light house

my vision dims
first a film of misunderstood conversation
then it blinked out
like a light house flashing
warnings out to sea

I am wasting time
when there is so little left to waste
and there is a rustling in the pantry
where three blind mice live

and those oft told fairy tales
spring to life
but life does not hold many more springs
and it’s summer
and I am blinded by the light

warning me away from the rocks
and dangers on the shore

A Field Guide to Angels

A Field Guide to Angels now available from Everdale Publishing

Angel Book

I am pleased to announce my latest chapbook, A Field Guide to Angels, is here!

These poems are close to my heart – just so proud of this slim volume of 21 poems, some new, some old, some re-worked but all about those angels around us.

And I am so happy to share them with you.

The Field Guide to Angels is available at lulu.com where you can also find my other chapbooks, Penelope to Her Husband and Festival of Lessons and Carols http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/kge

I hope you will enjoy my new book and I hope you know how much I appreciate your continued support of my work.

May angels surround you always,

Kathleen Gresham Everett

blackberry winter

berries blackberries blur close up

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Dull morning light bereft of warmth
fills in the corners
between spring
and blackberry winter.

The blooms, white against cold green leaves,
bramble along the rocky path,
armored with thorns
and protected by poison ivy
just finding its vigor.

Shivering anticipations of hot summer days
purpled with jeweled fruit
left by the chortling robins
and cobblers fresh from the oven.

except to say

Its a warm day in early May and
the small dog and I are sitting in the garden
occasionally pulling a weed or two.

I will get to the violets, whom
I love,
and the vinca, which I do not.
And pull them both out with a vengeance
They each have a calling for world domination,
violets sweetly, and I will tolerate,
But vinca, aggressive and vining,
too willing to smother and cover
everything in its path,
I will not.

I have decided to live in the garden
to stay in the green and growing world
with her loamy soil and deep shadow
under the redbud and maple trees.

The maples have formed their winged
seed helicopters, those we loved as children
tossing them as high as my brothers and I
could throw. Do you remember?

There is nothing here to nourish your body
just your spirit
and soul,

But we have springs and wells
of sweet water, soil sufficient for crops,
if asked nicely,
and the ridge is quiet with stars.

I don’t know why I am telling you this.

Except to say
if the final trumpet sounds
and you can find your way,
there will be room for you here.
Just bring some matches,
your grandmother’s quilt
and a favorite book.

It will be enough.

blessed be

Redbud

blessed be the hours of early morning
when the light seeps slowly across the water

blessed be that light
that fills the windows full open to the morning
breeze and the scent of resurrected green

blessed be that breeze
which scatters the blown petals
of dogwood and redbud trees
carpeting the garden path with bright confetti

blessed be those feet
whose boots track spent pink petals
across the just swept kitchen floor

blessed be that love
that fills this kitchen with heavens color
and sacred morning light

blessed be

bar ditches (Palm Sunday)

spring ridge

Driving along the ridge,
Bright sun in a cold sky,
The bar ditch is filled with the first blush of spring.
Effervescent purple henbit covers the ground,
Weeds of childrens delight,
First bouquets of the season.

When my nieces were babes,
These weeds were their favorite flower until their father
Mowed the yard,
Decimating their wild flower garden and bringing bereft tears.

Did my grandfather tell me the story of why we call the ditches
Along the roadside ‘bar ditches’?
The dirt was borrowed ‘bar-red’
To raise the road, flattened for the wagons then model Ts
To travel above the fields.

Memory sometimes obscures the truth.

I remember that my father died on Palm Sunday,
Though it is not the truth.
But that is the memory I keep.
And it is Palm Sunday once again,
Not the date of his leave taking
But still the day I grieve.

And it is the first day of spring,
The day I remember my nieces’ grief
Over the heaped green weeds across their yard.

On this day, memory, unreliable and exact,
Borrows the joy before the grief…

Its the first of spring and all the birds sing
And little children palm frond process
Waving welcome the King.
Alleluia!
Alleluia!

(revised 2018)

***This is a poem written a few years ago and revised last year. In it are the memories of my grandfathers and my dad. And, on this Palm Sunday, I also remember my Mom and my brother, Frank, the father that mowed the weeds. I miss them all. So very much.

French Street, 1965

20180902_110906 (2)

we played in the creosote creek,
run off from the tie plant miles away
black and sticky
our beagle, Missy, would waller in the dark water
and my Dad said she never had a flea or tick,

the smell stayed on our barefeet
even though Mamma washed us clean.

long summer days deep in the back back
where at the bottom of the hill
a small pool formed.
no frogs or turtles ever populated
that little pond.

hills lush green with oaks, deep lobed
leaves and plenty of poison ivy
to keep us itching through August.

we stole pallets and nails and whatever
scrap we could carry from the builders
down the street,
dragging it all to the vacant lot
behind our yard, where we built palaces
and ships and tree fort perches,
where we could all escape with peanut butter
sandwiches and bottles of coke.

and the big kids all scoffed and laughed
at our efforts
but we knew there was no place
like home