Bio of Gail Denham

Two prize wins in Missouri State poetry contest, and several H.M.; published in Poetic Voices (Pennsylvania); various poems in anthologies and newsletters. A bit slow right now. Working toward poems for Florida anthology and Arizona State Poetry contest. Also the Springfield Writers Guild short story contest.

As my poem indicates, I'm a fan of my husband, Dan, who can fix most everything, and if he stumbles, he reads the instructions. Huge contrast between us – he an Electrical Engineer, me, a right-brained writer. For 40 plus years, I wrote. Many short stories, news articles, poems and photographs were published nationally and internationally. In between, we raised four sons and helped with many grandchildren. As empty nesters, we now stay in touch with family – I write and he still keeps the wood box full, among many other projects. And I'm thankful to God for Dan.

Long ago, it was quiet here in Central Oregon. Pioneers had set up homes, ran ranches, raised crops. But then Californians and folks from the western valleys discovered this land of lakes and mountains. I write of the old, old days when times were slow, growing up in Redmond, we never locked doors. Long time gone. My works have been published nationally and internationally for over 45 years.

We have four sons, lots of grandkids, and love this land also.

They Left Their Bushes

Healthy lilac bushes sit by a wooden
stoop into what was a home. The house
no longer stands, but once it creaked
through hill storms and bent under
winter snow, sheltering a family.

We step between purple blossoms into
the home that was. Almost we smell
a steaming pot of beans, fresh cornbread.
The wind, like the shouts of free range
children, scuttles through.

As we move through the small dwelling
area, family presence surrounds us. We
envision a plank table with red checkered
cloth, imagine mealtime chatter and muted
worry talk of water shortage and failing crops.

Nearby, a tiny orchard remains, planted in hope.
Stunted apple knobs and what might be pear,
fruit that hangs on, even though the family
had to desert this hilly homestead.

We rescue a rusty 1935 license, tuck it beside
flavors of family we imagined, leave lavender
blooms, wormy apples, and an echo of children
laughing.

I cannot forget this place. It spins in and out
of fond memories. I see it now, tucked in the
hills behind Lone Pine. And I always wonder.

(Printed in my 2009 chapbook, “On The Way
to Everywhere” out of print)

Can’t Slow Down

Air vibrates around Mary Beth.
Everyone says so. Even when she’s gone
from the room for perhaps half an hour,
somehow a breeze lists hairs on the arms.

Some say she oughta’ slow down a little
lest the fish swish out of their bowl, while
she whirls the ceiling fan out of orbit.

Ghost Towns

Towns, carved out of sage and barren land,
grew overnight; then the silver or gold mines
petered out, or fire tore through rough hewn
log buildings. Life in that place folded and left.

Loading their carts, hopefuls wandered to another
patch of sticker bushes. The men dug holes in hillsides,
built small mines, threw up see-through shacks, where
tin can lids were nailed over gaps so snow couldn’t
invade. Water was hauled sometimes a mile or two.

Wives cooked over campfires or in small fireplaces,
beat grimy clothes almost clean in buckets
of precious water, or in streams if they were lucky.

Children played tag between tall bushes, put
together rough forts on dusty lots, and chased
jackrabbits. School happened at home with Mom,
by firelight, after chores.

These days huge RVs and SUVs drive quickly
past these hardscrabble sites; children glance
once at ruins of what was, only grow excited
when they spy ice cream stores or shops
that sell plastic toys made in China.

When Men Came West

Time ago, grass reached a man’s boot when
he rode his horse toward the west and a dream.
Jack rabbits and coyotes ran this place, burrowed
in lava caves when cougars and bobcats hunted.

Mountains watched over everything, but they
stayed out of what happened. Sheep men came.
Grasses disappeared where their flocks ate
and ate; cattle ranchers built keep-out fences.

Families suffered over deserts, mountains, defied
dangerous rivers where some drowned. Some floated
their wagons down the Columbia on shaky rafts,
built bridges for those who came after. Then many
staggered into Oregon.

Cattle and wheat grew; wells plunged deep into
hard ground, sometimes hit only more dust;
some hunted gold and silver, lost everything;
while many folk, back east, were urged to come.

Whole families marched toward those mountains,
gathered in small towns with dirt streets, plank
roads; cleared land, cut logs for one-room cabins;

called this place bountiful.

Coyotes still talk about the old days, time ago,
when they were alone in a wide-open land; when
tall trees waved wild and sang in constant winds.

Idea Germ

An idea germ fell off my pen. I shook
the writing instrument hard; a few more
thought microbes dropped, landed on blankness.

Somehow I liked the way this poem took off
on its own – built a form I’d never seen. Could
this be magic or a mysterious disease?

Strange, after that, for a time, no matter
how much I exposed myself to more contagion,
read new poets, searched newspapers
for unusual words, fed on unwashed dictionaries,
few thoughts infected my page.

Art can be like that – illusive, flighty,
independent with a mind of its own. A bit showy
at times, wanting recognition, but refusing
to be put in a box and labeled.

Sometimes, loping along, I almost see something,
then it wisps into a fog that won’t stay put on paper.
It leaves an artful trail across a window. Quick
I grab my pen, but it steams away.

Never mind. I can wait. I’ll keep placing words,
one after the other, on my page until an image takes shape.
Then I’ll know art and I are on speaking terms again.

Husband

A mighty ship on course. A tortoise, he moves steady,
dives into projects few would tackle. Blessed with skills
to embarrass pony-tailed handymen: changing tires,
rewiring electrical misbehaviors, building sheds.

He exudes how-to, bookkeeper – holding budget wolves
at bay. Computer problems, banes to my existence,
sizzle his brain, a burbling coffeepot of ideas
and “try this” possibilities.

Steam pours out his ears. He attacks kinks, “won’t work”
apparatus – Ahab on the sea chasing monstrous white
whales of modern life. TV hook-ups, sink stoppage, toilet
parts disintegrating in mid-flush – putty in his grasp;

molding them, pliable dough in hands that seek solutions.
Life flows again, for a time, without spasmodic eruption.

And yet, when restless grandchild climbs on long-legged
Levi lap, together they pursue words connected with book
pictures, a find and capture chase.

Grandchild calms to lean against raggy-armed denim shirt,
a worn-out declaration of tractor repair, car valve replacements,
splitting seasoned wood; wood – that guardian against
temperatures dropping relentless cavalcades of cold
on our home, the freeze – wood fire repelled each morning.

Calm wonder, balm of Gilead to my soul. Silver-lined help.
Dozing, open mouthed in recliner each evening, brave protector
against mean winds that ever beat at windows, challenging
“aging” threats, forays of world pressure; bullet trains
of fear not stopping at our station this day.

Summer Slips Into Fall

Burning leaves and crackle piles
for diving kids – a part of our past.
Now it’s black leaf bags with pumpkin
faces, lined up for trash collectors.

Still, a touch of autumn memories
remain. Aspen leaves clap rattled
songs. A forgotten drift of cast-off foliage
fills my desire to shuffle and crunch.

A different color paints the air,
lunch pails clank against small bodies,
school buses hold up traffic
and mothers do grateful dances.

Gail Denham

Squash

found poem
 
Dressed in oranges, red, light
and dark greens, pale cream, with warty
skins, squash stands in for pasta
and manicotti, with hazelnut mole.
 
Is it any wonder we grab corn ears
to celebrate the end of summer? Steam
corn, team it with a college-educated
cabbage or potato head; there’s a meal
real people can understand.
 
Not warty, pale, or smooth yellow
string squash that someone tossed
in your open car window on Sunday
while you sat patient in church.

Gail Denham