At the window

Nuthatch, woodpecker, wren, cardinal 

dancing in the dormant 

forsythia 

darting and daring 

taking turns 

at the just-filled feeder 

I stand still 

two minutes 

after shuffling in slippers 

across worn wooden floors 

to marvel 

at your freedom

One more poem to end the year

What I believe 

I believe in drinking whiskey in a sunset 

or the ginger fur of a cat splayed out 

in a golden slice of afternoon. 

I believe in the constancy and comfort 

of warm yeast and apples. While 

a potted hibiscus in a backyard in Illinois 

is an act of rebellion, I believe. 

I believe there should be as many words for love 

as there are for clouds or colors. 

When you see a ghost, 

it’s best to call it by name, I believe. 

And while there is no cure for heartache, 

I believe the smallest surprises, 

like a group of ladybugs being called a loveliness, 

are a balm. 

I believe in rubber boots and garden gloves 

and chainsaws to tear down the overgrowth 

blocking my view. I believe 

the dead can feed the living 

in shredded bark and last year’s leaves 

or in what was penned by poets and prophets 

and people who loved trees. 

I believe in getting some air and taking a lap 

or another loop around the block. 

I believe in downward-facing dog. 

I believe most bad moods can be cured 

in a hammock, with a clear view of the sky. 

As difficult as it can be, I believe in rest.

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver 

“Attention,” she says, “is the beginning of devotion.” 

At home I slice the last ripe tomato 

Lifting each bite dressed in salt and olive oil 

to the tick of the wall clock 

3 minutes slow in the kitchen 

Like it was an 80 degree day 

Like I was barefoot 

kneeling in my crumbling garden box 

harvesting from plant to mouth 

Like a child 

A trail of juice on the counter 

Each finger licked 

Amen 

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

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