POET OF THE DAY: Rosemary Rhodes Royston

Rosemary Royston lives in northeast Georgia and has been active in Netwest (NC Writers Network West) for years. She now serves as Program Coordinator for the organization. Her poetry has been published in The Comstock Review, Main Street Rag, and is forthcoming in Literal Latte and online at Dark Sky Magazine and Public Republic. She is the recipient of the 2010 Literal Latte Food Verse Award, and in 2004 she placed first and third in poetry, Porter Fleming Literary Contest. Rosemary has taught poetry courses at the Institute for Continuing Learning at Young Harris College, and she holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University.

Neighbor Lady

She has made them beds.

Beds of hay sporadically placed

in the ragged green pasture.

Pallets, really. Some say

she once lived north of here

had a high falutin’, high payin’ job.

Now she wears yellow rubber gloves,

like the ones I wear to clean the bathroom,

and there’s a turban of sorts on her head.

They say she’s the richest lady in the county.

Sometimes on a soft summer’s night

I see her truck on the property line

and in the air I can feel her presence

as she soothes those she loves so much.

She has spoken to me once: One cow

is worth ten good neighbors.

The Possibility of Snow

Ms. Callie is like a perfumed sparrow,

tiny and fragile in dress slacks,

the seam straight and pressed,

her sweater a matching shade of green.

When I hug her hello I’m afraid she will topple

under the weight of my slender arms.

At 80 her hair is coiffed and teased

and she’s just short of five feet,

only a head taller than my son, Luke.

We are visiting Angie, her daughter, (my friend)

and after talking and laughing over Oolong tea

we realize that my 7-year old has vanished—

he’s not in the guest room with the TV,

nor is he chasing the many cats around the house.

His drawing pad lies abandoned on the floor.

In the distance we hear a soft song of sorts

and are drawn to it, only to find him

on Ms. Callie’s bed, stretched out,

his head propped against the footboard,

conversing with her on the possibility of snow.

Dogwood Winter

Ants raid the bath, wasps claim the washroom,

even as the cool of winter looms.

The forsythia sings against a chorus

of green, yet the hue of winter looms.

The bunting’s a blur of vibrant blue,

off-setting winter’s gray loom.

Calves nurse in the open field, chilled

as the nip of winter looms.

Blood buds of azaleas burst forth

even though winter looms.

The creek hums a rain-filled song,

oblivious to the winter that looms.

Rosemary, thyme, and sage grow

in the sunroom, even as winter looms.