Posted by: cronelogical | October 18, 2010

Poems published in Ladybug Flights a magazine you might enjoy

At the end of a long life
the sharpened edge of time
cuts the beaded chain of memory
into tiny segments


Our breath collects in the circle
the net moves outward
pattern changing
as newcomers settle on the edges

A single thread twists free
but wind
turns back to join the others

Around a point, the pattern
shapes itself netting
each generation repeating breaks and pauses

We breath to one another
new stories for old
old stories threading together
yet we keep losing the centre

The Stone Wall

She drew the stone wall
planted her brush firmly at the bottom.

“I’ll have three rows of pink carnations
six yellow roses
and a hollyhock at either end.”
A gate? Why can’t I find a gate?
One should
be able to make a gate
in a painted wall.”
She knew-knew she couldn’t
that wall was much too solid
and too high
to make a gate.

Where water falls

Where water falls
dark banks deepen
twisted roots curve
braiding together
to hold back the earth

Deep caverns fill
and the river rat
finds new dwelling places

In dank reaches
black bats gather

The otters seek new sandbars
for their morning toilet

The black bear picks his way
more carefully climbs to a ledge
where wild raspberries
ripen in August heat

Otter and me

As my white canoe tosses
I seek shelter close to the otter
Suspicious, He glides away and loneliness
tightens my throat
Ashore, I climb
to a higher ledge
for witness


She passes
The gate has been closed
he shut it
he always does shut gates
carefully checks the latch
This puzzles her

There are spaces on either side
quite wide enough for any child
or even a small woman
to slip through, and this fence
is low, not high enough
to challenge a tall man

His lawn is always tidy, grass
close clipped, yet she
has never seen him mowing.
There are frangipani trees
in his garden but no blossoms
on his lawn.

Her gate swings in the summer wind,
a panel loose and banging
a cluster of plastic pot, one rolling
Cottoneaster berries squish on the bricks
A hovea droops on a branch
over a fish pond-the pond is darkly green
mould climbs the rocks
A spider web twists, the spider lowering
his thick body over empty carcasses

Frances Sbrocchi

Posted by: cronelogical | March 21, 2010


Now that she is very old and been in hospital for 30 days, she no longer thinks of hospital as a place of rest but rather of constant movement, waiting, meeting too many people and being poked, proded and re-defined daily.

Posted by: cronelogical | February 3, 2010

Young Mother

Oh Yes– when she was younger she thought, going to the hospital with pneumonia was a real treat–she did not take her knitting to the hospital and the nurse brought her tea in the night when she was crying because she wasn’t home looking after the babies and because the cool white, clean sheets felt so good and, in the hospital everyone seemed to be looking after her and she wasn’t looking after anyone at all.

Posted by: cronelogical | December 2, 2009

On top of the mountain

On top of Tod Mountain

Posted by: cronelogical | November 15, 2009

Challenge: A poem without a verb

memoir without verbs
a challenge

a crystal touch on a baby’s face
four feet of white across a frozen land
purple moon shadows under pines
diamonds on tree limbs in the morning sun
weapons for school boys
walls in the school yard
my tracks across a field and those of a hare
a hundred telephone poles along my way to school
After deep winter’s darkness
spring lake
and summer field
acres of riches
the black earth
and yellow harvest
tiny harvest mice
The table full:
potatoes, pumpkin, corn, beans , cabbage, strawberries, saskatoons, blue berries,
raspberries, choke cherries, pincherries, cranberries, carrots, turnips six inches across, bitter horseradish, beets.
Time for the fall supper
November snow

Posted by: cronelogical | August 15, 2009

Summer Orchids

summer orchids2

Waiting for spring

tiny  summer orchids


my memory

Posted by: cronelogical | July 23, 2009

Many Layered

Posted by: cronelogical | March 4, 2009

After weeks of being unable to draw

A yellow lady slipper

A yellow lady slipper

Posted by: cronelogical | December 11, 2008

The light that guides home

The light that guides one home

The light that guides one home

Posted by: cronelogical | November 26, 2008

The Jar

A jar etched with your name
a single petal from a faded rose
a golden leaf
two pebbles from a distant island shore
a ring too small
a button covered with blue silk
a single pearl from a necklace
broken long ago

Posted by: cronelogical | November 15, 2008

A painting waiting to happen

Moon shadow
purple pines
darken the snow

Posted by: cronelogical | September 11, 2008

Boys against girls

Posted by: cronelogical | July 6, 2008

Our Walk

Posted by: cronelogical | May 19, 2008

Pink Lady

On her birthday
in pink satin
with her new helmet
and her new scooter
my lady rides

Posted by: cronelogical | April 25, 2008


deep rooted in the earth
laced into  sky
map of generations
outliving all
cliche of truth
in a hundred languages.

Posted by: cronelogical | April 21, 2008

From the prairie memory

Dark blue skies in the evening light

Posted by: cronelogical | April 18, 2008


Let wayward fingers
prize words out of the ether
minus thought
and drift on the edge
across the final bar
that fences the horizon
only the white flag
signals trust
I hoist the blank page
and hope
there are words, and wordlings
far beyond my minding

Posted by: cronelogical | January 18, 2008

Butterflies on Rainbow beach

Posted by: cronelogical | January 17, 2008

Poem in the Dark of Night

The ravages of time–a cliche
but she knew that was the only way
she saw the mirror

All other words
she wrote on candy wrappers
tossed into the sea

Posted by: cronelogical | January 15, 2008


As the crone sat dreaming beside the summer sea

Her dreams were all of long ago
the tiny country store, grain elevators, the old gas pump, the post box
where Jenny Wren lived in summer.
The Postmaster, whose sign said “Bird in Residence, do not disturb.”
Inside the warm stove where local farmers came to gather mail, tell stories
and fill the air with pipe smoke
while the child hidden behind the counter stored their tales. Fran

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