proof of you ~

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backtome

moments kept
of living past –
a stone for each
somewhere
a keyless lock
tied with paper cord

o careless soul
what proof of you –
as smoke into the wasting
ashes cured
to make a place
for love

a narrow bed
against the wall
can hardly feel the light
tho rumors are
of one who burns
for me

. . .

voices ~

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itsallcomingbacktomenow

When does it end, she wondered.

I hate this wallpaper. I wish I could remember who it was that thought this was a good pattern for me.

(probably your mother or someone else long gone)

It’s a good thing.

She wasn’t going to pee. It was obvious now. She’d tried all the usual tricks: turning on the faucet, focusing, even pressing against that little bowl right at the base of her spine.

It isn’t really a bowl; I’m not sure it has a name.

(does it matter; it isn’t working)

No, but then again, she hadn’t really expected it to. When she tried explaining it to her doctor, he grunted (she was sure) and gave her a look. You know the one – the one that says you’ve convinced yourself of something that isn’t true.

Maybe I should change doctors.

(really)

Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen unless he died. But she’d thought several times that it made her uncomfortable for him to know her so well.

(shouldn’t he)

How long had it been?

Almost forty years. How was that possible? And yet, with each visit, she saw the proof in him that she was getting older. She had toyed with the idea of finding someone else, it was never a thought she took seriously.

Who could I trust?

(who do you need to trust; trust with what; the fact that you no longer have hair where you used to and what is there, isn’t the same color)

Still.

Still she didn’t feel quite the weight of years as long as there was someone who knew how she got to ‘here’. She read once of a device that would allow you to carry all of your medical history with you, on a string around your neck. But what about the other history, the stuff that couldn’t be seen with an x-ray or pulled from strands of dna? How did loss look under a microscope? She was proof that some scars couldn’t be seen.

She bit the inside of her mouth, as if somehow the tears would spill forward to her tongue instead of down her face.

. . .

Author’s Note: Why I don’t write novels – she’d never get out of the bathroom.

yellow paper dreams ~

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eternitieshere

I met you
on abandoned roads
where no one goes but friends of mine
are keeping up pretenses
for how it used to be –
swore to never say your name
but when choices came
I called you up
once or twice wondering
how you managed
just to be
the sweetest of a time
forgotten now

I met you
eastbound and northern
on trains that never touched –
but passed within a shimmer
of yellow paper dreams
on rails that sighed in my voice
stretched beneath
and miles beyond
ten thousand giant cedars
wing’ed ones –
remembered us to
song

I met you
on the coming back –
a story for repeating
you said you knew me
when
you knew me how
held as one an august night
as gentle rains
descending –
morning broke
in dust and smoke
its creamy winter skies

. . .

early sign of fall ~

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whereandstill

the trees
have shed their blossoms
– an early sign of fall
was here we walked
once hand in hand
and never spoke at all

of plans beyond
the drifting –
beyond the moon’s embrace
were moments
we would carry
into grace

a page or two
of history
as need
untouched by time
remembers not
the parting –
a breath as yours
or mine

. . .

one kentucky (after all) ~

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leavemenotforothers

I’ve seen my share
(was home to) bluer pastures…
seen fences (rusted wire),
barns that rose from ashes
to the stars…
I’ve lost it all
beneath the blue
Kentucky (fell one summer…)
but still I see the stains
upon my fingers…
(the smell of winter hay)
will always be,
without the need for getting
over —
Was not a hurt (awaiting)
to be healed…
a moment to be filled
with something more…
There’s no need
to carve another over this –
tis only one
Kentucky…only one
as this within my heart,
the weathered barn….
(sleeps with warm tonight)…

Wasn’t love the same
yet I’m amazed
at those (who raise the match)…
would seal the scars
with tar and bind their eyes
from looking back…
Would deem all memories
(the same)…
and deep within
an emptiness (holds the only proof)
here love was kept…
a house no longer furnished
(piano no one plays)…
Names are never uttered
lest the pain become renewed…
tis a ritual
of painting (over everything)…
til truth is nothing more
and nothing (just the same)…

Only love remains –
one Kentucky (just as blue)
moments kept apart –
restored to pasture…
(september sun)…
Stars were never less
for their shining…
never dimmed (into the black)
on which they burn…..

The bluest grass
still grows beyond the
meadows (I can see)…
and love
will never be a place
to get beyond…
Forever (both)
become much dearer
(initials carved in wood)…
poems penned to leaves
(the scent of maple)…
a key returned
the tender world (of me)….

. . .

