I’ve considered Doris a close friend for almost two decades. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. We’re members of the same poetry critique group and her insights, advice, and suggestions are invaluable. I’ve long admired her desire to continue learning the craft of poetry as she’s attended classes for years.

Doris’s poems are so tight that each word carries weight and nothing is ever wasted. Yet in her sparse poems, Doris paints a full and colorful image and tells a full story. She writes of ordinary things, but there is nothing ordinary in her poignant poems.

Doris’s first book of poetry, Searching for Maypops, was published through Finishing Line Press. With Doris’s permission I’m including two of her poems from her most recent collection, Scent of Tangerine, Lulu (Titles are bolded)

So here’s Doris!

1. Do you remember the first poem you ever wrote? How old were you? What was it about?

The first poem I wrote at about age 13 was an awful forced-rhyme quatrain of the moon/ June variety! Mercifully, it no longer exists.

2. If you could share a cup of coffee or tea, or raise a glass of wine with any poet, living or deceased, whom would it be?

I would welcome the opportunity to share a cup of tea or coffee with Anthony S Abbott.

Ladder

He rushes home

from work to use

the bit of daylight left.

The roof needs

cleaning off

before rain comes.

He has no ladder

but in the time

it takes to go

to town and back

he can make one.

–

The woods are nearby.

Two saplings stripped

of twigs and leaves

bark still on

will do for uprights.

–

Here is the shed. Use

one wide, painted board

two weathered slats

(nails popping loose) and

a round piece from a chair leg.

–

Straighten nails on the anvil

hammer cross pieces into place

prop the ladder against the eaves

climb up and sweep away clumps.

–

Job done

lay the ladder

on the ground

so the children

won’t be tempted

to climb.

–

–

At the Memorial Garden

My granddaughter’s chubby

fist wields a toy scoop

lifts ashes from the urn

sprinkles the grass

and the Lenten roses

then sand-showers the marker

for the grandfather

who would have rejoiced

at the miracle of her being.

–

She is like a new

blueberry cane

that travels out from sturdy home

to grow under brown mulch

and spring up into sunlight

pale leaves

turning robust green.

–

What will she know

of her roots?

We will show pictures

tell stories

create a memory

so vivid

she will come to believe

they knew each other.

–

–

Doris Thomas Browder ~ Scent of Tangerine

Available through Lulu.com

Searching for Maypops, Finishing Line Press