Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Walking in the Forest

Long in the forest she does linger
lost on pine scented fresh packed trails
twenty degrees hold no fear, fingers
wrapped in polar fleece that never fails
heat packs in her boots, walks past cattails.
No snowmobilers, she walked here first
their Sunday morning hangovers curtailed.
She’s here first, trees welcome her, never fails.

While talking to friends on the cellphone
driving in car exacting errands
she holds on to when she walked alone,
deer and mice tracks around each bend
barred owls staring down, all sins atoned
owls’ dark eyes paring divine veils,
heaven not far away, always known;
she’s here first, trees welcome her, never fails.

Pine trees creak in polar vortex bliss
she’s tightening her tall bootlaces
scarves round her ears give frostbite a miss.
She’s traveled to so many places
but it’s here in these open spaces
that her own heart and spirit dovetails.
All that’s missing, horse, cart and traces.
She’s here first, trees welcome her, never fails.

The snow has written her story
all the winding missions, roads curtailed,
she’s looking for peace, never glory.
She’s here first, trees welcome her, never fails.

The Ballad of Jean

Her sister’s ailing and she’s gone wild,
packing things, selling, pushing them along.
She’s been this way since she was a child,
pulling dreams from the clouds, words sung in song
by mourning doves she wears as a sarong.
She tells her newfound friends she cannot stay
North bound Gray Lodge Snow Geese leave first in throngs.
So tell her sister that she’s on her way.

The yellow billed magpie lifts his head to cry;
he cannot follow, he’s where he belongs.
California’s only place he flies,
doesn’t migrate, cannot tag along.
Sutter Buttes will miss her, Yuba’s arms long.
Walking Bidwell’s trails have lost their sway.
Paradise, Chico, where she plays Mahjong,
So tell her sister she’s on her way.

She’ll trade quail, scrub jay, yellow poppies
for the bird calls of scarlet tanager.
Lost dreams of home are singing in the trees
as she meditates at Dharma center.
Her sister’s ailing and she must answer.
She’s always been intuitive, fey.
Working so hard, days pass by in a blur.
So tell her sister she’s on her way.

Her sister’s calling and she must answer.
Sutter Buttes, Yuba River will miss her.
Like mist, she tells magpies she could not stay.
So tell her sister that she’s on her way.

Night before Christmas Eve

In the far off North, Santa’s polishing bells.
Not for the elves does he leave this task, tells
Santa when they ask to help, must be bright,
so bright they shine as stars sailing through night.
Not only Rudolph with his nose so bright, rings
Santa’s voice loud and true, but the bells sing,
clinging in the air warning of others
flinging through the air, angels, clouds, mothers
dashing to the heavens with heartfelt prayers;
God and the angels hear them better there.
Then down to earth mothers bump with a clump
dusting off glass ornaments, waiting: the thump-
Santa has landed, reindeer quickly stamping,
the bells cling loud, not his style cramping.