ode to Friday

a paintbrush would tell a better story

of the leaves darkened into crisp silhouettes against the periwinkle sky

of the waxing September moon like a ghost at 7 pm

of the pinpricks of warm yellow light popping on in windows across the street 

but the picture of a Friday evening in early autumn on the back patio

dinner cleaned up, computer closed, child biking one last loop around the neighborhood

while the crickets and katydids blanket us in a bedspring chorus

can only be painted in a poem

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

roses for Jody

He visits her grave
every couple weeks
and texts me photos
of the roses he leaves
in her memory.

I prefer roses in my kitchen
where I can remember her
20 times a day.

Political circus

I've written my fair share of verse about the current administration, but angry poetry isn't particularly interesting. A recent piece I read in The New Yorker about Kanye West was stranger than fiction and inspired this short poem. If you read the piece, you'll see how the poem wrote itself. My favorite kind.

West/Tidball 2024

Met his running mate
In an airport lounge
Sized her up as an online prophet
Great with kids
In touch with the divine

The religious imagination
Reads the leaves
Gives language to drought, flood and fire
Stops making God mad

Starting a religion is easier than
Running for President
Kanye shoots the moon

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

"I'm tired of working" poems

It's brand planning season and some days I can't remember if I work from home or live at work, which makes it a real challenge to find the time and space to get any poems onto paper.

My sister and I made it to 100 daily poems with nearly no misses. We are continuing our pledge to keep up the poetry writing, but not quite as disciplined. My poems are shorter these days, and clearly influenced by sheer exhaustion and my love for the sun. 

Poem 101

They say, don't look at the sun
You'll go blind
But there are mornings
Where turning my face up, eyes open
To that dangerous, unearthly light
Is the only way I can see

Poem 103

I cannot sleep
but only dream, of rest
and lighter days

Poem 108

I leave my desk to sit in the sun.
No one knows
I am gone.
They email and chat
by flickering screens
waiting for solutions
to impossible problems
while I close my eyes and try
not to think
of anything
at all.

© Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Putting a child to bed

I prop the book open on my chest
and begin to read
His foot presses against my leg
soft and familiar
as a stone worn smooth by the sea
I rub his back and flutter my lashes to his
-I love you, mom
He whispers
Tears catch in my throat
I swallow them down and flip off the light
There is something every moment
to move us intensely
If we felt it all, we’d never survive


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Remember this day

My sister and I have reached 100 poems. Writing them has become such an essential part of my day, like a cup of tea in the morning or brushing my teeth at night, I can't imagine stopping. This is one of my favorites that I wrote last month. It was inspired by the poem "Be a weed" from Late Migrations by Margaret Renkl.


Remember this day

When the news feels like a blanket twisted around your head
and you are starting to panic
and lose hope that there’s a way out
to a world where everyone can breathe
Remember this day
with the kissing breeze a feather weight
tousling each bush of leaves
under the cap of morning
with the June sun so brilliant and crisp
now a soft yolk slipping
off the plate of late afternoon
with the backyard tree stretching its arms
to dance with you
across the strobed ballroom of evening
Remember this day
Remember to be
the breeze, the sun, the tree


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Ball don't lie

Pick up games on the beat-up concrete driveway
One all wiry peach-fuzz limbs
Banking his shots, to our hoots and shouts
often and unexpected
The other, lithe and newly muscled,
takes his jump shots from the street or
back to the bucket, Hail Mary-ing
for fewer points, but far more thrill
Their mother lays up like a Queen,
once a practiced athlete sidelined by desk jobs,
domestication and raising these children
who now stand reverent in the fading June sunshine
following her last shot, a sweet swish
to win the game


© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni
photo cred: Liam Bordoni