In the Light

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

she stands
against the window
the sun making
a halo of her hair
white bronze
fizzing yellow

her head
on fire

A SOUND OF SUMMER

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

the pileated woodpecker
hammers his summer song
to a hunting beat
undetered by rain or wind

I listen and watch
as ants and insects
disappear to his rhythm

claws fixed in bark
black feathers sleek
arrogant crest nodding
to the throb of his beak

THE SKIPPING

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

ripples move out
and on to an edge
where they curtsey
politely swing skirts
and subside
into sand

‘like this’ he says
as the stone leaves
snapping fingers
‘like that’ as the stone
touches touches again
eight nine times
until it slips
into a wave and ripples
spread

Across the Bay

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

I park
on the bank
just above high-tide

a gust of gulls
takes off low and fast
in a flash of white

followed by
an arrow of ducks
over the gleaming bay

I long
for a camera
but my eyes hold the image

swift against
the ridge of cloud
and rise of islands

JAZZ VESPERS

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

the sax pulls me
through blades of light
over the horizon

piano and bass
lift scarlet and orange
into storm clouds

and the sun dies
in the fading riff
of my quiet day

Always a First Time

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

two oysters
dark slithery large
on rye

chew one
tough
sticks
to teeth

suck it off
swallow

ditto second

two hours later
repeating taste
again

The Way to You

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

if I had walked away
you with your back
turned to me

I would not have seen
your eyes
smiling into mine

I would not have heard
your chuckle
rippling with mine

but I stayed
for dinner

Unexpected

A poem by Joanna M. Weston

silence broken
by the ringing phone

he’’ll be home
for dinner

close my book
tidy the disarray

of a weekend on my own
think of recipes

On the Bus

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

the smell of hot dirt
brought in with shoes
overlaid by cigarette butts
half-handled candy
stale under-arms
hair-spray
after-shave
exhaust fumes

the flurry of heat
as the door opens
on the pungent aroma
from the bakery opposite

How Talk to the Rain

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

do I rant of goldenrod and roses
broken by thunderous clouds?
and will rain answer with whispers
dripped from bare twigs?

rather I bend into a shout of wind
catch the sting of words on my skin
run for the shelter of a wall

where I murmur to a coming shower
of green and rising flowers
that know the urgency of April
and the weep of winter’s end.

The Stone Church

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

stands on a misted hill
under lowering clouds upheld
by evergreens

an elderly priest built it
by selling butter from his own cow

now the church faces a metallic bay
and frowns behind a poster
for the local craft fair

rain darkens the parking lot