Her feathers fluffed out,
she sits among snow-covered limbs–
the mourning dove.
© Freeda Baker Nichols
Tag Archives: poems
Writer’s Block No Crutch
A block of wood, no writer’s block.
Writer’s Block No Crutch
Writer’s Block — there’s no such thing;
it’s an excuse to take a break.
Have you heard of Plumber’s Block?
Meat Cutter’s Block when trimming steak?
Writers and poets should not say
that Writer’s Block caused them to fail
to make money, achieve success,
receive acceptances by mail.
Writer’s Block is a piece of wood
with holes to store pencils and such.
The phrase was never intended
for writers to use as a crutch.
© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols
FIND HAPPINESS day 25 napowrimo
FIND a word and write it down;
HAPPINESS is a true rhyme.
WHEN ever your muse acts a clown,
YOU may write poems anytime.
WRITE about lemon, also lime–
A mountain or a pantomime.
POEM should make you smile, not frown.
Spins When the Wind Blows
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
An Adagem–a variation of the Acrostic. The first words of the
lines when read downwards convey a special message. They
are shown in bold letters.
Spins in the Wind
Baby Bobwhite’s Lullaby
The daddy quail was singing to his young
a brand-new song no other bird had sung.
He sang a baby bobwhite lullaby–
but then he hushed when Tom, the cat, appeared.
He flew away and hid from Tom’s keen eye.
Old Tom Cat was the only thing he feared.
A brand-new song no other bird had sung,
the daddy quail was singing to his young.
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
Blueblood
My grandmother.
Her braided hair wound around
her head twice. Her blue eyes
smiled when her lips did.
She sang delightfully–
like the voice of a robin in April.
Her hands were warm and strong.
They made awesome chocolaty
sweets! She gave me hugs–
whether I wanted them or not.
Her dog, Bulger, toothless and cranky,
was a bulldog. The highest breed.
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
Christmas Hope
I cut the tree and pulled it up the path
where boots had left imprints in drifts of snow.
A song of love inside my heart released
old memories that stirred my soul to move
like dancing stars around a velvet vest.
So long ago I walked this way with him
and wore a gown of red with velvet vest
to find a tree just right for only two.
We cut it down with sharpened axe of steel
and laughingly foot-raced each other home.
He took the star I made of wrinkled foil
and placed it high upon the cedar limb.
We had no gifts beneath the tree that year;
without a job we barely had our food–
and so we knelt and turned our hearts to God.
Today, I took my handkerchief and wiped
small flecks of snow away from blurry lens,
adjusted frames of gold behind my ears,
as silently the falling flakes of snow
soon hushed the sound of tears inside of me.
At home, I put the dull and jagged axe
away to use another Christmas time.
The faded star of wrinkled foil still glows
above my tree where hope is shaped like bells
I cut from crumpled velvet vest of red.
c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
Wild Azaleas
I found the wild azaleas growing pink
as cheeks hot-flushed with fever from a cold.
I drew the water for my mother’s drink
and placed the petals in a vase of gold.
I watched her shaking hands turn pale and dry
and move along the rim of china vase,
and then extend just as in days gone by
to mine. No one can fill my mother’s place.
Wild Azaleas
Please do not bring me roses white or red
nor wipe away my tears that fall in sheets
to cover her new cemetery bed.
In Heaven she now walks on golden streets
while I go down a dark and dusty trail
in search of pink azaleas for my pail.
c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
By the Road on Banner Mountain
A plant at home place on Banner Mountain
The sky at Banner Mountain umbrellas memories.
a plant by road in
winter at an old home place
on Banner Mountain
a place where children
ran and played in summer sun
with shadows and dogs
when springtime arrived
bare toes touched green mossy earth
and the children laughed
by autumn, leaves died
and covered up the moss bed
and the children cried
the sky umbrellas
memories. By road a plant
on Banner Mountain.
c Copyright, 2012 Freeda Baker Nichols
Writer’s Dilemma
I write, I revise
I walk the floor
I wipe sleep from my eyes;
I write some more.
Who said writing’s fun?
You can’t prove it by me.
I prefer my husband’s hobby–
watching TV.
c Copyright 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
To the Rescue
My pocketbook is a favorite thing;
I keep it close like a diamond ring.
It’s the first thing I see in morning light
and the last thing I put away at night.
It’s soft yet sturdy, is tossed here and there;
I keep telling myself: treat it with care.
Once, it was new and stood out like a star.
Now, it is greasy from fries spilled in car,
has crayon mark on its long leather strap,
been used like a pillow for grandkid’s nap.
Its zippered compartments hold stuff, you see,
like checkbook, tissues, my extra car key,
safety pins, paper, phone numbers, a card,
last year’s receipts from big sale in front yard,
lipstick, toothpick, one old quarter, one new,
dog-eared pictures, bottle of Elmer’s glue;
trident, spearmint, my state’s license to drive.
It contains nothing I need to survive,
and yet I take it wherever I go,
vacation out West, I had it in tow.
In desert, we stopped to rest for a while.
As husband checked engine, I said that I’ll
sit down at this picnic table nearby.
I jumped when I heard a sharp, sudden cry.
“Bring pocketbook!” husband said with a shout.
“Need your key! Car’s running and I’m locked out!”
c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols
Freeda Baker Nichols 