Tuesday Poetry

She Told Me

By Billie Daddario

Dedicated to Betty Cates

She told me

She wanted to write a story about

Once during the dust bowl ,

she had brought a Hobo home for dinner,

but her mother Didn’t have enough

food to feed him, and

Turned him away.

She wrote that much of the story over and over

Until they wouldn’t let her keep a pencil.

The Alzheimer’s kept her from getting any farther.

Sunday Poetry

Chickadee

By Billie Daddario

This little chickadee looking at me

Curious, getting closer, closer still,

Sings a sweet song in its forest home.

Little chickadee looking at me

Getting closer, closer still.

Careful little bird

Not to get too close,

You may find yourself

Singing in a birdcage

Just like me.

Monday Poetry

I’m Saved

By Billie Daddario

The lonely nights of childhood I thought would never end.

The fear and sadness I thought would never end.

As an adult, I discovered the loneliness, the fear, and the sadness go on forever.

Even when I’m not alone, I’m lonely and sad and the fear comes back as soon as I’m alone again.

It follows me like a dog nipping at my heel, wanting to swallow me whole.

The shadow getting bigger, taking over my own, and now I am gone.

Except for the shadow that isn’t me but is the other.

It’s all become too much except the notes the Doctor writes?

I’m saved?

Sunday Poetry

Happy Thanksgiving Day

By Billie Daddario

The aromas of the day Turkey and pumpkin pie.

We sit around the table giving thanks.

This year Is there more or less to be thankful for?

They are killing civilians in Ethiopia a war we have no time for.

COVID-19 is killing millions around the world, but not me and not my family.

In Pakistan one in five children won’t live to see there fifth birthday, but I don’t live in Pakistan.

Homelessness in the United States is at levels not seen since the great depression.

The environment is polluted and it’s past the point of no return the scientists tell us now.

The Government is broken, and can’t be fixed when not getting something done gets you reelected.

Is there more or less to be thankful for this Thanksgiving?

Saturday Poetry

The Days of Children

By Billie Daddario

The wind blowing the long grass across the prairie

looks like ocean wave hues of brown and tan.

The dust swirls and settles and swirls again.

The field birds flying sideways in the wind

trying to catch a draft.

The three of us running down the street for home.

Laughing for the day was long and fun, and we were so dirty.

Brown and white lines of our skin where the clothes covered up.

The long day. The long night. We spent together as children.

Making mud in the tub when we washed our feet and legs.

These were the days of children.

Thursday Poetry

Fresh Figs

By Billie Daddario

I picked Sylvia Plath’s figs.

I ate them till I had my fill.

I saved some on my writing desk

In a silver bowl to look at, or eat later

I wasn’t sure which.

I soon discovered what Sylvia knew about figs.

Eating them all will make you ill.

I ate all the figs that Sylvia could name,

And then I ate some more.

It filled my life,

but left my soul much like the bowl empty.