the tender child,
with a sensitive soul,
shamed for your gentleness —

I wanted to heal your wounds,
to wrap my heart around you,
to make you whole,
like the Luna moth
emerging strong and ready
to meet its destiny —
if only
you had believed…


A micro poem

Photo by Bre Smith on Unsplash

your hearts given to the sea
as swallows glide low over marsh-land—
I say my final good-bye

Today I scattered the ashes of my parents in the English Marsh, a very special place for me, near my home in New England.


A poem about endings and beginnings

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

I remember that last day
in late July —
you on your scooter
and me on my tricycle.
You were ten
and I was nearly six —

The sun was descending slowly,
shadows falling fast —
we roamed our neighborhood
consuming every detail,
breathing in familiar scenes,
pressing them tight into memory
so we would not forget.

After years of living like refugees
in countless rented rooms,
never belonging any place for long,
our parents moving us
to wherever work could be found,
my father’s wish finally came true.

We were leaving our country,
our life, for something better,
somewhere far away.
Papa…


A Tanka Poem

Photo by N Schieron

shy blue-winged warblers
flitting through sunlit branches
I am left behind
remembering your blue eyes —
the intensity of loss

Nanette Schieron

naturalist, gardener, lover of beauty and truth , trying my hand at poetry.

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