11 Wednesday May 2016
Tags
Inland Empire, Inlandia: A Literary Journey, Laguna Beach poet, poetry, Poetry About Nature, Robin Dawn Hudechek, Southern California, Southern California Poet
Inlandia, A Literary Journey is up today and I am very honored and happy to have three poems in this lovely online journal along with fiction by my friend, John Brantingham, and work by many other fine writers! https://inlandiajournal.org/2016/05/09/robin-dawn-hudechek/
07 Sunday Feb 2016
Posted in Laguna Beach, mythic poetry, nature poem, short poems, Uncategorized
Tags
Every Day Poem, Fickle Muses: journal of mythic poetry and fiction, Laguna Beach, mythic poetry, nature poem, Robin Dawn Hudechek, Southern California Poet
I am very happy and honored that my poem, “With Icarus in a Cloud” was published this morning by Fickle Muses: journal of mythic poetry & fiction! Please check out the wonderful writing and artwork on this beautiful site! www.ficklemuses.com And on February 2, I was surprised and thrilled to find that my poem, “Clouds” was published on Every Day Poems by Every Writer’s Resource, a wonderful and very useful online site with beautiful daily poems, and lots of other great resources for writers!
25 Wednesday Mar 2015
Posted in love poem, nature poem, poetry
Your flower bends toward earth
while mine leans into the sky.
In a cloud distant as the moon
I see you smiling.
You brush a faded strand from your forehead.
The stem of my flower bends
and I feel the trace
of your fingertips behind my ear.
Your breath brings a pale shiver,
the rise of steam from a tea kettle
and we are together again.
The wind dangles the chimes
above our heads. I hear a toddler’s laughter.
Your hair has grown back,
unmanageable and blonde once more.
Your chubby knees bang under the table; dried mud
has faded the blue of your sneakers.
The tea in your cup is cold.
I know now you will never drink it
as you turn to the fields behind our house.
I remove the flowers from the pot,
and set them on the table, side by side.
A catterpillar curls around your finger
as you lift it from a tree branch
and smile when you put it back.
Robin Dawn Hudechek
18 Sunday Jan 2015
Posted in nature poem, poem about cats, poetry
As a young girl you fed birds,
imagining their beaks against the crisp bells
in your own palms.
The humming birds are the freest, dipping in sugar water
and hovering just long enough for the sun to flash on their
fat tummies, too heavy for a thing so small.
The doves drop companionably into the food dish
swinging like eager babies
until they are driven away by finches.
You watch the swallows tow a “v” across the sky
and wonder at the beating of wings. Yesterday,
your arms were so light, boneless,
outstretched against a ripple of hills and marsh waters.
It’s not so easy keeping the neighbors away
or the gardens with four corners
or cats from prowling below the feeders.
There are fewer birds now, fewer nests
in the spidery leaves of the eucalyptus.
Bucket in hand, you watch
for the black and white cat, and think
as the water splashes his face
your hands are too heavy now, too still.
Sometimes the cat does manage to leap
and descend with flailing wings, then
curl his tail like a coat hanger
and press his sleek back against your legs,
proud of the bird on the porch, proud of the wings
folded against the body and the eyes pressed shut
against the faintest fleck of water.
Robin Dawn Hudechek
(previously published in So Luminous the Wildflowers: An Anthology of California Poets)
15 Saturday Nov 2014
Posted in family poem, nature poem, poetry
Yes, you are happy.
I see you lying on your back
under the steamy green of an aurora.
Only you saw the heat lightening pulse,
felt the burning in the cool stars
singe your tee-shirt, your hair.
After the divorce, you began chasing fireflies
and searching for UFOs. The blinking lights
threw flecks on the water and
drew you to the waves curled at your feet
and the men who embraced you in a sleeping bag.
Now the sleeping bags are empty, the wind
an autumn wind. A tire washes up on the beach
with some gnarled seaweed and you think of the children,
all grown. The wind is light and playful in your hair
like the hands that groped to touch you,
my father’s and the others. I do not know the others.
Their cigarettes dance with yours and quickly
burn out. Mostly you do not dance.
Sometimes I think it is this remoteness
which bends you as you pat your fern leaves
and smile at your new husband
when he does the barbecuing. You love his clean shirts
which are so easy to press.
In the dark his touch is all of them
and none of them.
Robin Dawn Hudechek
First appeared in Incidental Buildings & Accidental Beauty: An Anthology of Orange County/ Long Beach Poets, 2001, Caliban 8, and in Ghost Walk, a chapbook
25 Saturday Oct 2014
Posted in nature poem, poem, poetry
We used to overturn rocks on the shore
and expose them to the belly of the sun.
I knew that some rocks should not be moved
but you picked them up to skip pebbles
and slice fountains in the sea
where they were lost
and you were satisfied
because yours had skipped the farthest
and the deepest
while mine grew steam in my palm.
Your hand in mine was sandpaper.
When you closed your fingers I was a bottled neck
with no wings flapping but the heartbeat
of one chipped stone against another.
In the ocean your rosary curls the foam
and the stones fly all in pieces.
As the seaweed entwines your fingers, I wonder
if you walked alone as you promised
and if the water sipped your lips.
Under the blankets, my feet are wet.
In the moonlight footprints pause on the shore
as if, in leaping, you turned. I imagine you found comfort
in the smaller hand that clung to yours,
in the transparent, almost unreal dress
that floated above her hair
then gave way, flattening against her legs
when you pushed her back.
Robin Dawn Hudechek
(First published in Blue Arc West: An Anthology
of California Poets by Tebot Bach,
and in Ghost Walk, a chapbook)
