magpie's shiny things - shiny things in messy little piles

The River

The River 

I haven’t smoked in more than 15 years
though some days, suddenly… 
I stop, wish for a drag,
that first catch of smoke in my lungs
and the rising hum of nicotine in my blood
that brought words cascading from my brain.

At 64, I’ve begun to miss those mornings,
wearing my grandmother’s pale blue bathrobe
in the smoke saturated kitchen,
writing madly
as I tried to navigate my thoughts 
and dam up my raging brain. 

I wrote so many words then. 
Words bounced off other words 
the way an unskilled kayaker bounces 
off boulders. 
Sentence after sentence, plunging
down the page. Blue-black ink showing the
telltale warning V of submerged rocks 
among the raging white water.
I prayed the way I used to
paddle. Wildly on a wild river. 
Until the water washed over me 
and I drowned, again 
	and again. 

I’ve learned my lesson and 
keep to calmer waters now.
But still I write to pray 
to the gods of that river.

Published on The Laundry Line, 10 February, 2026.

Analog

Photo by Vijayalakshmi Nidugondi on Unsplash

Analog

We have swallows in our barn. A week ago I found three broken egg shells underneath one of the nests. My birthday was two days ago. All I can remember from my phone call with Joe is the silences.

This morning, I heard the call of nestlings begging for food. The sound is a single note taken from their parents’ song. I noticed that the smell of the grass mown yesterday doesn’t have the same nostalgic pull as that of grass mown this morning. The heat of yesterday’s afternoon drew the chewy, greenness out of the smell. I always panic when Joe goes quiet. Have we been cut off?

I wonder if the swallow nestlings adds notes to their song one at a time as they get older, or does the full song come on all at once? This afternoon, the sweat on the glass cooled us as much as the bitter-sweet taste of tonic cut with lime. Eventually Joe speaks again. Something in his voice has changed.

I am up late. The air is so clear that the stars shine steadily without a single flicker. The gleaming quarter moon has a line of three planets trailing after it. Silence on cellphone calls is always disconcerting. The background hum of the old analog phones was a reassurance. I remember being able to stay on the line, saying nothing, listening to the universe whisper and Joe breathe.

Published on The Laundry Line, 3 February, 2026.

Heat Haze

Heat Haze

I want salt’s tenderness and the taste 
of your flesh on my tongue. The softness 
of peaches in summer when the days 
are too long. I want oregano and lemons. 
The sweet bitterness of tonic and lime 
pulling the summer heat out of my skin.
I want the musk of sun-warmed blackberries 
eaten while standing by the side of the road.    
I want the cool richness of the cream 
we spill over the crumble we make 
with the berries that we do not eat 
there in the August shimmer.

Published on The Laundry Line, 27 January, 2026.

Pariah Dog

Pariah Dog 

this rangy dog
	that you all assume
	is homeless is actually 
homeward bound
at the end of the night.
this pariah dog, known to me 
only as ‘dog”
	dog, sit
	dog, lie down
	dog, get away
	dog, do you want to come into the garden 
to sleep for in the sun for an hour?

deep in his day-time sleep
he walks dream-dark alleys
watching the rats
for signs of offal, 
oil drenched coleslaw,
the gristly ends of 
chicken wings
someone leaves in bags beside
the dumpster.
	so easy to knock over,
	so easy to rifle through,
	so easy to carry home,
an alley treasure
to leave at my backdoor.

Published on The Laundry Line, 20 January, 2026.

Sonnet, circa 2024.

Sonnet, circa 2024

Hold a leaking pen over an inadequate 
notebook. Chew on the derivation of “grace” 
from the Latin gratis—meaning pleasing. 
Seek a place for “apostle” in description 
of a wren. Stand in a mist looking for a verb to 
describe the lightness of the raindrops. 
Break a line against the breath, carry on 
long past where human lungs can take us. Cross 
a sea of images in a flat bottomed boat; play out line;
hope to catch a fresh allegory on a poorly baited hook.
Grope for metaphors lost like loose change 
under the couch cushions. Head down to the bus stop. 
Tumble into the rhythms of another poet’s mind. 
Look for echoes of your own presentments.

Published on The Laundry Line, 13 January, 2026.