Diane Webster ~ Four Poems

Into the Whole

During moon­light pond toughens
against freez­ing temperatures
until morn­ing sun caress­es softness
from sur­face, and ducks paddle
paths across slush
like jet streaks span­ning blue sky
until each dis­si­pates into whole.



Grasshopper clings
to my car’s hood
as I dri­ve home for lunch
bounc­ing over pot­hole jolts
and speed­ing wind over
aero­dy­nam­ic curves.

Grasshopper waits
until I return, rides
my car’s hood back.
I dri­ve like an after-surgery patient
sits in pas­sen­ger seat
thank­ful to see home
under tree in park­ing lot.

Grasshopper dis­ap­pears
by end of day;
I dri­ve with my eyes
on the road ahead.



Her legs are arm thick;
talk about skin­ny jeans!!
But her gait implies accident,
stroke, unnat­ur­al event
as she gangles
between cross­walk lines
clutch­ing her husband’s arm
until she turns into the tat­too shop.

Inside voic­es greet her
while her cadav­er­ous face smiles,
and she is safe from outside.


Statue Dreams

Statue dreams of crush­ing pigeon
that poops in its hand — red blood
com­min­gling with white shit
like flood­ed riv­er flow­ing into
crys­talline moun­tain snow melt
that freezes night­ly, thaws daily

spread­ing bronze elbow crack
until wind strength­ens stat­ue beneath,
and it bends its arm, fist clenched
in bird-scream shriek of metal
star­tling flocks skyward
afraid of sim­i­lar fate.

Statue roars hol­low laugh
as bronze shards tum­ble inside
like bird bones splintering
between fingers.


Diane Webster’s goal is to remain open to poet­ry ideas in every­day life, nature or an over­heard phrase and to write. Diane enjoys the chal­lenge of trans­form­ing images into words to fit her poems. Her work has appeared in North Dakota QuarterlyOld Red KimonoHome Planet News Online and oth­er lit­er­ary magazines.