Saturday, July 11, 2020

Deliver Us

He entered the world
with the universal cry
for food, for love.
Still a young man
his last breath
was brutally
pressed out of him
nine minutes of torture.
His last cry
was a whisper
heard by the world

Bridget Harwell

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Corona Spring

My daffodils
have made a poor choice.
By ignoring the bird bath
low to their heads
they have invited death.
Inch by stubborn inch
the stems push upward
smashing golden heads.

Bridget Harwell

Saturday, March 7, 2020


On a cold, gray day
I look for life in my winter garden.
Two sparrows converse
a frantic squirrel digs in flower graves
and a twig, quite resembling myself
taps, taps at the window pane.
I feel one with these threads
woven together in life's tapestry.
I yearn for naught
not pulled by past nor pushed by future.
But colors fade.
Stitches tatter.
And, bit by bit
as the story shifts
I disappear

Bridget Harwell

Friday, October 4, 2019


With my blue eyes
I saw a golden leaf fall.
On my smooth skin
I felt a slip of cold
and my blood ran
in a rushed flow
and my step quickened
and my ancient heart
drummed welcome
as the world rolled
towards the harvest.

Bridget Harwell

Saturday, August 17, 2019


The house muffled in heat
the persistent fly buzzing
behind limp drapes
the flat, sticky afternoons.
Slow and dull as a month of Sundays
she cannot abide August.

She shifts in her chair
as she recalls a different August
days stuffed with sunshine and freedom.
She would give a lot
maybe her life
to get up and run round the block
so fast it would feel like flying.

But dead
she would miss autumn
when she can wear sweaters
sit outside and breathe cool air.
Easy to give your life away on a difficult day.
She sits taller, spits out an annoying seed.
Having outlived beauty,brains and money
she damn well won't die in August.

Bridget Harwell

Saturday, June 8, 2019


Her mother called her Wild Child.
As soon as she could stand
she danced and stomped
her baby feet
and early learned to walk and run
while resisting all shoe offerings.
No bunny faces, blinking stars
or quacking heels could win her over.
She liked the grit of dirt between her toes
the tickle of grass
the purity of rain.

And then, the time arrived to go to school
to be like others
who didn't seem to mind enclosures:
laced shoes, chopped time, designated spaces.
Captured, she settled down
became compliant, successful.
Stood on her own two feet.
Until they began to ache
and she grew tired and pinched
and old enough to leave that world behind

 She gave-away, threw away
heels and suits
body shapers
All that binds.
She took to long, cool  dresses
barefoot walks
talks with wind and rain.   
And, if the radio played a jaunty tune
she danced like the wild child
she never really left behind.

Bridget Harwell

Friday, May 17, 2019

Thoughts in a Doctor's Office

When I was seven I received
a small, green purse
with a sharp click
velvet soft and smooth as a cat.
I felt grown-up
with important possessions
to be taken with me everywhere.
This pretend
brought comfort
as if within my velvet purse
were tools
to navigate the world.

Many purses on
the memory visits me
as I wait for a doctor with numbers.
Numbers that will take you away from me.
On my lap, a satchel purse full of life supports:
money and cards, lipstick and comb
a passport in its secret place.
I wrap my arms around my purse
hold it close for comfort.

Bridget Harwell

Wednesday, March 6, 2019


not a quiver
a red leaf
hangs in the air
suspended six feet
from the completion
of its fall.
I stare
Until my mind
seeks an answer
and my eyes find it.
The glint of
a spider line
in a moment of sun.
Magic and logic
to make mine
out of thousands falling

Bridget Harwell