Mary Ricketson is inspired by nature and her work as a mental health counselor, has poetry published in Wild Goose Poetry Review, Future Cycle Press, Journal of Kentucky Studies, Lights in the Mountains, Echoes Across the Blue Ridge, Red Fox Run, It’s All Relative, Old Mountain Press, Whispers, Voices, and her chapbook I Hear the River Call my Name, and full-length collections, Hanging Dog Creek, Shade and Shelter, Mississippi: The Story of Luke and Marian, Keeping in Place and Lira Poems of a Woodland Woman and Precious the Mule. Books are available from Mary, Amazon and local bookstores.
She writes a monthly column, Women to Women, for The Cherokee Scout. She is a Licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor and an organic blueberry farmer.
Poetry Books
available from each Publisher or Amazon
Lira, Poems of a Woodland Woman, Redhawk Publishing, 2021
Wild Allure
Lira was always alert,
kept her eyes and ears
ready for signs, signals,
sounds of life, awake
to ways of joy and laughter.
She had been married
to a dangerous life,
fled to the wild for peace
and safety in nature.
Like a goddess, Lira
had a devoted following.
Three deer, one red tailed hawk,
a ring tailed pheasant
and maybe a sleek red fox
walked the ground she worshiped,
kept as near as their wild selves allowed.
Magic, a spotted Labrador, tamed Lira
with his predictable presence,
persuaded her to trot his trails,
check out puddles and creeks,
join the routine of his day.
Magic grew attuned to Lira’s moves.
Black, white, red, and blue birds
scanned the skies. Bees and butterflies
spiced up summer like green sage
and honeysuckle gold.
Lira slept in the woods
like she belonged to the wild.
When a young bald eagle showed up
one sunny afternoon, Lira kept Magic
in her cabin, not to scare away that bird.
Keeping in Place, Finishing Line Press, 2021
Power of Pandemic
An unseen world
alters me, shifts and shakes
these weeks and weeks
I stay at home.
One pileated woodpecker
darts down the air, dares
me catch a glimpse of his beauty
black and red, before he’s gone.
One bored cow, pastured alone
to fatten, chews on a cardboard box,
stands all day behind two strands
of electric fence.
Now bluebird pairs fly free,
follow ploy, paths of instinct.
Well out of sight a female sits,
nests her young, and waits.
Away from here,
where the groceries are,
six feet bless the distance
between me and you.
I count the days
since I’ve been touched.
Mississippi, The Story of Luke and Marian, Kelsay Books, 2019
The Story of Luke and Marian
My daddy was loyal to his friend the salesman,
always went back up north to buy a Chevy
from his home town buddy.
Rolling down US 49, sizzling blacktop lined with pines,
hottest sun ever felt, July 1948, when I was a baby,
Luke and Marian, my mommy and daddy,
distracted us with jokes, stories
for me and two year-old Jimmy in the back.
Four days drive from Minnesota's
iron ore mines, icy lakes, memory of snow;
Mississippi's coast would soon be home,
the post WWII Air Force said so.
Hattiesburg, Wiggins, and on to Gulfport,
at last. Gas station ahead, Mommy brushed a stray hair,
dabbed a wash cloth to drops of sweat
on my face, then put on her white gloves.
Stirred up, all smiles for their first stop,
Daddy straightened his tie, pulled up to the gas station
and said Fill it up please, chatted with the white owner
while the blue shirted skinny Black man pumped gas
and cleaned the windshield.
How much do I owe the gentleman?
Daddy asked the White man with glasses
and pencil in his pocket.
Listen here, now, that stern voice warned, If you're going to live here,
understand this: No Colored man is a gentleman, and no Colored
woman is a lady. Don't ever forget.
The silent Black man stood at a distance,
looked away, pretended not to hear.
Shade and Shelter, Kelsay Books, 2018
Shade and Shelter
White Toes lies on the covered porch
of an empty house on a quiet corner.
Tired or weak, he does not speak
his story of escape from dog to dog
aggression, his own home a mile away.
What else happened two months ago?
My Midnight does not spar, does not play,
does not test the waters to connect.
She walks on by. White Toes shrinks into the edges.
Prayers for rain abound, beg for end
of summer’s long drought.
No language comforts this canine
who will not return to his pack.
Mysteries of misunderstandings collide
in my raucous thoughts.
Now two humans have turned from each other.
I cannot explain why I shrank away
but I have told him all I know.
The beech tree spreads its broad leafy arms,
welcome embrace of shade and shelter.
I fill plastic bowls with food and water,
set them down by White Toes on my way home.
Hanging Dog Creek, Future Cycle Press, 2014
Walnut
Suddenly I remember
life is hard.
One walnut tree stands
at the end of my field.
Forty years I watch. It never wanders,
never moves, only sheds its leaves,
drops its weakest branches
when storms rage through the cove.
What is a woman,
but a tree who walks around?
Storms and seasons leave scars
on ripened beauty,
carve hearts in the bark
where mysteries of strength lie
in the eyes of each beholder.
No decision diverts the tree.
A tree does not worry about its fate.
I Hear the River Call my Name, Finishing Line Press, 2007
Out of Print
Manifesto
My body knew
before my mind
made thoughts,
before my voice
found words.
Make peace with loss.
Make friends with change.
A candle flickers.
Blue light drowns
in its own flame.
Secret shards
of hope surrender.
Let me live
where crystal clear creeks
slither over small stones,
ripple over rugged rocks,
slide through the smooth,
and rain and tears are welcome
as sunlight and laughter.
Where birth and death
run the same river bed,
I run my life.
Disorgananza, privately published, 2000
Out of Print
Disorgananza
I live in house disorgananza.
Alarm rings. I get up.
Places to go. Be on time.
No time to fuss. What is clean?
What suits the weather?
What is comfortable?
What size fits today?
In a flash I have it,
see it in my mind
somewhere between
a second cup of coffee
and feeding dogs and cats.
While brushing my teeth
I confirm the blue denim
jumper is clean and unwrinkled,
I need the right shirt. I know the one.
It’s not in the closet.
I dry my hair and think where.
I look in drawer number one
and drawer number two.
I look in the closet again.
I look in the drawer I forgot about.
I mess up the shirts that are not
the right shirts. I have no time
to fold them well again. I cannot
shut the drawers. I move along.
I see the clock. I look for socks
snd shoes, hoping to find
the right shirt in the wrong place.
I see the clock again.
I put on the wrong shirt
with the right jumper.
Off to work I go again