Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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From my window I see
hot pink blossoms of the crab apple tree
dance wildly with the wind,
like kids at recess on a perfect, spring day.
Rhododendrons offer huge purple flowers,
birthday presents for me.

From my sun splashed window
the stately green leaves of the crab apple tree.
They were supposed to be like the other tree,
with purple leaves,
but I am grateful for variety.
Chartreuse shoots on the rhododendrons
poke their heads up,
promising birthday presents next year.

From my window
fat-bellied squirrels play tag on the crab apple tree,
gorge on crab apples.
(Have they forgotten where they hid their acorns?).
Hugo snips wayward branches of the rhododendrons.
“Not too much!,“ I shout.
Bushes should be bushes.

From my frosty window
the rhododendrons shiver and contract,
like an old woman stooped over in a cold wind.
I read the temperature by their posture.
On the barren, snow covered limbs of the crab apple tree
A tiny black capped chickadee sits.
Reminds me that spring will come again.


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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Roxie, The Ballerina Cat
Roxie stretches long
on my bed,
paws pointed
in white ballet slippers.
Front legs gently over my own.

Body slim
black.
Eyes large
glowing emeralds.
Jumps on the counter,
perfect arabesque.
Roxie skips
in faster
and faster circles
following a
yellow feather.
Her grace and beauty joys my spirit.
Roxie hunts birds
inside.
One moment,
a still statue.
The next,
four paws on the window.
I love Roxie,
the ballerina cat!


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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For Katie who wants to learn about birds

My grandma in Brooklyn knew
all the birds by their songs–tufted titmouse,
black capped chickadee, downy woodpecker—
until Alzheimer’s like a pistol with a silencer
shot holes in her brain.
That grandmother gave me my first bird feeder
for my eleventh birthday, wrapped in silver
paper with a cardinal-red bow.
She wanted to get my glasses out of the
Nancy Drew books that consumed me
as I consumed them. Ran my fingers over the
long glass chamber, inhaled the shellacked
oak trim on the top.
We hung it in the dining room window
that snowy day in early March.
The first visitor was a cardinal,
too stubborn to fly south.
I took his picture on the frosted feeder.
I still have the picture in my bird album.
Do you want to see it, Katie?
My grandma turned me into a bird watcher,
my nose in bird books, enthusiastically recording
each feathered visitor to the feeder,
saving my fifty cent allowance to buy
sunflower seeds, hot fudge sundaes to the birds.
A shy girl given wings by that gift!
My grandma died before she saw the album.
A raccoon smashed that first feeder
into icy shards on frozen ground.

My second feeder I bought
on impulse from a pet store
buying catnip mice for the cats.
The top’s somewhat rusty
and you might have to adjust the height.
It hangs a little lopsided when squirrels
try to get the seed, but I swear,
you wouldn’t believe the variety of birds
that thing attracts. For five years,
it’s hung in my kitchen window,
the birds chirping as I have my
morning coffee. I love the tiny
yellow and black goldfinches
singing operas. They fly in
from the crab apple tree where the birds
form a kind of cafeteria line.
Such joy in color and music, Katie!
It became the greatest cat toy,
my tabby Tammy crouched by the window
springing onto glass like she had
suction cups on her paws.
My black cat Jake yodeling on the counter,
as if calling to the birds.

Now I’m giving you your own bird feeder.
So you will listen to their songs.
The collection of birds is more colorful
and musical than a Mardi Gras marching band.
I hope you will love them all, not just the beautiful goldfinches.
And one day, Katie, you’ll give the same gift
to someone you love.


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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My Father’s Hands
The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in winter.
Rivulets of blood ooze across his pale hands.
Remind me
he was forced to repair sewing machines.
This writer blacklisted in the fifties.
Hands, etched by a decade of turpentine.

The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in spring.
Oceans of blood stream like tears across his broad hands.
Remind me
he lost his only brother, just 23.
A medic, trying to save a life
on the beaches of Normandy.

The cracks in my father’s hands
come out in fall.
Waves of blood gush across his knowing hands.
Remind me
this engineer was expelled from college for demonstrating against ROTC.
Diploma, snatched from his hands
one semester away from graduation.

They say, “Time heals all wounds.”
But not the cracks in my father’s hands.


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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Resolved
I refuse to die
I choose to defy
Prognosis (poor)

I will see
daughters
graduate
marry
grandchildren!

I refuse to die
I choose to defy
Prognosis (guarded)

I must
love
help
work
learn
dream
eat chocolate every day!

I refuse to die
I choose to survive
Prognosis (good)


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.

Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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“Think globally, act locally.” Common expression in the Sixties
President Covfete desires
to murder his grandchildren,
put Mar-a-Lago underwater
with a sweet tsunami sea surge,
both literally and financially.
Why else would President Tweeter
have pulled the United States out
of the Paris climate agreement?
When ocean waves reach the
penthouse at Trump Tower,
rustling gold like a tenement,
we’ll see if the FLOTUS can float.
Or will POTUS rescue her?
Nope, busy groping.

But, hey, we don’t need the
madman-in-chief to save
our grandkids and the planet!
Starting with governors of New York,
California and Washington state,
pledged their states
to follow the Paris accords.
Soon three were a wave of others.
A flood of cities joined.
Good billionaire Bloomberg donated
fifteen million to pay our part.
Hawaii passed the first law to save their fragile islands.
We should do this deal on health care
and a million other issues.
Trumpeter, you’re irrelevant. Go tweet!


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.