Tag Archives: southern

enough to reconsider ~

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

Posted by in home, Poetry, Rambling, spirituality, Storytelling, verse

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

thirty miles
is not so far
tho less along the fences
lines already drawn
from heart to home
the road curves back
beside a creek
I remember once you held me –
the water was so cold
I cried for days

there’s a weathered bridge
a leaning barn
winter wheat and locust
boxes stand as one
their flags aloft
afternoons
the sun wears low
enough to reconsider
how many loves
forsaken to this road

cadillacs
and beat up trucks –
drift along the shoulder
pass without a curse
without a pause –
a fleeting recognition
of someone
once you loved
can’t see the tears
beyond the years
can’t say I’ve had enough
of honeysuckle
gravel roads
heaven spread before

weeds have bound
my thirsty heart
to yours

thirty miles
is not so far
lest I lose my way –
wait the creek to rise
would take me home

. . .

golden ~

29 Sunday Mar 2020

Posted by in Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling, verse

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

memories

as the essence
of remember
floating golden thru the trees –
fingers reach beyond
the midday sun
fumbling with moments
love forgot to say –
sunlight swirls
in feeling just begun

silence wraps
the weary heart –
promise wears us down
with memory of places
yet to be
quiet proves a slow refrain
of stories never told –
verses fall
into the years
between

musings o’er the reasons
and wondering
the pause –
what of life and where
the leaves are blown
swept on dreams repented
by the way we hold the words
bittersweet –
the flight of love
unknown

. . .

another first ~

15 Wednesday May 2019

Posted by in Poetry, spirituality, Storytelling

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

gathered mine

the first kiss
your last goodbye
held as mine
‘neath jealous skies
where truth was sealed
by wordless sighs
lies
too old
to remember

the way we came
from roads before
with want for none
but grace for more –
than a hand could hold
a heart would store
in boxes old
and bursting

given place
a rite of rest
one promise sweet
tho unconfessed
with all I am –
with nothing less
than a song
you taught me
whisper

into the still
surrounding now
when by ten thousand
deaths
I vow
another breath
somewhere
somehow
in fields by heaven
seeded

another first
‘neath amber skies
where angels dance
by firelight
where truth was sealed
by wordless sighs –
lies
too old
to remember

. . .

Author’s Note: Pieces of this have haunted me over the last couple weeks. Not long ago, I wandered to an old road not far from where I grew up. I could see clearly that an industrial park was hedging bets on every spare inch of land. But on another day (another life), the trees barely parted for the lane, and beyond was a field deep with wheat and dreams. I don’t know whether ‘parking’ is a southern thing or not. I’d hate to think that we’re the only ones with an appreciation for summer nights on a lacey quilt – witnesses to heaven beneath a blanket of stars.

eighteen ~

02 Tuesday Jan 2018

Posted by in Storytelling

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

nearme

Now and then, I’m reminded of the unique wonder that is inherent to our living, loving, and journey through the number that becomes our days.

And while most travels are the same, others can vary based on age, our place in the world, and even the area where we are born to.

Just yesterday, I made the trip to see my mother, some thirty minutes down the road. Along the way, I passed a place I have overlooked hundreds of times, but this time was different. I noticed a cluster of trees and just as I passed, I realized there was a worn down path – a road (less traveled) that navigated between them, through them.

And just like that, I was at another place of my life. I was 18.

While I don’t for one minute think that ‘parking’ is unique to the south, I think that every place we find love is unique in some way – even if only unique to us (every kiss, the first, the sweetest ÷ the only).

In the south (or at least in my part of the South), we would never spend a Saturday night in the backseat of a car when the option of a blanket of clover beneath and stars above is so readily available.

could I tell you
the truth of this –
of secrets writ to skin
of nights
not left to injury or scar
the memory returning us
not so weary
not so far
to fields where clover blooms
beyond the stars

. . .

lets pretend ~

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

homeagain

they warned me
of a poet’s son
of distances
undone
of paths beyond
the memory of paths
fields beneath
a starry night –
lay my body down
to trace
the ways –
becoming this
every world to one

where whispers
bloom a purple hush
and always
takes my breath
words I cannot speak –
a verse ignites
ancient skies
to others past
blossomed lets pretend
where stars
no longer burning
score the night

. . .

july 24 ~

24 Friday Jul 2015

Posted by in Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

thisclose

for times
I never took the time
days I let
get by
nights I slept
beyond the reach
of dreams
love I held
a moment long
candles blossom bright
paper plates
as graces
have become
a hundred years
from getting back
eighteen more
than then
pages bent
against me in the back
roads I know
from walking home
slower
than the sun

seasons not
the heavier
for counting

. . .

hymnal of feathers ~

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

showme

will
and I wonder
to places unknown
forgotten the weeds –
my way back to home
a secret
unspoken
by lovers and thieves
echoed by crickets
knees
touching knees
a hymnal
of feathers
as light through the pines
souvenirs left by
the rain
where was I going
who waits the dawn
with promise
of heaven
to love me
again

Author’s Note: I love the woods and I love the shore. A couple of years back, while sitting on my porch, I closed my eyes and raised my face to the sun. But the breeze, he told me something more. In that moment, I noticed the song that is the fluttering of leaves. It is the same as the waves on the shore. I wonder who knew it first, but wonder not at the love that allowed them to share it.

how tender
these blessings of
sapphire and pearl
oceans singing
of leaves

. . .