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 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 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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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