Cowboys Don’t Wear Red Hats by Mary Kipps

 

Виктория Билан

Cowboys Don’t Wear Red Hats

The gifts you said we’d love.

My disappointment when

you gave the black one 

to my brother,

who was more interested

in baseball.

The gift you said I’d love,

pushed to the bottom of the toy box,

unable, there, to lend truth

to the lie

it was only pretend.

Now that I’m older,

red hats still look silly on me,

but I wore one yesterday

in the garden

while, three thousand miles away,

your family buried you.

© Mary Kipps Enjoy other posts by Mary Kipps HERE.

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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Spring by Mary Kipps

 

Anthony

Spring

They bound from the woods,

two, three, four Virginia doe,

their signature white tails

at full flag as they run,

one after the other, 

across the meadow.

The last deer in line

suddenly kicks out her hooves 

and leaps into the air,

her ebullience on this first

clement Sunday morning 

mirroring mine.

© Mary Kipps Enjoy other posts by Mary Kipps HERE.

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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The Pigeon by Mary Kipps

 

Quang Nguyen Vinh

The Pigeon

On a cobblestone street corner

in the marketplace of old Jodhpur,

three young men are crouching

around what the populace

commonly referred to as a flying rat.

The pigeon, shocked to earth

by a spark in the tangle

of overhead electrical wires

where it had perched,

holds one wing tightly against its body,

while the other, fully extended,

flaps in spastic bursts.

Sheltering the bird 

from the wheels of motorbikes

and errant footsteps of pedestrians,

the men dribble bottled water

slowly, gently, over the quivering body,

trying to dispel the tremors.

What will happen to it, if they can’t

revive it? I ask my tour guide.

Then they will move it somewhere safe

and care for it until it dies.

© Mary Kipps Enjoy other posts by Mary Kipps HERE.

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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The Sleeper Train by Mary Kipps

 

Laura Meinhardt

The Sleeper Train

No matter the scant sips of liquid

I allow myself in the hours before,

the nocturia of my age still intrudes

on my already fitful sleep. 

Silently, I pull on my sneakers,

slip between the curtains

of the sleeping compartment.

The unlit aisle of this swaying

second-class train is a minefield

of stray shoes, empty water bottles,

and lost pillows. But my destination,

when I finally reach it, is relatively clean

and, rare for India, has toilet paper.

Halfway back down the car,

I realize I am lost.

The sudden light from a mobile phone

two curtains ahead is followed

by a woman’s whisper. Here, ji.

The middle-aged Punjabi woman 

who shares my four-berth compartment

with her husband and brother will light my way twice more before dawn. 

© Mary Kipps Enjoy other posts by Mary Kipps HERE.

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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Before the McMansions by Mary Kipps

 

Anais Berland

Before the McMansions …

we trekked the coastal hills,

one ear cocked

for a diamondback’s rattle,

eager for adventure

and the sight of Pacific blue.

Our campaigns were planned

in a tumbleweed fort,

perched at the rim of the grand gulch.

Leadership was accorded by age,

and unquestioned; rivalry

between genders and siblings

temporarily abandoned.

We staked claim to the gullies,

digging for quartz

and fossilized shells

from the sea’s ancient journey. 

Our youngest scouts

stretched out their arms in flight

and ran reconnaissance

over the scrubland, their screams

flushing jackrabbits.

Friendships extended

beyond the horizon.

And home was a coyote’s song.

© Mary Kipps Enjoy other posts by Mary Kipps HERE.

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

Follow Feed the Holy