beyond the ache of evening tide
beyond the pull of morning
daylight wakes with one more thing to say
all we had was everything
all we lost – was nothing
the earth is dipped against the moon
the soul into the bay
. . .
28 Friday Dec 2018
Posted Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized
inbeyond the ache of evening tide
beyond the pull of morning
daylight wakes with one more thing to say
all we had was everything
all we lost – was nothing
the earth is dipped against the moon
the soul into the bay
. . .
05 Wednesday Dec 2018
Posted Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling
inTags
change, choice, dreams, home, life, love, stars, time, treasure, truth, wealth, what I keep, writing in the dark
embers of a faithful star
blow across the night
to fan the spark –
of another warm embrace
eyes reflect the knowing
of where we yet begin –
blessings here
I wished for
yesterday
of loss
I bear no sorrow –
no hurtful memory
love remains a treasure
mine to keep
beyond the place
remembered –
a door is opened wide
night birds call –
to another dream
I sleep
within the hope
of evermore –
is every plan I made –
a life beyond this living
undenied
a name I wear against my heart –
stories wait to tell –
of want beyond this wishing
a star prepared
to fly
. . .
author’s note – now and then, I awake in sweat,
breath catching as I wonder why
in the darkness – words find me –
loosed without prejudice or fear
sometimes they fit together, but others, they do not
last night one of those
and these, the telling
. . .
04 Tuesday Dec 2018
Posted a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling
inTags
bliss, connection, faith, family, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, old maps, postmark, reason, relationship, spirit, strength, truth, wealth, wonder
Just this week, a friend told me of the start of a new tradition within her family wherein each member shared their best Christmas memory. Even in recounting the experience, tears filled her eyes as she spoke of her own, and those shared by others. There were moments of sorrow and others of pure joy, but eventually, they all became the best memory ever.
How is it that we’ve forgotten that? To know that every sorrow wears a coat of joy, and every bliss is but a warning of grief – a missing of the sweetest part? And yet, when measured into the same overflowing cup, they become the best – again and again.
She asked to my best memory ever and I think (partially) it was dislodged from my heart by her telling, but it is one of joy and family……….the best ever still.
Tho we didn’t know it at the time, we weren’t rich. My family of six lived in a two bedroom trailer until I was twelve. Then we moved into a castle of three bedrooms….. 🙂 The memory recalled is from the ‘castle’. Every Saturday was the same. One by one, my brother and sisters would wake for some reason and make our way to my parent’s room, my parent’s bed. Until we were all there, telling our dreams, torturing and tickling, and eventually deciding on breakfast.
But Christmas was another such time. My brother (who by virtue of the fact that he was the only son, had his own bedroom) would sleep in the girl’s room. We’d all pile into one big bed (or it seemed big at the time – tho I suspect it was no more than a full-size). I’m not sure we slept at all, but during the night, with every little squeak or bending of board, we’d speculate that Santa had come around. My brother was the designated outlook for us, and he would sneak down the hall to spy on the living room………and then run back to the safety of us to report. There was no understanding that it had to be five o’clock before we could get up. The only restriction was that we couldn’t get up before Santa had arrived.
Years later, I have heard stories of how long it took to get all the presents under the tree*. Between wrapping, assembling, and playing with all the toys – it was their joy we were most anticipating I think. Even now, at Christmas, I imagine the sound of little boy feet running down the hall…….. ‘he’s here, he’s here’………..
Let us keep Christmas forever in our tiny hearts, remembering things little as big. Let us keep love through the sharing of stories – creating anew every best memory.
* My Chatty Cathy doll was almost worn out before Christmas, and a promise to get a kitten for my sister resulted in an unexpected run to the country – and a cat that nearly brought my dad to stitches. In the telling, even more sweet beautiful tears. My dad comments, ‘we didn’t know just how good we had it’…. Then he winks, ‘yeah, we knew’……..
wake me home
some other year –
beyond this life surrendered
fall to me the places
I have known –
save for me
a little room
with not much more
for leaving –
arms to fill
wake me now
to home
. . .
Author’s Note: One of my favorite reposted as a reminder.
11 Wednesday Jul 2018
Posted Poetry, Storytelling
inWhen I was a kid, I did not (ever) walk five miles in the snow to get to school. I didn’t have to get up at three to milk the cows or muck the stalls. The things I did as a child weren’t seen as ever a hardship, but simply what I did. I neither saw it as hard or easy, but simply a part of my living.