Author’s Note: Time is an arrow, and yet (yet) some words
stay with us longer than others. I’ve likely written thousands
of things in my life, and this remains one of those most dear.

candlelight ~

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sweet
the song of southern tea
a somewhere
heaven found
reaches loving fingers
to the porch
as low the evening
shutters
in swarms of honey bees
as nightbirds
bring their babies
back to homeallIhave

crickets
raise their fiddles
in perfect melody
beetles crow
a language almost gone
alone as one
cicada
forgotten when to sleep
hovers near a mem’ry
of flight

june bugs
curse beyond my sight
in search of mid july
another world
becomes
of candlelight
the sure embrace of summer
lanterns take to wing
a message passed
to stillness
we both know

learning
sometimes lets me in
for hours
I can’t speak –
as silence lays
in whispers to my skin
dreams are spent
awaking
another hush tonight
as bare the drum
of anxious feet
to board

For three years, I’ve searched for a screen door – a gate worthy of keeping my porch.  Seems simple, I know, but not so very.  I didn’t want new, or unused, or unloved.  I wanted warped and scarred, squeaky and rusting, a handle polished by a lifetime of love, of leaving and coming back ’round.

Today I traveled to the area known to me best, hills and dips marking the edges to my first heaven.  A general store with dirt floors, and the ghost of an old register and blue horse writing tablets.  Down the way, an old house taken over by weeds.  But, o……….so much more!  And there, fastened still to falling porch, my door.  She’s been waiting, and I’ve been patient.

Now, well surely the story writes us whole.

your only wish ~

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leaningin

blues
and purple clover
spilled beneath my skirt
as intimate
the weave
of earth to sky
rings of more
than one could keep
a memory of light
– lacey pieces
scattered on the lawn

time
revealing everything
we never meant to say
and yet
for this –
I sit so long the night
wrapped within
your only wish –
once before was fell
to where I wait
in shadows
of your sleep

breathing
eased
before the dew
can rise again
to wing
before the cricket’s song
the swallow sings
of heaven
o thy sleepy eyes
speak so lovingly
of ancient rite
and nights
of evergreen

. . .

nmw ~

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Recently, a few friends and I were sharing concern for another – one who seems to struggle from time to time, and who, as a rule, is surrounded by drama. In developing a plan to help, we lamented over possible causes. For surely, any work on a fix without understanding seemed futile.

At one point, my sister brought to attention something we had not considered.nearertoheaven

He has a great job, and a great wife. I’m sure he has many friends, but I wonder how strong the nets.

The result was a discussion about ‘no matter what’ relationships; those that endure regardless of time, circumstance, or the number of times someone says (or doesn’t say) “I love you”. I reflected that I have numerous friends, and we each depend on the assurance of our friendship – one that ‘you couldn’t mess up if you wanted to’. My sister calls those the ‘end of the day’ anchors – the knowledge that regardless of what the day brings, at the end of the day, we have each other. I’m one of her anchors, and she one of mine.

Later, when I thought about this, I realized the worth of that talk in helping our friend.

At the same time, I realized I’ve never been without such anchors; so that it is somewhat difficult for me to imagine an existence without them. And yet, my students struggle with something as simple as providing references, because they’ve burned all those bridges, and in some cases, severed the cords that tied them to love and a ‘no matter what’ place.

For those without such assurance, I can only imagine the feeling of loss. But then again, how do you miss something you never had?

I’ve long suspected drama as a means for pulling people to you (even if unintentional). Maybe, at our core, we do realize something is missing; we just don’t have a name for it.

I think I was like most kids growing up, in that I saw every family the same as mine. It was not until much later that I found that not to be the case. I recall a friend whose parents were divorced, and I envied her freedoms. Not until recently did I learn how she envied me for having parents who worried when I was late, someone whose permission I needed ask. My friend – she’s another ‘no matter what – end of day’ part of all I know of truth.  Attachment?  You bet.  ❤

Even now, if leaving my parents for home, I call to report when I’ve arrived safely. The anchor they provided me is the same one I offer them now. Not a day starts for me without a text from my brother and my sisters….a reminder of what I know already – that I am loved – no matter what.

Take away my clothing, my earrings, my favorite homemade apple butter.  Take it all, and still I am rich, for that which simply is, that which waits while I sleep.

Without these scarlet cords, what would I be? A ship in the darkness, a kite without a tender hand to guide.

whatever this
a stillness warmed
by all I know to be –
words are not yet formed
for love I feel
floats within
these precious seas
tis more to breath
than blood –
more to fate than scars
a lantern held aloft
beside the stars

. . .

in search of beginning ~

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reminders

I’ve wandered the past
in search of beginning
and asked of myself
what you knew
never told

how long
might forever
be weighted by reason
and where are the answers
I left by the gate

tied by intention –
the burden of faith

surely the soul
is permitted another
surrender –
the color
I knew by your name

. . .

unnoticed ~

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almostalwayshome

of saturdays
to notice –
the way I feel for you
has never changed
the angle of the sun
where flowers gather fragrance
near the dusted road –
where wings have spread
a canopy divine

a swarm of song
each thought becomes
a parting just as dear –
returning
nimble briars unto spring
berries crushed beneath us –
a favored lullaby
is whispered without word
above the pines

answers
I’ve been weaving back
into the first I knew
moments casting shadows on the night
seeking recognition
of pages yet unturned –
an ancient quest
with nothing left
to rhyme

last I dreamed
for more than this –
some absolute of life
where golden sat
the moon
beside the barn
seasons went unnoticed –
one and still you are
a welcome home
remembered –
every time

. . .