sparkle ~

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Over the weekend, I agonized a bit over making a picture of myself. I tend to love being on the other side of the lens, and in my agonizing I realized why. I like the view and I see (I think) with kinder eyes, especially when looking at those I love. I suspect it’s because I have a deeper appreciation for story.ward

I thought about a black and white picture that adorns several things here, and why I love it. Surely, I was younger, but the appeal is not that. I love the picture because it represents a time when I was new to the big city, and yet at home most in jeans and flannel. In that perception, not much has changed.

But, a new picture reminds me that I’m not that girl anymore (and yet, I am).

Putting on eye shadow has never been difficult for me. And yet, I can’t help but notice a difference in recent years – the skin moves with the brush as always, but it doesn’t bounce back. I like thinking that the lines in my eyelids, as well as those around my eyes and smile, are etchings of experience, lines of character. They’re proof of the story.

Life is full of wrinkles, and wrinkles are reminders that life has been lived. Regardless of what miracle creams we use, we can’t “un-live” life, and trying to erase the journey seems rather sad to me.

Age is a funny thing. I think of how many times we hear the words, “If I had known then what I know now …”  The truth of the matter, though, is that what happened then is why we know what we know now. Perhaps, we should try to appreciate all of the experiences, even those we find to be least comfortable. Life is filled with happy stories, sad tales, and the making of more than a few lines.

“Some women and men over forty spend money fighting gravity with cosmetics and cosmetic surgery. That’s their ball game. That’s their parade. More power to them. There was once this woman named Gertrude Stein. She was the aesthetic opposite of Marilyn Monroe. I never knew Ms. Stein but from what I’ve read about her life I would venture to say that she was approximately (there’s no way of measuring such things…well, there are a couple of ways) a million times happier than Marilyn Monroe. Sexy on the outside doesn’t do much for ugly on the inside. This isn’t to say that Marilyn Monroe was ugly on the inside. I’m sure she was really f…ing gorgeous on the inside, too. Bottom line: sparkle on the INSIDE can enhance ANYTHING on the outside.”

I can’t imagine ever not loving hip hugger jeans, but the days of wearing them with a bright yellow halter are past. Instead, they’re worn with an old t-shirt, a bit of sparkle, and a story. The story is worth every single line.gulfshores

In that, I am also reminded of words a sweet soul once shared with me. In a moment of madness, I fretted over competing with women younger and prettier. The response is one I hold near to this day, ‘but you’re a poet’……….

fancy this
a truth divine
was never meant
for losing –
and somewhere still
the sea retreats
and never feels the sand

. . .

so ~

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10405596_849570205075846_8708034781374413298_n

all
and for only
an eternity this
held to the warmth
of my heart
a poem to feel
as surrender
it seems
was somewhere intended
in living to go
what will
have I garnered
shall I witness anew
held to the flame
you are setting
me so

. . .

wander ~

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returningmehome

how fragile
this knowing
of all I have searched
in shadows
(beyond where shadows are kept)
and dared flying closer
(lord knows I tried)
to leave without leaving
the essence of none

as touch
(still allowing)
of heaven’s
release
a soft sweet
surrender
as one with the breeze
moves on the light
(is a song)
thru the trees –
willing to wonder
of all I endear
a moment
and I am returned
(unforsaken)
as love in becoming –
flight
without fear

of another beginning
a fortune untold
asleep with my hands
(at work) in my
soul

. . .

rainbows ~

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letmego
morning
and I hear
soul in the rain
dancing the two step
on tin

shimmering light
as rainbows
I colored
of faraway places
retracing
again

soft recollection
of kiss
and caress
storms in the forest
– dreams
we begin

branches
are touching
where music still plays
a murmur
of longing
let loose
to the wind

. . .

this way ~

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whereandyou

woodsmoke
and somewhere
cedar is burning
a waiting reminded
of all I have known
of paths
through the waking
of wilderness wandered
I still feel
the briars
kissing my bones

at the scent
of blackberries
warm woolen socks
a bed turned
to facing
the love of the sun

patches
laid bare
within this returning
stitched into pattern
my favorite
one

I remember the chill
your breath
was just catching
and I was a moment
held you
this way

. . .

left on the morning ~

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whoIamnow

destiny sleeps
in sheets of november
a provision
of summers long passed
bested in shades –
a blush yet becoming
the same as was once
you saw me
this way

kissed by the shadows
and left
on the morning
wanting for nothing
but another first time
returning as blossom
unremembered
to falling

as thistle to reason –
longing divine

let me to find you
when snow
bends the cedars
as wintertime warmed
to a place
by my name
take of my always
one more hereafter
sleep where I’m dreaming
with memories
of may

. . .

blanket of secrets ~

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returnedthesame

recalled as dew
– the comfort
of morn
as light unto shadows
I once I held you near
and pulled to the corners
the essence
of night
a blanket of secrets
tell me again
why the moon rises
to watch from afar –
and where go the wishes
when falling
for me

. . .

held by the edges ~

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i will remember
this day
as a moment so tender
held by the edges
and folded just so

my soul will
revisit
the gift in its giving
where the light of forever
was shown first
to me

Author’s Note: I’ve spent the last few days at a lake cabin
owned by new friends. It is a place which calls us only ever (just) to be.
Leaves 
fall as schedules scatter.

. . .

David&BethsPlace

close ~

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justthis

close
as another
a silent goodbye
is lost to the whispers
I once held you near
fading the feelings
surrendered to word
laces and graces
willing me home

a trail
where the river
turns toward the sea
a wish
never meant
for a star

times I was certain
nights I was here
led by a dream
forever
somehow
was written in letters
folded by years
ink stained
these fingers
where voice

is recalled
a hush of remember
as quiet resounds
to sit in the still
unwilling
to go

. . .