Thursday, June 13, 2024

Finding My Way Home

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox

When the City tears down
my parents’ home
to build a parking lot
for the library,
even though nobody
lived in the house
the last ten years,
I don’t know how
to find my way
back home.

When everybody
in town knows where
I live, and they call
it the Marley house,
even though the Marleys
moved to Denver eight
years ago, how long
do I have to walk
through this door before
I find my way home?


From here to there,
brick by brick,
word by word,
I’ve built a life
to call my own.
I don’t need
this anymore.
This structure
blocks the view.
I need the birds,
the clouds, the wind.
I need to breathe.
I need to burn it down.


The clouds and the sky play peek-a-boo,
the wind uncertain whether to bring
storm or flower-light,
as I am uncertain whether to stay
or follow the tug on my suspenders.
I don’t know how to know.
What will I miss in the here
or the there, the birds refuse
to reveal the truth
of my flight line.
The clouds refuse to stay.
I wonder. Should I follow.

(One day recently, all the poems coming into my inbox were whining about something, so I wrote this Quadrille.)


Please, no more poems about racism, terrorism, bombings, shootings, discrimination, homelessness, euthanasia, political incorrectness, moral degradation, global warming, poverty, malnutrition, obesity, crime, the unfairness of life in general, why we hate our in-laws/exes/children/therapists/jobs… Let’s write a poem about bubble gum.


Be careful when you touch that jar.
It’s my grandma’s borscht.
The recipe’s been lost to time.
It’s the last jar of its kind.

Over there are cans of kippers
stacked in rows upon the shelf.
Some friends wrinkle noses,
think that kipper’s icky,
but in this house it’s dessert.

I’m dismayed when lox is absent.
Delis don’t exist in our town,
Without bagels, lox is now
a finger food.

You might find some summer sausage
hiding in the pantry or the fridge.
Our Basque friends sometimes pop over,
I know we must be prepared.

Ours is not a house of hot dogs,
Cheese is not American.
You might find some real surprises
in our pantry or our fridge.


I saw Spam at the market. Spam in a can. I hear it’s tasty. I hear it’s in Hawaii. A vacay to Hawaii for Spam in a can? Sounds like an expensive can. I can find Spam in a can at home. It’s an email folder on my computer. My computer is a can. I find your email there. I won’t know if it’s tasty until I open it. Spam in a can. Yum.


is a deaf bag of brittle loose bones. She collapses when the wind blows. Her bark shakes the ceiling, scolding me because I am not in bed to cradle her between my legs. She is so loud, my brain turns to jelly. She could die any day now, and I know I will miss her when she is gone.


Music is the swaying
of the topmost branches
of the aspen as the budding
leaves learn how to
glisten, quake, and shimmer
in another springtime in Wyoming.


whispers in my ears
time to rise, to take off
nightgown, feel the wet
against bare skin,
don’t worry, neighbors
are asleep, they won’t
know you like to dance
a rain dance in the nude.
They’re prudes.


I was a child of the springtime once.
Crayons in my chubby hands,
I tried to color roses
I saw dancing in the wind.

I was a summer woman once.
I recall the orange-laden orchards.
I remember moonlit walks,
life’s promises within my reach.

I am in the autumn of my life.
Some might say I am
a crone in training,
leaning on my laughing stick.

Winter stares me in the face.
Time when strength
will leave me, death
will dance me out the door.


Today's LittleNip:

—Nolcha Fox

Nature embraces my face.
Now I’m sniffling
and sneezing
and wheezing.
It’s springtime.
Or maybe
it’s flu.


—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry and pix! Readers get extra credit for writing about bubblegum, and double extra credit for making it a Quadrille (44 words. not counting the title; includes one word the host provides to you—in this case, "bubblegum"). Send results to No deadline.
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
five-session workshop,
 “Meter & Flow”,
starts tonight at 6pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
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click on
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Another Spirngtime in Wyoming