Tags
becoming, breath, connection, faith, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, passion, reason, relationship, spirit, truth, understanding, value, wisdom, wonder
10 Tuesday Jun 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
Tags
becoming, breath, connection, faith, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, passion, reason, relationship, spirit, truth, understanding, value, wisdom, wonder
08 Sunday Jun 2014
Posted in Poetry, Storytelling
Tags
bliss, breath, cherokee, faith, grace, gravel roads, healing, hearts, knowledge, life, living, love, mystery, nature, old maps, passion, poetry, silent beauty, southern, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding, value, wildflowers, wonder
tempered now
the pull of hearts
as one into the beating
became of oceans
rivers down below
as moonlight
on forgotten fields
where wild
the blossoms swimming
are held as one
without an eye to see
or soul to sense
their mysteries
much deeper than the seed
a solace of surrender –
where breath becomes
the breeze
. . .
05 Thursday Jun 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
Tags
becoming, breath, connection, conscious consciousness, conversation, destiny, dreams, fearless, grace, gravel roads, home, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, mystery, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding, unremembering, value, wonder
she said
the rain is coming
there are letters on the porch
sorrows sweetly pressed
against the trees
I know this wind
from lives before
a portion of me still
is whispered by the mountain
to the sea
he said
but for the dawning
I’d slip into the night
and leave behind a rumor
I was here
settled in your warm embrace
my head against your heart
tempted by your hands
into the light
she said
there’s something deeper
than ever I could tell
a mystery
more sacred than the stars
wills the sun to rising
with stories of the night –
where I am still
and you –
the way I know
he said
there was another time
I held you tenderly –
tho where and when
I’ve lost a part
of me
he said
it doesn’t matter
were this the only one
a moment stretched
between eternities
. . .
02 Monday Jun 2014
Posted in Poetry
Tags
becoming, breath, connection, faith, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, love, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, spirit, truth, understanding, value, wandering
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
. . .
02 Monday Jun 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
Tags
breath, conscious consciousness, dreams, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, kentucky, life, love, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, relationship, spirit, spirituality, strength, truth, understanding, value
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.
01 Sunday Jun 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry
Tags
connection, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, life, love, memory, old maps, passion, relationship, self, southern, spirit, truth, value, wandering
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 home
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.
29 Thursday May 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry, Rambling
Tags
assurance, belonging, connection, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, home, knowledge, life, love, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, southern, spirit, spirituality, strength, truth, two the same, understanding, value, wisdom
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.
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
. . .
25 Sunday May 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Rambling, Storytelling
Tags
angels, children, community, compassion, connection, conscious consciousness, divine responsibility, faith, fearless, forgiveness, grace, knowledge, life, living, love, mental illness, questions, reason, relationship, restless, self, society, solutions, spirit, spirituality, tears, truth, understanding, value
It seems as late, I am compelled to writing stories. Maybe it’s the look in my daddy’s eyes when he’s telling me something I didn’t know already, or maybe I’m coming to understand that it’s something I do well, and that poetry need not be lost in the process.
I’ve discovered is that I don’t need to create an imaginary world to write. I have the world already, and stories that I’ve often worried to – that they would disappear completely if someone (if I) didn’t write them down.
You see, I love the story. I want to know the why of everything. I refuse to chalk off violence or ignorance as just poor breeding or insufficient laws. It’s impossible to ever truly understand, to truly know compassion if you don’t know the story of how someone (anyone) got to the place they are, how they come to a crossroads where the choices were so blurry (and perhaps so few). I want to know because every story is in some part my own.
Do I know you?
I watch the news and hear the latest details of a killing, a beating, a thoughtless remark…….and know there’s more to the story – a betrayal, a loss, an act that seems beyond reach of forgiveness. And yet, as a rule, society cares not much for the why; with most attention focused on who – who can we blame? Maybe if we spent a little more time understanding, there would be less that needed fixing. If our sympathies extended beyond others just like ourselves, then maybe we could become part of something more than a temporary distraction – a moment of outrage.
A moment beyond the moment in which we’ve forgotten.
I will listen.
Instead, reporters tell us the same thing over and over (we must have someone to blame). We hurt for the victims of senseless violence, and yet cannot see that we are all victims. Most perpetrators have family, people who love them, people who will struggle with survival in the world of ‘after’. Do we grieve for them, or are we much more selective with our compassion, identifying only with the survivors we recognize? Do we grieve for the soul that was so lost as to think this was really an answer?
Who let go?
It makes us angry, when it should make us sad. “Every man’s death diminishes me.” Every story becomes a part of my own, every sorrow, a memory mine.
which way
the beginning –
was a moment in time
when love
found a way
through the dark
forsaken the promise
would take them to home
and a light
on the porch
burning still
walking and wearing
boots into dust
the wringing of wrinkled
these hands
are emptied by losing
each innocence come –
by way of the path
we’ve forgotten
to watch
. . .
18 Sunday May 2014
Posted in Poetry
Tags
bliss, breath, connection, conscious consciousness, dreams, fearless, knowledge, living, love, memory, old maps, passion, poetry, seeing in the dark, spirituality, value, wisdom, wonder
stardust
was the first I knew
of midnight confidantes –
prints along
the edges
of my room
verses
found in corners
words I never used –
poems sweetly tucked
into the night
breathless
as a robin’s first
warms the window sill
– what proof
has been forsaken
to the dark
blushing hands
resist the fault
of memory to plead
swollen lips –
the taste of honeybees
a curs’ed line
runs parallel
to places I am still
– gathered as a wish
into a sigh
. . .
15 Thursday May 2014
Posted in a time for telling, Poetry, Rambling
Tags
becoming, breath, destiny, dreams, faith, fearless, grace, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, passion, reason, restless, spirituality, truth, understanding, value, wandering, wisdom, wonder
sometimes
the path beginning
seems distant from the start
but still the sun
familiar shadows fall
along the ways
we came before
another day of light
reminders of our passage
thru the dark
beneath a shelf
where heaven knew
each step before we took
a choice of paths
with nothing
save the moon
forgave our sole allegiance
would find a way to love
revealing what of here
was yesterday
in stories
started over
might a hero hesitate
as destinies rewritten
by promise come too late
ten thousand lives
a million miles
o’er sand that would be sea
returning us – a stranger
to the one
we came to be
were all our plans
decided
by choices long ago
so different this –
our journey never done
remains of us a setting
familiar as the first
– a breath away
from living
just begun
. . .
Starry-eyed Writer, Cautious Philosopher, Hopeful Romantic
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