10 Friday Jun 2016
cedar
umbrellas
and a whisper at nine –
just as the pink
fades to grey
as dusk lays
her ancient white hands
to my dreams
secrets escape
to the dark
show me
to love you –
beg me recall
with words
I have none
but these lips
who speak within silence
of long –
long agos
of worlds we returned
remember
. . .
09 Thursday Jun 2016
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
Tags
faith, habits, hope, learning, life, love, nature, seeing in the dark, truth, understanding, wisdom, worth
This morning, as I arrived for work and exited my car, I heard something – an almost silent droning – like a distant lawn mower, but closer.
It was sweetly familiar and before I found the source, I knew already what I would find. In the bushes to the front of my car, I saw a discarded coffee cup sitting upright in the mulch, obviously left behind by landscapers.
Inside the cup, a bumblebee.
The cup was probably about ten inches tall, and I knew instinctively what would happen if I did nothing. The bumblebee would die in the cup. He would swarm and swarm in circles, the excessive flutter of his tiny wings echoing off the cardboard, filling the summer air with the sound of jet engines on idle. He would never think to look up. It’s their nature – to search frantically in circles for a way out where none exists.
To be honest, I used to think it was the same way with tiny birds trapped in my garage, until quite by accident, I discovered a perfect little nest inside the plastic armor that protected the garage door opener.
But back to the bumblebee. I was immediately reminded that sometimes we are the same way. We can wear ourselves out looking for something (a way out) that doesn’t exist and never think to reach beyond our habits, beyond our preconceived notion of how things should work. It may just be a different way of frying cornbread or it could be in the way we look at love. Perhaps our clearest vision exists beyond the reach of our understanding.
“The world is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
reach beyond
this dusty view
into the heart
of all I am –
where mountains
stretch
to meet the clouds
where wings
unspoken soar
NOTE: For those who might be wondering, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t knocked the cup over. Some things are worth the risk of being stung (ahhh, and there another story)…….
. . .
03 Friday Jun 2016
Posted in Poetry
how is it
becoming –
a memory true
as the near perfect shade
of chestnut
of root
the filter of lilacs
lavender
moss
as a dream
now surrendered –
tendered by loss
as another I held you
another I wept –
long past the edges
writ for me here
in scripted
assurance –
promise and vine
paths given way
to the margins of time
a keeper unseasoned
by love
at its best
purpose made sweet
by forgiveness
confessed
let me to know
of a place
not so far
as the essence
of lilac –
a night in the stars
. . .
12 Thursday May 2016
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
it was the way
I felt
when I dreamed
of nothing –
not the road ahead
nor the turning round
to ease the path
of forgotten lessons –
light from somewhere
just beyond
my hands to grieve
as hearts to flutter
dare my feet
to dance again
was here we swayed
in sweet communion
– a waltz
recalled as light
to dream
. . .
03 Tuesday May 2016
Posted in a time for telling, home, Poetry, Storytelling
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
. . .
17 Thursday Mar 2016
Posted in Poetry, Storytelling
ruby crush
as sapphire
comes to roost
outside my door
morning
finds a place
where lovers wait
beyond the reach
of shadow –
a song
I strain to hear
a wanderer
made home again
leans against
the gate
lilac taints
the walkway –
where honeysuckle
climbs
to meet at once
a star
she meant to claim
some far away
forgotten here
except by butterflies
a lazy bee
who knows them all
by name
. . .
08 Tuesday Mar 2016
Posted in Poetry
Tags
beginnings, creation, divine this, hush, inspiration, life, love, nature, truth
have I naught
one memory
of hands –
my hands before
maps were drawn
lines impressed –
a softer
winter canvas lay
where
was I
the captain
of some other ancient star
oceans slid
beneath
my one desire
message buried
deeper still
than e’er my love
command
cast about –
written down
another world created –
where flowers burst
from whispers –
touch
beyond
these hands
. . .
07 Monday Mar 2016
Posted in Poetry, Storytelling
04 Friday Mar 2016
silver snare
of aged boughs
dust beneath the day
an almost mute
reminder
of another
I can’t say
where and why
it made me blush
for reasons –
none so sweet
as moments
begged my
swollen heart
retreat
to the safety
of forgetting
how it felt
do you recall –
were there stars
and did we grieve
their silent
fall
from grace
were wishes whispered
without fear
for something less
would change
this fragile life
into one
of thankfulness
this prayer
to joys counted
some but once
tho some by name
a light
beyond the searching
where for love
the light became
a golden heat
beneath the snow
where tender
sleeps
the crimson dawn
. . .
02 Wednesday Mar 2016
Posted in Poetry
a flushing breath
of starlings
spread to crease
an eastern sky –
the tepid glow
where gathered me
to dawn
crickets sigh
in serenade –
of afternoon to eve
a quiet ne’er the same
as you recall
seasons mark the
passing
of yesterday to flight
to evermore –
as I remember well
the tender ring
of silence spent –
days and weeks
no differ
than moments kept
to echo
in my heart
. . .
Starry-eyed Writer, Cautious Philosopher, Hopeful Romantic
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