Category Archives: home

within a dream ~

23 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry

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daddy's birds

soul –
was I a reminder
of times beyond your reach
a story (stitched
from memory) –
echoes of release

words and verses
scattered
to places (without name)
a time when there
was nothing –
(and everything) the same

of lives
before our breathing
a souvenir (or two)
a journey made within
a dream –
(the only way
we knew)

. . .

Author’s Note:  I’m not sure where this started, but was pleased with the result.  Then, as I was looking for an image to accompany, I found this one – of the birds outside my daddy’s window more than a year ago.  Of lives before our breathing, a souvenir (or two)…. ❤

another almost this ~

27 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by in home, Poetry, Storytelling

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I dreamed
beyond the edges
into a thicker deep
where buttercup and lilac
weaved a spot of shade
of one more
ever after
one more winter past
rocking chairs
wherein my laughter sits
reminders of another day
another almost
this
nights when not a one
were stars
we made

. . .

Author’s Note:  Many years back, my sister gifted my daddy with a concrete bunny for Father’s Day.  It sat in the grass next to an aging bird bath, with one exception.  When it was time for mowing, my daddy would lift the bunny to sit atop the bird bath so that it wouldn’t be accidentally forgotten, damaging both the bunny and the blade.  For almost two years now, it has sat atop the birdbath.  Though time has passed, we know the hands that put it there and have no desire to displace it.

How often do we need reminders of love?

. . .

tethered ~

20 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry

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“Sometimes, in the midst of a crazy day or a crazier week, I get an email from my brother, ‘meet you below the falls in five minutes’. And just like that, I am somewhere else, breathing in the cold spray from high above, as laughter echoes off canyon walls. Even now, I close my eyes and hear the wonderful music that is bare feet on flat rocks.”

If we’re fortunate, we realize the blessing in the midst of its becoming rather than only in retrospect. In doing so, we free ourselves from bitterness, regret, and a future filled with frustration as we attempt to re-write the past.

In doing so, we erase the illusion that is time.

While the body may be tethered to the advance of hours, years, seasons, love is not. As someone near and dear to me commented recently, ‘How time dissolves in the mind, when our frame of reference is simply love …’

Touché

it won’t feel like Christmas until ~

22 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by in home, Poetry, Storytelling

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thesmokies

You’ve heard it before. It seems everyone is asked to complete the sentence from time to time – even as the final moments sneak by on Christmas eve.

I personally love the answers. Some wait for a certain movie to play (It’s a Wonderful Life, my favorite) or they wait for snow, the first Christmas card, a call from across the miles. Regardless, for most, there is a trigger that pulls them (sometimes kicking) into the spirit of these days.

Last weekend, I spent an uncomfortable amount of time at Home Depot. People were beginning to think I worked there. In fact, I helped one lady by pushing her cart to the registers.

And while I am rarely without the Christmas spirit (even in June), I was losing my taste for home renovation options!

But as I was searching for the appropriate aisle for molding, I realized the music had changed.  O, they were playing Christmas music, albeit most of it was what I refer to as ‘retail’ Christmas music. But then, on the aisle between hinges and paint thinner, it changed – Joy to the World began playing. It was only the music, but I recognized it immediately. It was enough….

I’ll admit that I am a terrible singer (and a worse dancer), but I couldn’t resist. I began singing and the more I sang, the louder I became, and the more I felt Christmas cooling in my bones.

From one aisle to the next, I sang……..the first verse and then again (the only verse I knew for certain the words).

Since then, a co-worker gave me a tiny picture frame ornament; another, a sand and driftwood candle; and still another – a new birdhouse (guess they’ll be moving out of the grill), feeder, and ten pounds of wild birdseed.

Just this morning, as I made the turn beside a church on my way to work, two does stopped in their morning walk to watch me (hey you).

I feel it everywhere, but right here (pointing to heart) the most. It’s in all I do – hope, faith, family, angels, my daddy, the Smoky Mountains, evergreen, music, and love (always love).

Christmas is come………and I was home!!!

Merry Christmas to you. May your heart be filled to overflowing.  Joy (sweet joy) to the world!

Evermore,
Bobbie

dreams of temporary ~

09 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry

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somewherestill

take of breath
my last surrender –
cleave these tired hands
tell me now of promise
never meant
to understand

when nothing else
is mattered –
will you watch
or dare you stay
skin to skin
beat to beating –
one more leaving
held at bay

roads were lost
but I won’t let them
take of these
the best I am –
burn the house
and clear the pasture
life will live
love will last

beyond these dreams
of temporary
things I have not voice
to tell
nights beyond
the reach of morning
heaven split
the realms of hell

take me home
tempt not slumber –
another time for us allowed
worry not for days
forsaken –
memories to grieve
now

. . .

round and round ~

08 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry, Storytelling

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toloveyoumore

Earlier today, I was thinking about my sister, of a chapter just beginning new for her as her youngest son heads off to college. She’ll be fine because he will be. She’s given him all he needs to be successful, even if it means pushing him from the nest.

But then I arrived at work, and in a little bit, I heard the tragic news that a co-worker’s husband had been killed over the weekend when he lost control of his bicycle on a downhill curve. He was 56.

