Thursday, May 18, 2017


No splendor of waterfall
no majesty of mountain
no mystery of gully
no secrets of a dark wood.
You do not take my breath away
stop my heart
sting me with beauty.
Modest landscape
you suit this life of mine.
Easy, slow rise
gentle decline
I would be a green hill
against a blue sky.

Bridget Harwell

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Mrs. Miller Has Grown Tired

Books scattered here and there
no longer seem like friends to visit.
Perfume bottles, scarves draped on chairs,
little works of art from foreign places.
Gifts from Mr. Miller's travels
treasured in the moment,
now hardly seen among the clutter.

Mrs. Miller, as she likes to say,
is no fuddy-duddy.
She keeps up with the times,
does not complain about electronics.
Somewhere, she has a smart phone
given to her by her nephew.
But, she also has her limits.
No matter how touted for its protein
she would never,ever
eat a cricket sandwich.

What she really likes these days
are unprompted memories
that float  through her mind
like a mild breeze.
Lately, she has returned to Gilberry Lane.
Felt again the sticky sun on her face,
her strong legs running,
hair whipping, heart fit to burst.
Then home to bed
and deep,deep sleep
as if dropped
into a well.

Bridget Harwell

Thursday, February 23, 2017


Face downward,
bent and old,
a woman leans
upon a cane
wends her way
to Macy's door.
What purchase
could be worth this toil?
A fry pan, a nightgown,
a present for a child?
Or words about the weather
and a priceless touch
when money changes hands.

Bridget Harwell

Thursday, February 9, 2017

For Elizabeth

Sit down and be quiet
nasty woman
with the big mouth.
Cackling and clucking
across the land,
feathers flying.
Ladies and bitches,
out of the coop!
Flap your wings
and roar.

Bridget Harwell

Thursday, February 2, 2017


You would not know
that they were sisters,
except for the tilt of the head
and the family nose.
One all bones
the other broad and lumpy.
Tired from the procedure,
the frail one waited behind the glass door
nothing inside her but time.
She watched her sister
lurch across the parking lot,
a duffel bag in motion.
Elbows held tight against her ribs
trying to steer herself.
She had a turned-out left foot.
It seemed to say
"Let's go the other way."

Bridget Harwell

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Long Shadows

I like it when the sun
cast my shadow
long and lean,
then the image of my father
returns to me.
Arms loose, sleeves rolled
we swing along.
It is my eighth birthday
and my Daddy sings this song.

You are my sunshine
my only sunshine
You make me happy
when skies are gray ...

Like gold, love shines through.
I put this nugget in my pocket
kept it long after
my father
went away.

Bridget Harwell

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Two Faced

Autumn is a lovely word
that lingers on the tongue
full and round as a pumpkin.

Fall is quick
lean as a stick.
An imperative
not to be denied
no matter the richness
of the harvest.

Bridget Harwell

The End of October

Bushels of leaves
hang on the trees
with not a wisp of wind
to shake them.
Like paratroopers
on the edge of plunge
they wait

Bridget Harwell