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tornadoday

~ …might I be found in words I leave behind

tornadoday

Tag Archives: wealth

beyond the fence ~

09 Saturday Apr 2022

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

destiny, faith, fate, honesty, life, love, now, trade, treasure, truth, wealth

I’ve not much left
to offer –
no farm beyond the fence
golden trinkets
stashed beneath my bed
no aged
name to proffer
or treasure more than this
a hand to hold
a place to lay you
down

I’ve not the will
to suffer –
faith to see you
gone
twilight burned as
fate into the barn
no destiny to barter
give me yours
I’ll give you mine
breath to share
a place to lay you
down

. . .

solace ~

02 Friday Jul 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality, verse

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

blessings, grief, kiss, life, love, lovers, seasons, souvenirs, time, truth, wealth, what we keep

what feelings
will tomorrow bear
when I return to dust –
the path we wandered
helplessly –
hands becoming one
will someone seek
the answers –
as tender years unfold
will verses speak
to lovers
seeking solace
from this load
with time so short
sometimes unfair –
grant me this goodbye
that I might memorize
the ways we came
grant me nothing more
than one more kiss –
a final breath
made sweeter by
your name

. . .

silent conversations ~

01 Thursday Jul 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality, verse

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

abundance, aging, blessings, breath, dementia, family, gifts, home, life, love, memory, moments, wealth

near the end
he wandered –
could scarce remember me
a vanilla shake
then
he’d start to fall
searching for a memory
within a stranger’s face
a picture of a picture
permanence displaced
tho now and then
those liquid eyes
would speak when words were lost
in silent conversations
we’d say it all –
the best of best
a world made right
love –
and there’d we stay
wrapped within the moment
of ten thousand
sweeter days
I’d whisper
as he fell in love
with a voice he knew by heart
arms that reached
to find him –
with every precious
start

. . .

Author’s Note: In the months before my daddy passed, there would be days when I visited – days when he didn’t know me. Yet, he would allow me there, watching my hands as I touched him, my mouth as I spoke…… I’ve often said that every girl should be allowed at least one moment when their father falls in love with them. ❤ And here, we stay.

graces i have taken ~

17 Monday May 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

all I really know, and still, before we understood, blessing, grace, life, love, naked truth, poetry, wealth, wildflowers

a golden stem
a temple bell –
an altar I have raised
tis here I bow
and here I place my hands
in prayer for place
for circumstance
would give your song to me
to fill a grand cathedral
and bring me
to my knees

a poem without rhyme
is all I have to bring
lines are naked
verses without shame
senses now awakened
to moments lived
apart
graces I have taken –
I have taken
in your name

walls of deepest cedar
floors are warped
by tears –
as holy once the wine
we passed between
the lips that mouthed surrender
tongue where truth
is grieved
love when there is nothing
would cleave your breath
from me

. . .

darkness used to be ~

23 Tuesday Mar 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality, verse

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

everything, home, memory, nothing, proof, souvenirs, story, time, travel, trust, wealth

of moments shared
the count too few –
a route for getting back
runs east to west
and north beyond my view
pages torn
and photos faded
where am I to go
when every shred of evidence
is nothing I can hold
no souvenirs
or passion cleft –
no path we walked along
no proof exists beyond my heart
of love we must have known
can’t change the rules
to resurrect
a life before you came
the girl I was before I learned
the taste that was your name
if e’er a means were garnered
and I with time to prove
how long the waste in seeking
all I know as truth
of stars where darkness
used to be
solace for days between
truth I held when no one knew
how it was
to dream

. . .

better than most ~

18 Thursday Feb 2021

Posted by tornadoday in Rambling, spirituality, Storytelling

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

family, forgiveness, knowing, love, remembrance, truth, understanding, wealth

At the recent passing of my aunt, I am reminded of all the things I love and loved about her – how she enjoyed blueberry syrup, her love for coffee, the sound of her laughter. I also reflect on the things I’ve surely gathered from her – my backbone, my stature, my love for pepper on cantaloupe, and the way I hold my hand over my heart when something touches me.

I’m humbled in the blessing of our lives clipped together, these ‘things’ that we share (we carry, we keep). But, I am also grateful to know about them – to know what she loved as well as how she loved.

We should want for nothing more than to have someone truly know us – what we dream, what we grieve, what we love (when the night is dark and the ground so very cold).

I am reminded of an instance some years ago. My husband and I had a pretty deep discussion about my assertion that he might not know me as well as he thought. To prove my point I asked, ‘what’s my favorite color’.

Let me say here that I’m painfully aware that I am far more observant than most people. I listen for every hint of the story. If you mention some author to me over coffee in January, don’t be surprised when you receive a signed edition for Christmas. It’s what I do, and yet, I like to think myself forgiving of those who aren’t made the same.

But I also want to believe that those who love us most should be inclined to know us better than most.

Anyway, back to the story. This ‘conversation’ occurred during a time when my brother-in-law traveled quite a bit and as a result, my sister and her little ones stayed with us a few nights each week. It so happened that they arrived just as the above discussion was ending.

Cameron, her two year-old son, was beaming as he came through the door, declaring he had a present for me (sure payment for the fact that I always had one for him). His little hand was clutched tight in front of him as I knelt down, excited for sure, and asked what it might be. As he slowly uncurled his fingers, I could see that a red M&M had melted all over his hand. O wow, I said. Then he looked straight at me (through me) and said ‘I got it for you because it’s your favorite color.’ ❤️

Even now, I’m smiling just as I did in that moment………….

I pray that I never have cantaloupe and pepper without thinking of my aunt Lillian. And when I die, God help the poor soul who dares to bury me in blue…

might that you remember
the color of my eyes –
the way my fingers
warmed against your skin
how I take my coffee
and where my weakness lies
what I love –
for whom I’ll come
again

. . .

nothing ~

28 Friday Dec 2018

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

grace, home, life, loss, love, memory, soul, time, truth, understanding, value, wealth

angel 300

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

. . .

beyond the place remembered ~

05 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

change, choice, dreams, home, life, love, stars, time, treasure, truth, wealth, what I keep, writing in the dark

venus

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

. . .

best ever ~

04 Tuesday Dec 2018

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

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 sweeterstillof 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.

closerYears 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.

last in line ~

11 Wednesday Jul 2018

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, Storytelling

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

acceptance, contentment, family, happiness, home, living, love, still, truth, unplugged, wealth

When 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.

granny's house

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. ❤

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Poetic Thoughts

Benjamin Grossman

Starry-eyed Writer, Cautious Philosopher, Hopeful Romantic

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A daily selection of the best content published on WordPress, collected for you by humans who love to read.

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Thoughts and feelings made into words about the world and times in which we live ...

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