Deborah Vatcher


Storm

the goats know it
before it comes
sense it in the radar of their horns
aimed skyward
probing the atmosphere
with its advancing
storm;
restless
they buck and kick
then retreat to their shed
dark and watertight
where the lightening light
flashes in the corners
through dusty spider webs; and
when thunder finally falls
they hurl at each other
cracking horns
rattling brains
asserting terrestrial power


Scrapbook

between the leather doors of the
memory book
I house your life paste you
in with your famous bubble quotes
those light bulbs flashing over your head
illuminating years of pages
and decorate the rooms
with patterned scissor cuts
around the borders in bold
triangle and square colors
tape in flowing blue and red ribbons
ABC+s and
a curl of hair
the paper on the walls embossed
with floral patterns recalls
the garden where you sipped mint tulips
at your first tea party


The Old Dog

when the old bones stop at the
bottom of the stairs
and drop with a whimper and a sigh
resigned that the
soft mattress is beyond hope and suffer
this cold hardwood bed for the night
when the aspirin doesn’t dissolve the
pain anymore
when the joints go their own way
grinding spurs dislocating
when it was only yesterday
you came home
with the leap of youth in your legs
when you could not only run
but fly


The Road

the old road’s cracked and rough here
blind potholes out of nowhere
like some sickness
the pavement’s blown
along with my tire
when was this surface last smooth
had to be years ago
when the asphalt was still hot
and steaming
over a bed of fresh gravel
before that it was a track of dirt
but the town had it paved
because of the wild ruts
and loose stone
now after seasons of neglect
it needs repairand mending
and I bend over exhausted
the two of us the road and I
leaning on my tire

Fanfare

robust and giddy with music
strumming air guitar beating
the table prancing
reeling through the kitchen
skipping between the audience
seated with forks dabbing at dinner
rock hopping grabbing
the dusty broom your
microphone belting notes lusty
to the pulse of the chorus
you always loved the Beatles
best seeing it your way
before we all fall apart
to wash the dishes
and go our separate ways
you try to work it out
this musical frenzy
and ruckus
and blare the trumpet
to sound the final flourish
your fanfare
your call to home

-all poems collected from her blog, Snake’s Poetry