Yesterday, my nephew spoke of a lesson he shared with his Sunday school class – of the fleeting nature of life – a vapor.

And I am reminded (more often as I get older) of the truth in that analogy, but also another. That the vapor, while momentary, lingers far beyond the length of a day, a lifetime, a season. It can return at the first hint of blossoms in the spring, a cedar chest opened years later, a stutter of memory, as brief the scent of perfume pressed into pages nearly dried.

To be honest, the combined scent of lemon and moth balls can bring me near to tears.

We are never far from the things we love, regardless of what we might tell ourselves. The things that matter become a part of us. A song replayed can break my heart new, and yet, I find myself drawn to the melody sometimes.

Knowing full well what will happen, it is a welcome break for it is a reminder of a truth I dare not deny, as permanent as the scar that lines my thumb, a name forever on my lips.

softly now
as breezes blow
to heal the ancient pines
names as dust repeated
soothe again
rhythm born of rocking
once beneath the stars
a hand to hold
when all the lights
go dim

. . .

days we journeyed ~

10 Tuesday May 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry

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homereturning

As I get older, I’m more and more aware of time and the measured beats by which it slips away – between our fingers, loosed within breaths, tangled between the bed and wall………. All that we’ve held, but for fraction of eternity, and yet, still, until there is nothing left of us for holding to.

Eventually, we are no more than the sum of those who have loved us, those who grieve us when the night is long and the earth so very cold, who glory the sound of our name, regardless the passing of days (or lifetimes) between.

This morning, I spoke with a dear friend whose father passed yesterday. We’ve talked before about daddies and love that seems most cherished between a daughter and father. When she came to me today, it was with her arms open and eyes spilling over. She knew I would know, that I would feel the pain of her loss the same as I’ve relished the wonderful fullness of her life before this day.

She may not feel it now, but in a few days, that fullness will be her salvation. It will be the reminder of just how rich we can be, with only the presence of love in our lives, spilling to encompass everything we know.

In that fullness, I pray for her tears of gratitude.

Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed.  Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace and gratitude. ~ Denis Waitley

how far from this
were days we journeyed
paths grown over –
weeds divine
mark the way
where once we tarried
beneath the bounty
of love’s design

. . .

beyond the firelight ~

03 Tuesday May 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry, Storytelling

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If you know me, you’ve come to understand that much of what I believe to be true I learned early, nurtured by love, and surrounded by nature. I rarely read anything without finding another perspective, one in which the lesson is made clearer, sweeter, with a foundation as dear as old roots and ancient stars.

Yesterday, I read something about grief and immediately determined another point of reference (simply of love).

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of camping. Earlier this week, mama and I talked about some of those times, those which are as near today as they were then (close your eyes, brother).

One such endearment lies within the process my mom and dad had for getting us to bed at night. Mom would take us to the bath house earlier in the evening (before dark), and we would return to sit around the fire after supper. As it got later, at some point, daddy would fill a dishpan with warm water and would, one by one, wash our feet and carry us to the tent. What a wonderful memory!

Truly, in retrospect, I’ve come to understand that this was likely an effort to protect the tent from dirty feet…………yet, still……..

The thing I read about grief compared death to the extinguishing a lamp before going to bed. But my immediate point of reference was to nights around the fire. If you’ve been camping, you know that people tend to retire slowly rather than all at once. I recall lying in the tent, listening to conversations taking place around the fire, mesmerized by shadows dancing on the canvas.

What a lovely thought, to think of those who’ve gone on, knowing they are as close as the next room, just beyond the canvas. While we linger around the fire, tending to life, they have retired to dream……….where they wait for us………….

For another dawn, with air so clean it surely is the breath of God, and of bacon frying over an open fire!

. . .

beyond the will
where living still
a fire burns
the brighter

. . .

another past ~

29 Friday Apr 2016

Posted by in home, Poetry

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nearandyetnear

whene’er
the spell of twilight
burns
to steal a sky so blue ~
will then I pause
my heart in wonder
how much of time
tis breath
til you
and I are found ~
when days no longer
move to block the path returned
how many stars
were wishes trailing ~
trade but for some other
spurned –
will find a place
within my soul
reflections of another past
nights
when I was famous ~
even so ~
left my name
amid your secrets
fallen stars
now taking hold

. . .

simply ~

20 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in home, Poetry, Rambling, Uncategorized

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“Sometimes, in the midst of a crazy day or a crazier week, I get an email from my brother, ‘meet you below the falls in five minutes’.   And just like that, I am somewhere else, breathing in the cold spray from high above, as laughter echoes off canyon walls.   Even now, I close my eyes and hear the wonderful music that is bare feet on flat rocks.”

 

If we’re fortunate, we realize the blessing in the midst of its becoming rather than only in retrospect. In doing so, we free ourselves from bitterness, regret, and a future filled with frustration as we attempt to re-write the past.

In doing so, we erase the illusion that is time.

While the body may be tethered to the advance of hours, years, seasons, love is not.  As someone near and dear to me commented recently, ‘How time dissolves in the mind, when our frame of reference is simply love …’

Touché

. . .

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