Until I was a teenager, I shared a tiny room with a sister and a brother. Later, I shared a slightly larger room with two sisters. I shared a bathroom with all of them. I shared shampoo, towels and toothpaste. When times were really tight, as the oldest, I was last in line to use the bathwater.
Was it disgusting? I don’t recall ever thinking that. And, up to this point, I’ve suffered no long term trauma as a result.
Maybe I already knew it wasn’t all about me. Regardless of how bad or easy I had it, I already knew there were others who had it worse.
Until my grandpa died, he and my granny lived in a plain clapboard house they had lived in most all their married life. The only electricity was on the ‘cold porch’ where they kept a fridge (which was a huge upgrade from their earlier icebox). There was no indoor plumbing. A cold drink was dipped from a bucket on the kitchen counter.
Almost every Sunday, my grandparents’ children and grandchildren would come for church and stay for dinner (aka lunch in most parts of the country). An average Sunday might include thirty people. There was a huge dining table, but ladderback chairs covered the front porch, the side yard, and back stoop.
Now, I realize there are plenty of people nowadays who cook like that for family on holidays or maybe even on Sundays.
But here’s the difference.
We’d have fried chicken, homemade biskits, white gravy, corn on the cob, green beans, and at least two kinds of cobbler. On special days, we’d have homemade icecream.
Doesn’t sound like much, does it?
But (remember) there was no electricity. Granny had most likely killed that chicken before church or the night before. All cooking was done on a wood burning stove with no microwave, no mixes, no running water, and no air conditioning…..by two little weathered hands.
Those same hands, covered with flour would fold into grace before we ate, offering gratitude for love that brought us into a solitary place.
❤
There were lots of trees in the yard; a side fence separated the house from the orchard, the backyard from the garden, the barn and the livestock. During most months, the song of the cicada was louder than that of the crickets. When they emerged from the ground, it was the trees where they left behind their brittle shells.
I’d collect those shells, lining them up along the porch and down the front path, creating a miniature parade. I would talk to them and pretend they were friends to each other.
❤
I realize it doesn’t sound like much. To anyone who never lived it, it might even sound backward or simple.
But we weren’t. We were rich. We had one another. We had Sunday. My grandpa had a store just over the hill with dirt floors, blue horse notebooks and ice cold Dr. Pepper and Orange Crush.
❤
I can recall spending hours watching feral kittens out the window. They lived under the house, but wouldn’t allow anyone to touch them. The closest I could get was the bedroom window.
We had the coldest water I believe I’ve ever tasted, and apple pie like nobody knows how to make anymore. We had a pond that froze in winters, and woods filled with Christmas trees!
❤
Was it always perfect? Of course not, although I can’t seem to recall moments that weren’t. I believe that who we become in this life isn’t due to a series of experiences, but rather what we choose to keep.
We had the beginning of a story, and hands that warmed around us.
❤
when there was nothing
I remember you –
a name within my mouth
a thunder slipping
soundless
through the night
when there was nothing
all we had
was enough to fold around
when there was nothing
all we had
was everything
. . .
Author’s Note: Inscription on the back of this photo –
First rule of life. Never be without someone to love. ❤
03 Tuesday Apr 2018
Tags
acceptance, bargain, broken, dreaming, forgiveness, home, life, loneliness, love, repentance, time, wealth
it’s not the way
I’d meant to say –
the way I meant to leave you
was not the plan
you’d understand
if e’er you knew my faults
for staying here
for one more year
one more night of dreaming
of faraways
when another day
you’d wake to find me gone
with nothing sure
so insecure
was the line we crossed together
of rights made wrong
we strung along
beyond the last forever
. . .
25 Thursday Jan 2018
Tags
dreams, eternal, faith, home, life, light, love, memories, that which remains, time, truth, wealth
will come a time
when it won’t matter
what I wrote –
stories
given place
with another
my name
a distant musing
words where there
are none
what solace found
beyond the reach of soul
it won’t matter
how I loved
or how deeply I endeared
the colors
of each season
the taste of cappucine
it won’t matter
where I found you –
or where we were
when first
we knew
it won’t matter
that my laughter
carried more
than all my tears
that my song
has found its rhythm
in the rain
. . .
