Rocky (aka Shirley) Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

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Fly On His Nose 

The fly buzzed round and round his head

Then zoomed in to land on the end of his nose

His left turn signal was blinking

But, with the fly on his nose

He’d lost all thought of turning

Hard even to drive the car

While staring cross-eyed down his nose

If it weren’t for my X-ray vision

I’d not have known of the fly

For I was in the lane to his left

I’d pulled back to give him room

But the blinker had blinked a long while

And the car clung stubbornly to the right lane

So I trained my X-ray vision on the man

There sat the fly, black and bottle green

Looking comfortable and unperturbed

At the tip of his bulbous nose

Showing no inclination to leave

And why should he, I ask

He was being moved rapidly cross country

Without having to stir a single wing

Courtesy of a big blue Lexus

And a driver cross–eyed and enthralled

Who was watching the fly on his nose

I wonder if the man will wind up

With his eyes permanently crossed

My mother would have said so

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The Lake

I watch the serene waters

Across the lake the mountains

Soft and voluptuous

Green, dark gray, spotted with gold

Where sunlight strikes hill

The giants

Those that reach for the clouds

Are behind, but not seen

From this place

The low, rolling mountains

Are repeated in the water

Perfectly replicated

Though turned on end

A band of green trees divide

One from the other

Beauty seen once again

Ducks and geese float gently

Now and again one flies

Disturbing the water on take off

The water then rippling

Distorts the mountains image

And the picture shimmers

Before returning to itself

A band of geese on the shore

One standing as a heron

On one leg, perfectly balanced

But the webbed foot hanging behind

Disrupts the picture of grace

He turns and walks to the water

The limping gait hard to watch

Balance had come from pain

poems by rocky (shirley) rhoads, all rights reserved

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Swirling through my wounded soul,
Whirlwind thoughts and jagged pain
Dim the light of hope to gain
Restoration of the whole.

Promises of calmer days
Are muted by the darkened skies
Overwhelmed by evil’s eyes
No light can penetrate the haze.

My hope is soon reduced to ashes
Consumed by deadly, heartless power
Crushing every heart and flower
That dares to face the fiery flashes.

At my feet lay scarred remains
Of a life that has been shattered
Remnants of what once had mattered
Are nothing more than bloody stains.

Cavernous blackness fills the night
Saturating my wounded soul.
I crave escape from this shroud of coal.
That suffocates my will to fight.

My hope of healing is all but gone,
And I fall beneath the weight of black.
My harsh tears trace a gruesome crack.
I am broken; despair has won.

Dejected, I face the pitch black sky
And sorrow floods my very core.
I mourn what if? What was? What more?
Then hinting at change, a star streaks by.

One line of crimson paints the sky
Followed by glistening golden rays.
The sun is rising, and darkness sways
Until all dark tendrils finally die.

My hope and strength are very weak
But now I see with different eyes.
The crushing curses were just lies.
“Survivor,” I heard the morning speak.

poem by catherine white walls, all rights reserved

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i trust me

i trust myself. oh, me
that juicy little red beacon of beautiful happiness
of love
let her love me, i pray. i do.
i desire this self
she seems so divine
i am so in love with myself
can you say that?
if you let yourself see yourself, see yourself from the inside
can you stop yourself from falling deeply head over heels?
it’s been her i’ve wanted all along
she is the mother i’ve wanted
and here she is inside me
oh, i adore her
i don’t get it
i wasn’t expecting this
and it’s just me loving life
if i love myself. i am adoring life
here she is
why do i love her so?
because she is
children know this
they love just because you are
i trust me
start from there

poem by sandra flear, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

Shirley Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

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Our house has many windows and I love looking out

At sunny blue skies and hungry birds at the feeder

But, when winter sun is weak and seeks shelter early

I hurry to close the blinds and shut out visions of cold

Except for the window in my room

There, across wintery grounds, a light atop a high pole

Casts a glimmering pool on the snow, with only shadows

Of bare black trees to break the dim white carpet

Silence is profound though only seen, not heard

A night scene, perhaps, from an old film

Bogart might walk through in belted trench coat

Collar up, fedora brim turned down

To slip soundlessly into the darkness that rims the light

Such a scene should make me fearful

Yet it holds no terror for me

The shadows and light are lovely

The stillness speaks of peace

They say if you stand alone on the shore

When your heart is full of despair

Sirens of the sea will beckon to you

And fear will be gone with the first soft step

Into the promised rest

Perhaps my window scene holds sirens of the night

For it calls out to me, it beckons

And that small sliver of despair

That dwells in the back of my soul wants to respond

To find that promised rest

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The gentleman cat, Rasputin, resides with us

We call him Razz when we are pleased with him

We call him other things when we are not

He is most handsome with coat of silken smoke

And down of silver white beneath the smoke

The lady cat, Beauty, resides next door

Her coat is shiny black and sleek

Razz finds her lovely indeed

She comes to our glass door to visit

And Razz races to join her

He pirouettes and preens to impress

Bringing a teen aged boy to mind

The Lady Beauty, beyond the glass

Stares intently with bright yellow orbs

Yet shows no sign of response

Razz tries hard to climb through the glass

Determined to reach his lady love

The glass defeats him with rigid rebuff

His pleading cries become piteous

We cannot deny such adoration

We take him out to be with the lady

They each hunker down mere inches apart

They stay immobile, carved of stone

Razz utters a low, questioning rumble

Beauty stretches a paw and swats his face, hard

Stunned, Razz turns tail and flees for his life

His dreams of true love left behind

His golden moment shattered to shards

Casanova the Cat has become Puss the Wuss

poems by shirley rhoads, all rights reserved

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