Roberta Hill Whiteman Poems

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Morning Talk

"Hi, guy," said I to a robin
perched on a pole in the middle
of the garden. Pink and yellow

Horses In Snow

They are a gift I have wanted again.
Wanted: One moment in mountains
when winter got so cold

Philadelphia Flowers

In the cubbyhole entrance to Cornell and Son,
a woman in a turquoise sweater
curls up to sleep. Her right arm seeks

Reaching Yellow River

"It isn't a game for girls,"
he said, grabbing a fifth
with his right hand,
the wind with his left.

In The Summer After “Issue Year” Winter (1873)

I scratch earth around timpsila
on this hill, while below me,
hanging in still air, a hawk

I'Uni Kwi Athi? Hiatho.

White horses, tails high, rise from the cedar.
Smoke brings the fat crickets,
trembling breeze.

In The Longhouse, Oneida Museum

House of five fires, you never raised me.
Those nights when the throat of the furnace
wheezed and rattled its regular death,
I wanted your wide door,

Leap In The Dark

Stoplights edged the licorice street with ribbon,
neon embroidering wet sidewalks. She turned
into the driveway and leaped in the dark. A blackbird

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