The following is a list poem. A list poem contains repetition, evokes a feeling about a time, place or thing, and has a larger meaning other than the list itself. What feelings does this list poem create for you personally or your understanding of the feeling generated?

All the thoughts

            All the feelings

                        All the struggles

                       All the peace…

Our fathers, uncles, neighbors
Left for warships, battlefields,
Warplanes, field hospitals.
Blood, brains, and bones spewed
On deck, on meadows,
Fighting for democracy
Sacrificing lives, limbs,
Peace of mind.
But this is not about the election.

Riding tricycles on the packed dirt
In the wide driveway in front of the barn,
We acted out stories of handsome princes and
Beautiful princesses escaping monsters and
Their fathers.
An old white lace curtain, attached with bobby pins,
Trailing down my middle cousin’s long brown hair
Was the bridal veil for the “princess”
As she perched on the tricycle “marrying” my brother,
Her “prince.”

At the end of an email message
the question came:
What does it mean to be 80?
Yikes! Does she mean me?
No, it must be a rhetorical question.
I couldn’t possibly be that old.
Gone beyond senior citizen
To elderly, geriatric, an octogenarian?
Words and memories stir in my mind.

When I asked my friend Abigail Seber if she wanted to be a guest poet on my website, she was very enthusiastic. I suggested she send me a poem she had written or that she could write something new. I was surprised, pleasantly, that she decided to write a poem about me and the memoir I have written.

A woman screamed
Somewhere deep in the store
Over my left shoulder.

Everything stopped
As if turned to cement.
Frozen.

I held my breath,
Fists clenched.

I am the fire raging in Rocky Mountain National Park,

Yellowstone, and Sequoia, where our treasured giant redwoods

Now smolder in ruins while

Fire-scorched animals have nowhere to escape the

Walls of flames surrounding them.

My childhood overflowed with treasured

Memories of sounds, smells, and tastes

Bringing me back to that day, that hour,

That minute of bliss.

Thousands of years ago Cleopatra crushed beetles for a red lip potion.
Her words, coming from a red-rimmed mouth, spoke power

Suffragettes applied bold red to their lips
Symbolizing strength, daring, and grit.

My body is a stranger.
But I am determined to make it do the clamshells,
Mini-squats, glute bridges, plantar flexions, and leg raises,
So, I still can bicycle and hike in my favorite forests
And meadows filled with the perfume of wild roses,
The trill of hummingbirds, and the cool breeze on my skin.

Have you ever had a soul mate? We usually think of soul mates as people who are in romantic relationships, but there are other kinds of soul mates. Could they be sisters? Uncles? Children? Let me know if you have had similar soul mates after you read the poems about my three soul mates.

They defy our digging.
They acquire biological resistance
To annihilation by pesticides.
They rebound after amputation by steel mower blades.
They thrive in burning deserts
And pop up in mountain snowfields.

She holds the syringe above my right arm.Pink liquid glistens in the vial.“Ready?” Her quiet voice is calm.Her fingers grip a bit of my skin and muscle.“Yes,” I barely whisper, a lump in my throat,Also wanting to scream, cry, do a cartwheel. “Yes!” “Yes!”

Soon-- not having to live in fear!

She backed into my driveway,

Vaulted out of the car,

And sprinted to my porch.

Eyes open wide in black framed glasses,

Lizard green tank top, arms printed with purple tattoos.

Smokey air shrouds my mountains splendor.

Grays and Torreys peaks veiled, but hikers persevere.

Covid lurks behind hikers’ masks.

Will there be a plan? A vaccine? A million deaths?

I want to flee, to bolt, to travel back in time, or forward?

Broiling sun with muggy airFilled our limbs with torporAnd drenched our foreheads with sweat.We held thumbs over the end of the garden hoseAnd sprayed cold water over us until we squealed,But were hot again in minutes.

A raven preens its feathers,Its roost, a cottonwood with tiny new leaves.A fox hunts--arcing nose-dive for a mouse.

We try to watch, a hopeful distraction from pain,Relentless, stabbing, filling our bodies, our souls.By night the pain fills his every cell, my every pore.

The bandit springs from nowhere

Scurrying over thin deck railings with lush furry tail holding balance.

Its sleek brown pelt taut over rippling muscles

As it leaps from limb to limb to find a tasty morsel.

Anxiety is a werewolf you become.

It hides, angry, sullen, alone.

Until your teeth become its fangs ready to attack, your hair its fur, on end.

Anxiety—yourself no more, personality gone, brain lost.

Gunshots in the synagogue.Screams resound, bones shatter, blood pools, worshipers lay dead.Senseless in this holy place.Sitting ShivaWhile we argue gun control in tweets and savor our lattes.

Bombs at the marathon.Runners, bystanders maimed by ragged bits of steelLodged in bleeding legs and arms.More security, more police, more cameras fill the worldWhile we vow to conquer terrorism and Isis and nosh on lunch.