The Way of the Buffalo
My mother, a key punch operator,
was promised a job forever, but
forever was short and the infinite
discarded key cards, which crafted
table-top, spray painted Christmas trees
and large decorative door wreaths,
can now only be seen on E-Bay right
beside perpetual calendars, floppy discs
transistor radios and 8-track tapes--
but my vinyl records are making
a comeback, like the bison
who once on extinction’s precipice
now disturb the Yellowstone traffic
and occasionally stroll in to fluster
those who hoped to sit on benches
and watch Old Faithful in peace--
the way I still ruffle the house
with Woolly Bully on the turntable.
Hope Made Simple
drifting dandelion seeds, a wish midair
soap bubbles tossed by a plastic wand
afternoon sunlight in a prism of glass
a smooth rock in the palm of my hand
yellow daffodils bursting thru frozen chert
vibrant spring color of fresh green grass
French lilac scent through a window screen
the ding of a soft-blown windchime of brass
red cardinals posed in evergreens
collected motley-hued autumn leaves
the tingle of a mouth caught snowflake
pink buds on the twigs of wintered trees
spotting the twilight’s first evening star
the warmth of hot chocolate after snow
words woven by endearing voices
a seedling of corn starting to grow
multi-petaled wild roses lining the path
resting on a sunny footbridge all alone
the rush of Phillips Creek after a hard rain
deep comfort in arriving back home
On Rainy Days
droplets splatter, like Monet’s dotted jabs,
against rain-pelted window screens
blurring mundane multi-colored outdoor furniture.
Upper empty panes offer lines of tree branches
arching and bending unimpeded by mesh.
Suspended February oak leaves droop in saturated shapes
resembling time pieces in Dali’s The Persistence of Memory.
In spite, the clock tocks.
Hands point to unfolded laundry,
scattered correspondence, flaunted
dust, and flagrant dirty dishes.
From outside, a single sparrow’s anthem pulls
my ear, squelching the tedious and I take my pen detailing
how Monet beckons Warhol out of the bright yard art chairs.
The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.
~Pablo Picasso
Natalie Kimbell lives in Sequatchie County, Tennessee. She is a mother of two, and a grandmother of four. She works as a teacher of English, creative theater, and creative writing. Her poetry is published in The 2019 Chattanooga Writers' Guild Anthology, and The 2020 Garfield Lake Review, The 2020 Chattanooga Writers’ Guild Anthology, the 2021 Appalachian Writers Anthology, Dorothy Allison Version and The American Diversity Report. Her work appears in the 2021/22 Women of Appalachia Project’s “Women Speak” anthology, Beautiful: In the Eye of the Beholder, and issue 82, 2022 second quarter in Abyss and Apex.
My mother, a key punch operator,
was promised a job forever, but
forever was short and the infinite
discarded key cards, which crafted
table-top, spray painted Christmas trees
and large decorative door wreaths,
can now only be seen on E-Bay right
beside perpetual calendars, floppy discs
transistor radios and 8-track tapes--
but my vinyl records are making
a comeback, like the bison
who once on extinction’s precipice
now disturb the Yellowstone traffic
and occasionally stroll in to fluster
those who hoped to sit on benches
and watch Old Faithful in peace--
the way I still ruffle the house
with Woolly Bully on the turntable.
Hope Made Simple
drifting dandelion seeds, a wish midair
soap bubbles tossed by a plastic wand
afternoon sunlight in a prism of glass
a smooth rock in the palm of my hand
yellow daffodils bursting thru frozen chert
vibrant spring color of fresh green grass
French lilac scent through a window screen
the ding of a soft-blown windchime of brass
red cardinals posed in evergreens
collected motley-hued autumn leaves
the tingle of a mouth caught snowflake
pink buds on the twigs of wintered trees
spotting the twilight’s first evening star
the warmth of hot chocolate after snow
words woven by endearing voices
a seedling of corn starting to grow
multi-petaled wild roses lining the path
resting on a sunny footbridge all alone
the rush of Phillips Creek after a hard rain
deep comfort in arriving back home
On Rainy Days
droplets splatter, like Monet’s dotted jabs,
against rain-pelted window screens
blurring mundane multi-colored outdoor furniture.
Upper empty panes offer lines of tree branches
arching and bending unimpeded by mesh.
Suspended February oak leaves droop in saturated shapes
resembling time pieces in Dali’s The Persistence of Memory.
In spite, the clock tocks.
Hands point to unfolded laundry,
scattered correspondence, flaunted
dust, and flagrant dirty dishes.
From outside, a single sparrow’s anthem pulls
my ear, squelching the tedious and I take my pen detailing
how Monet beckons Warhol out of the bright yard art chairs.
The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.
~Pablo Picasso
Natalie Kimbell lives in Sequatchie County, Tennessee. She is a mother of two, and a grandmother of four. She works as a teacher of English, creative theater, and creative writing. Her poetry is published in The 2019 Chattanooga Writers' Guild Anthology, and The 2020 Garfield Lake Review, The 2020 Chattanooga Writers’ Guild Anthology, the 2021 Appalachian Writers Anthology, Dorothy Allison Version and The American Diversity Report. Her work appears in the 2021/22 Women of Appalachia Project’s “Women Speak” anthology, Beautiful: In the Eye of the Beholder, and issue 82, 2022 second quarter in Abyss and Apex.