My parents

You know they are the ones

who keep me living

because only they would

grieve for me to the point of death.

No person should have to

suffer the loss of a child

even though I haven't

seen youth for quite awhile.  

I tried to align myself

with others who would love me --

but their love was only a gain

a joke -- for them -- no bargain

for me, so when winter comes

I walk alone in the cold

crying because it hurt so much

I could not stop it.

They are only there as much

as their feebleness allows.

I want them to be like they were

when their hair was dark

their backs were straight

and their hands were steady.

I want them to have full and complete

memory of me.  Only they know my beginning.

 

The lady at the bank

said she is just praying to die--

How well I understand this!

Mom and dad are the only anchor

that hold me fast to earth.

And even though the tether is long,

long enough for a whole country

I always manage to come home.

Right now the pain is so strong

that I want to be gone.

I want to know if the promised land

is true, and real and beautiful

and forever. I want to know if

I am young again, and slender

with long flowing hair

riding big horses under the stars.

If they were gone I would fly free.

But they are the darlings of my heart

and they are the rock to which I am moored,

the calm to my driving storm

 the meal on the longest night,

the extra blanket on the bed

and the chocolate cake for desert.

 

I am the lost ship, so far out

I cannot see the beacon.

Somehow I manage to get to the shore

but it isn't long before I am thrust out

into the deepest of wave again.

The rolling turmoil of my soul

more violent than the increasing tide.

 

Don't worry momma. For as long

as you live and breathe I will

stand beside you. You bathed me

and clothed me. I will do the same for you.

In this vast world, end to end invisible

you are the root, the place on which I stand.

But when the earthquake finally comes

I will be carried out in the tsunami.

 

The world is far too big to be alone in.

Honestly, do I really ask for much?
I don't need a spectacular life.

Just one that isn't frantic

or on the edge of disaster

again - and again - and again.

My ship is crumbling from

the increasing strength of the storm.

 If I am going to be left

old, destitute, cold

and alone, please promise

one thing, that I die

before the worst of it comes

and when I die, please send

one to hold my hand for as long as it takes

to let me slip into eternity.

First snow

Watching the snow fly

swift like feathers

from my second story window

blowing eastward

then westward

like someone blowing dust

off the coffee table

white cloak gently covering

uneven ground, grass mistaken

for sidewalks, roads mistaken

for grass, and I am safely tucked

in my bedroom gazing

at the wonderment

of the first winter's snow.

12-12-2010

I know we are well into winter and we have had many snows since the first one, but I was thinking about this today and thought I would post it.  I remember when I was younger and greeted snow with joy, yearning to be the first one to create footprints in the pure white.  There was tobogganing, sleding, and snowmen. Now,when I think of snow my first thought is, "oh no! I have to drive in it and shovel it, and deal with the cold."  Funny how we lose sight of the simple things as we grow older, isn't it?

Insomnia

Sleep is long in coming

even though I lay, my weary body

as a sacrifice, to her feet;

she refuses to embrace me.

She teases –

like a leaf caught in wind dance

or like the butterfly driven

by the sweet scent of nectar

on a flower, she cannot reach.

 Dreams, misconstrued demand

attention, clanging in discord,

in my mind, unable to be captured

or silenced.

And though the day is long

he does not release me into

night’s bosom, but instead

plays fragmented images of

mistrust, doubt, into the

shadowed recesses of my

aching heart.

Long past the witching hour-

long after the moon is cast

from its pinnacle in the sky,

beyond the early traces of dawn

peering around the curtain of night,

sleep remains illusive,

and I am fearful of

the new morning.

Do you ever feel like

1000  Poems

I shall write a thousand poems –

Some for the dawn of springs embrace

Some for the music of summers grace

Some for the dance of autumn leaf

Some for the release of winter’s grief.

I shall write a thousand poems –

Some for the love I never felt

Some for the blows that life has dealt

Some for the rising of distant hope

Some for the strength found to help me cope.

I shall write a thousand poems –

Some for songs written but never sung

Some for the ages beneath the sun

Some for the shadows upon the moon

Some for the life that ends too soon.

I shall write a thousand poems –

Some for me to leave behind

Some for that lonely soul I find

Some with words that are still unspoken

And some for the heart that is still unbroken.

If you were going to write a poem, what would you write about? Or is there a poem that someone else has written that speaks to you? or a song? or a story?  There is a saying that "a picture speaks a thousand words," but a poem can speak volumes in a few lines. There is a ton of emotion there. If you read the biographies of most of the most famous poets you will see that there is always deep angst or emotion or tragedy or even joy; something that has sparked a fire in the deepest part of the soul. For me, to write is to live. Even my journal entries, which will probably never be seen by another human eye, gives me a life line to something or Someone that is far beyond myself. For me specifically? Jesus Christ, the giver of life.

A spring thunderstorm --

Rushing water --

The first sound of bird song --

Wind blowing through the trees --

Children playing --

Frogs in the pond --

Night sounds --

Long lonesome whistle of a distant train --

These are the melodies of silence.

A deep breath to take in the air after the rain --

First scent of lilacs --

Misty fragrance of a wooded path --

Damp autumn leaves --

Fresh cut hay --

This is the sweetest perfume.

Soft moss for a bed --

Leaves for a pillow --

Mud squishing through toes --

Warm summer  grass --

Early spring morning --

These are the weavings of the finest fabric.

Fresh strawberries --

Homemade ice cream ---

Corn on the cob --

Biggest, ripest tomato EVER --

First bite into a soft peach --

Jam from homegrown grapes--

On Grandma's home baked bread--

This is the purest delicacy. 

Think about the things that are dear to you from your present or from your past and how they affect your life today. Sometimes we do not know how much we have been influenced by something from the past, be it good or bad, until there is a memory flash or an event that sparks it. Then suddenly we are overwhelmed by the things of the past that seem to crash in like waves against the shore of our memories. Just a smell or a snippet of color or a glimpse of something can open up your mind to the panorama of your past.