#diane webster

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Family Tree

Tree branch shadows break into the abandoned house through paneless windows. As the sun moves dawn to dusk, shadows rummage through rooms filled with seasons of leaves and twigs wind-born for adventure. Ancestors buried on cousin floors and father siding inside rooms of wombs barren of gestation. Diane Webster lives in western Colorado. Her poetry has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New…

[sparksofcalliope]

Two Poems by Diane Webster

#poetry #poems #poetrylovers #SparksofCalliope #PoetryCommunity #cancer #aging

Achieved Again The old woman tottersdown the drivewaytoward her morning newspapertossed out like bird seedawaiting early risersto peck away best tidbitslike this old womanwho uses her grabber poleto scoop up the rolled paper. She shuffles back toward homelike doves landing on telephone wiresteetering back and forthuntil balance is achieved again. Cancer Twin The body gets bored,decides to…

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[sparksofcalliope]

Two Poems by Diane Webster

#poetry #poems #poemas #SparksofCalliope #PoetryCommunity #poetrylovers

Rust Background Rust is the background to the white paint chiseled into graffiti petroglyphs. The hunter stalks through rocks and stone for a deer creature poised for flight; its antler carving snarls in branches, in hiding. No other picture glorifies the kill. No picture celebrates the hunter empty-handed. Rust awaits another hunting expedition as rain and sunshine strip away more…

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Man

Man has truck window down in nineteen-degree weather. Baseball cap shades eyes from non-warming sun as hooded sweatshirt insulates a body too hot inside pickup truck until it turns in front and from trailer hitch two fake testicles dangle wannabe balls of man inside. Next stoplight woman driver behind bursts from her car with knife kept in glove compartment and emasculates truck in one swift…

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Almost Recaptured

He stacks four years of telephone books together like counting birthdays on one hand when someone stoops over and asks, “And how old are you?” Like if he threw the old ones away he’d have only today, and all the names not carried over would vanish, die – an Alzheimer’s memory almost recaptured but already fading, fading like the final ring of a telephone when no one’s home or the torn edge of a…

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The Woman Stands

The woman stands behind a table selling gadgets no one sees while a cinder block wall has her back… guardian bikers shoulder to shoulder. Dark blue paint edges the wall in mountain sky hung with white clouds. Yellow sunshine haphazards a splash, leaving white edges of aura that surround the woman. Inside the burn of yellow paint a white cross towers so large one steps back for perspective, for…

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Escape Gauge

After the rainstorm when sunshine sparkles on water-drenched petunias, the rain gauge measures the event with black liquid half an inch deep with rainwater and bee bodies. As if the bees discovered a new species of flower blooming nectar down narrower gaping throat until wings batter edges, and bees crash-land, drown. After pouring the mourning mixture out, a popsicle stick reaches bottom depths…

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Sharing More Than a Hug

Sharing More Than a Hug

I hug her and try not to pull back from the full-body skeleton beneath my arms like in the doctor’s office contemplating the plastic skeleton parked in the corner, staring hollowly outward with a slack-jawed silent howl until I pretend ventriloquist – draping its bony arm across my shoulder as I fingertip its mandible into chomping words not so eloquently hidden beneath my moving lips. I twirl my…

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