24 Wednesday Jan 2018
I was at last
an eager breath –
the scent of snow on dust
a place of nearly nothing
how I felt
when you were gone
going –
which and still
I wonder now
but I’ve returned
somehow
in learning
none are gone away –
the journey
blooms with seeds
from yesterday
. . .
Regardless the journey, we are never lost to love nor us to it. Where we are, it is…….. We carry love; it carries us. Home is a place to which we are always going….a familiar we’ve never forgotten.
26 Tuesday Dec 2017
Posted Poetry
inTags
comfort, gathered, grief, heaven, life, love, seasons, soul, time, truth, twilight, unending, wealth, worth
already now
the twilight rests
against the threat of night
where dreams
I can’t recall
await my sleep
already there
I’m missing you
without regard for days
another dawn
beyond my will to keep
a name unspoken
in silence stills
to bring this aging heart
to tears
released the want
of wanting left –
to find of heaven
moments here
a place removed
unclaimed by grief
beyond the realm
of yesterdays
returning light
an endless sun –
where I am yours
to love
always
. . .
21 Thursday Dec 2017
Posted a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling
inTags
bliss, connection, faith, family, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, old maps, postmark, reason, relationship, spirit, strength, truth, wealth, wonder
Just this week, a friend told me of the start of a new tradition within her family wherein each member shared their best Christmas memory. Even in recounting the experience, tears filled her eyes as she spoke of her own, and those shared by others. There were moments of sorrow and others of pure joy, but eventually, they all became the best memory ever.
How is it that we’ve forgotten that? To know that every sorrow wears a coat of joy, and every bliss is but a warning of grief – a missing of the sweetest part? And yet, when measured into the same overflowing cup, they become the best – again and again.
She asked to my best memory ever and I think (partially) it was dislodged from my heart by her telling, but it is one of joy and family……….the best ever still.
Tho we didn’t know it at the time, we weren’t rich. My family of six lived in a two bedroom trailer until I was twelve. Then we moved into a castle of three bedrooms….. 🙂 The memory recalled is from the ‘castle’. Every Saturday was the same. One by one, my brother and sisters would wake for some reason and make our way to my parent’s room, my parent’s bed. Until we were all there, telling our dreams, torturing and tickling, and eventually deciding on breakfast.
But Christmas was another such time. My brother (who by virtue of the fact that he was the only son, had his own bedroom) would sleep in the girl’s room. We’d all pile into one big bed (or it seemed big at the time – tho I suspect it was no more than a full-size). I’m not sure we slept at all, but during the night, with every little squeak or bending of board, we’d speculate that Santa had come around. My brother was the designated outlook for us, and he would sneak down the hall to spy on the living room………and then run back to the safety of us to report. There was no understanding that it had to be five o’clock before we could get up. The only restriction was that we couldn’t get up before Santa had arrived.
Years later, I have heard stories of how long it took to get all the presents under the tree*. Between wrapping, assembling, and playing with all the toys – it was their joy we were most anticipating I think. Even now, at Christmas, I imagine the sound of little boy feet running down the hall…….. ‘he’s here, he’s here’………..
Let us keep Christmas forever in our tiny hearts, remembering things little as big. Let us keep love through the sharing of stories – creating anew every best memory.
* My Chatty Cathy doll was almost worn out before Christmas, and a promise to get a kitten for my sister resulted in an unexpected run to the country – and a cat that nearly brought my dad to stitches. In the telling, even more sweet beautiful tears. My dad comments, ‘we didn’t know just how good we had it’…. Then he winks, ‘yeah, we knew’……..
wake me home
some other year –
beyond this life surrendered
fall to me the places
I have known –
save for me
a little room
with not much more
for leaving –
arms to fill
wake me now
to home
. . .
Author’s Note: One of my favorite reposted as a reminder.
15 Friday Aug 2014
Posted Poetry
inTags
breath, conscious consciousness, destiny, dreams, faith, fearless, grace, gravel roads, kentucky, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, passion, reason, spirit, strength, understanding, value, wandering, wealth, wonder
red gardenia
painted lily –
fences grieve the leaving me
for somewhere
just beyond remember
essence nests
in mystery
without the thirst
as need for sorrows
were mine to suffer
mine to hold –
starlight casts a spell
of knowing
across the meadow
deep and cold
braided fates
and boots for walking
fragile yellow buds
abound
wrapped in sheets
the wing’eds envy
heaven
wears a cotton gown
. . .
Starry-eyed Writer, Cautious Philosopher, Hopeful Romantic
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