Bluebells
The Virginia bluebells appear
in a crowd of ruffled azure gowns,
swaying among grey green leaves
in the yard above our stream.
Last fall’s ruthless removal of tangled old bushes
let in a wider band of Spring sun,
encouraged a few stalks to escape their neat patch,
to crop up willy-nilly among the dandelions.
Is this how they made it from Virginia to Connecticut?
a few adventurous seeds making a run for it,
bee or butterfly their accomplice,
or did they jump into a southern watercourse
and take their chances?
A few weeks in May is all you get,
before they fade into their long sleep,
dreaming all summer long about
their brief but brilliant performance.
A life in idioms
I dodged the bullet,
beat the odds,
caught the cancer in time,
a near miss.
I barked up the wrong tree,
missed the boat,
got caught in the crossfires,
lost my touch.
I didn’t sweat the small stuff,
cry over spilt milk,
once in a blue moon
got a second chance.
I sat tight, pitched in,
cut to the chase,
did the right thing,
faced the music.
I put my shoulder to the wheel,
kept my eye on the ball,
jumped on the bandwagon,
am still alive and kicking.
Marsha Witham Whitman has taught music and performed as a choral conductor for many years. Her growing up was spent keeping a journal and writing poetry as she moved with her family around the US and Europe. She has had a perpetual fascination with language as shown in her first book of poetry, Holding the Body Back, published by First World Press in 2020. She lives in Connecticut with her husband Frank.
The Virginia bluebells appear
in a crowd of ruffled azure gowns,
swaying among grey green leaves
in the yard above our stream.
Last fall’s ruthless removal of tangled old bushes
let in a wider band of Spring sun,
encouraged a few stalks to escape their neat patch,
to crop up willy-nilly among the dandelions.
Is this how they made it from Virginia to Connecticut?
a few adventurous seeds making a run for it,
bee or butterfly their accomplice,
or did they jump into a southern watercourse
and take their chances?
A few weeks in May is all you get,
before they fade into their long sleep,
dreaming all summer long about
their brief but brilliant performance.
A life in idioms
I dodged the bullet,
beat the odds,
caught the cancer in time,
a near miss.
I barked up the wrong tree,
missed the boat,
got caught in the crossfires,
lost my touch.
I didn’t sweat the small stuff,
cry over spilt milk,
once in a blue moon
got a second chance.
I sat tight, pitched in,
cut to the chase,
did the right thing,
faced the music.
I put my shoulder to the wheel,
kept my eye on the ball,
jumped on the bandwagon,
am still alive and kicking.
Marsha Witham Whitman has taught music and performed as a choral conductor for many years. Her growing up was spent keeping a journal and writing poetry as she moved with her family around the US and Europe. She has had a perpetual fascination with language as shown in her first book of poetry, Holding the Body Back, published by First World Press in 2020. She lives in Connecticut with her husband Frank.