Kathleen Vibbert
Endsong
My voice, no more than a loon,
on my haunches, blisters over my tongue
come to a boil from parts the sun wore
all day. Sunflowers aren't pretty
after dark, their doll heads bob,
long stems offer the rain a wall to lean on.
Beetles pop against my boot heels.
The moon loosens on its button shank.
I sink back into the earth's silo.
Pray the only Psalm I can remember.
Sculptress
Bees asleep in their husk,
fossils green from mud crevices,
the even robins move like the muscles
in her hand which slowly open.
Soon they are busy in the clay.
She decides on an arthritic finger,
pink at the end of color.
Gives it a wrist to keep from falling.
Before winter comes in clean
and straight, she moves it toward the bay window.
Holds it as if it needs to be held.
Expects it to ache and shiver.
Kathleen Vibbert is a retired poet who lives in the Midwest and studies nature and narrative
poetry. She is visually impaired, but enjoys all forms of poetry. Her recent credits include
Muscadine Lines, A Southern Anthology, Past the River, D-L Publishing, Oak Bend Review,
Women Remembering Women Anthology, Breadcrumb, Scabs, A Poetry Magazine, and 9th
Issue. Kathleen is currently working on a second collection of poetry. She enjoys traveling,
has three grown children, and one granddaughter.
Home
Issue Four
Endsong
My voice, no more than a loon,
on my haunches, blisters over my tongue
come to a boil from parts the sun wore
all day. Sunflowers aren't pretty
after dark, their doll heads bob,
long stems offer the rain a wall to lean on.
Beetles pop against my boot heels.
The moon loosens on its button shank.
I sink back into the earth's silo.
Pray the only Psalm I can remember.
Sculptress
Bees asleep in their husk,
fossils green from mud crevices,
the even robins move like the muscles
in her hand which slowly open.
Soon they are busy in the clay.
She decides on an arthritic finger,
pink at the end of color.
Gives it a wrist to keep from falling.
Before winter comes in clean
and straight, she moves it toward the bay window.
Holds it as if it needs to be held.
Expects it to ache and shiver.
Kathleen Vibbert is a retired poet who lives in the Midwest and studies nature and narrative
poetry. She is visually impaired, but enjoys all forms of poetry. Her recent credits include
Muscadine Lines, A Southern Anthology, Past the River, D-L Publishing, Oak Bend Review,
Women Remembering Women Anthology, Breadcrumb, Scabs, A Poetry Magazine, and 9th
Issue. Kathleen is currently working on a second collection of poetry. She enjoys traveling,
has three grown children, and one granddaughter.
Home
Issue Four
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Chickenpinata
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| issue four |
