reach ~

25 Monday Jan 2016

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asIamstill

from a breath
another came
a wheel beneath the potter
a dream where once
I danced
and you reclined

beneath a bed
of evening stars
watching as I spun
round about
a lazy winter down

kisses
where each planet
grew
black against
your shining
a single song
whereby I learned
my name

come
and I’ll remember you
when days are
gathered near
when nights I reach
to find
the place
we made

. . .

somewhere dreams ~

08 Friday Jan 2016

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November2014

somewhere dreams
a pasture grows
in shades of green
and grass
paints a promise
rich of royal hues
somewhere
they are making plans
for someday
I’ll be home
a sky beyond
the memory of blue

somewhere still
my name is spoke
whene’er the night
grows calm
a hush above
the everyday release
of breathing in
and breathing out
somewhere
yet am I
a moment unforgotten ~
a whisper through
the trees

. . .

purpose ~

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry

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recalledandthen

A week or so ago, a friend made comment about her search for purpose.

It reminded me of another forever friend who posed the same question a few years back. As her days increased, she wondered whether she had accomplished the purpose for which she was created. It was difficult for her to imagine because she wasn’t sure she knew what it was.

At the time, I remarked that maybe her purpose was intertwined with mine – that our divine purpose was to know each other and love one another.

Quite simple really. Quite noble as well.

When asked a similar question a week ago, my only thought was to everything we know of life and living. If there is but one sacred instruction, it is to love.

If we love, then everything else finds its place – and other commandments are wasted.

So, surely, love is our purpose. Love changes the weight of all our days such that even the smallest tasks become amazing accomplishments. The least of us becomes more than we might have imagined, might have planned, might have dreamed.

With love as our purpose, we become more than just the sum of our days.

stay
where I have lingered
a whisper on the wind
a fragile light
along the window pane
dream
where once
I fell to sleep
calling out your name
stay
that I might
love you here
again

. . .

marigold ~

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry

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youknewmehere

for every time
another was
a mirror
yet become
ageless as the skin
along my thigh
purple blooms
a marigold
as somehow I recall
nights beyond
the catching
of a window
to my soul

fleeting
was for memorizing
webs
and sheets alike
listen now
to hear
my ancient cry
was soft
as echoes left me
knew before
my time
songs I never
learned to sing
aloud

. . .

creases ~

03 Sunday Jan 2016

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immortal

pages folded
spine to spine
your head upon my shoulder
where soft
the tangled spent
of words is kept
silent as my heart
reverbs…
to still the oldest current
of home to call us
deeper now
than bone

tears
a sweet assurance
of years beyond my own
ten thousand more
might dare I speak
and wonder
there your name
from creases
in becoming
where I was
before as now

pages drying
words –
a single sun

. . .

more ~

29 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Uncategorized

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findme1

“As life becomes more fragile, it also becomes more beautiful………..”

Just yesterday, those words were typed in response to a note from a dear friend. In some ways, perhaps they were an ‘off the cuff’ reaction to a kindness offered, a blessing still.

But I thought on them last night and realized (even as the night wore on) just how much truth can be held in such a few words.

Life is surely fragile. It has been from the start. And maybe (just maybe) when we were babies, our parents realized how precious and nimble our life was. Maybe they even felt that way themselves, as they held us near wondering just how far they had come from the day they wished for such joy.

But in the living, we can lose sight of how easily it could all come unhinged. We spread our wings, dropping our defenses along the way. And before we have time to reconsider, we’ve become invincible.

And then we get older, and those we love get older. Somehow, this simple fact causes us to slow (to strain against the momentum of dying), so that once again, we realize the delicate wonder that comes with living.

And when we do, we see things new – we see things as beautiful.

We see them as they are, as they’ve always been.

I thought a bit more, and realized that life hadn’t changed at all through this process. What changed was our perception, our awareness both of life and in the things which make it worth living.

beautiful
fragile
fleeting
 all

. . .

‘little boy’ skin ~

28 Monday Dec 2015

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We chat about redbuds and the best kind of molasses. Lessons are made of wings to the feeder, rainbows fleeting just beyond the window sill. Stories are retold time and again.

He’s reminisced more than once about his grandmother (Darthula) and of his favorite time of year – the anticipated weeks just before her arrival, before her visit (she traveled by foot o’er many miles, unless someone with a wagon was coming their way).

She held him closer than most, breathed in his ‘little boy’ skin, whispered kisses, baked like a mad woman, and brought with her a treat they otherwise couldn’t well afford – corn flakes.

Prior to his birth, there was no real baby, as the youngest of the children had passed. He was both unexpected and treasured. His sisters spoiled, as his brothers watched over him.

He didn’t care much for eggs, but loved sausage (still loves sausage). Grandpa would sometimes rise at two just to fry him up a skillet full.

There is no leaving…no pulling back.

I speak with others and quite often, the conversation is the same, ‘I know it kills you to see him this way.’

I suppose that’s true – in a way. I wouldn’t wish this current circumstance on him, but on the other hand, I certainly wouldn’t let it keep me away. If the only options are to see him ‘this way’ or not to see him, well, there’s hardly any room for indecision.

If age and disease persist in taking bits of him, then surely, they must love him as I do.

To be truly blessed in the loving, we must find the blessing in every part of letting go, for it is in that place (of grace) that we build what will be left for clinging to later on. Sorrow is a divine inheritance – the same as joys we could not bear part from.

The wrens clamor for the darkest of the seeds, while songbirds wait patiently their favorites. Redbud boughs bend as hymns waft through nearly silent halls – where blessings are whispered without regard for the taking.

of ways
I still remember
how it was
to hold you near
though time has passed
and left no scar
at all
winds are blowing
how I love
the song they hesitate
names I spoke aloud
I speak again
leave to me
the everything –
of all I’ve known to love
let the years
forget not long –
the path
we came
for getting on

. . .