where wandering


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where now
this place
of wandering
paths already worn
where clouds
are falling –
stardust paints the ground

ten thousand colors
swirling white against the sun
dancing fire –
reflection of
the soul

are scattered
as evidence of truth –
where memories of dawn
to dream

. . .

Photo: Morning in Beech Grove, one day in October 2017.


ancient winters ~


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he spoke
of distant mornings
(a light she strained to see)
she wrote
of lowly purpose
filled with love
(and mystery)

he listened
as she listened
they talked
(and talked some more)
of the road
they passed together
another way
(sometime) before

he spoke
of ancient winters
(a field where brothers fell)
she spoke
in careful whispers
of a loss
she grieved (as well)

he cried
and she was tender
(in the catching of each tear)
she reached
to find him (waiting)
(with want
to have her) near

he stayed
(beyond the leaving)
lest she ever think
him gone
as she woke
beyond the darkness
as a star
(for wishing on)

. . .

found ~


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A couple of days ago, I was tempted by one of those Facebook confession postings. You know the type, where you input information relative to you and post it on your timeline so that others will learn more about you, but also be inspired to do the same on their timeline.

Sort of a chain letter for Facebook fans.

It started innocent enough –

Names you go by: Bobbie, Bob, Aunt Bob
Beer or Wine: Coffee

But the next point for input was ‘When’s the last time you cried?’

Now that’s a bit tricky. You see, I don’t truly view myself as much of a crier.  Though I feel things deeply, the tears I shed are pretty private and I am not sure that either (a) they would be perceived as such, or (b) the fact that my answer isn’t ‘yesterday’ would lead anyone to believe that I have no feelings.

That I would care about either of those last items is an entirely separate matter, and one worth pursuing at another writing.

However, it got me to thinking about the tears I do shed.

You see, I can’t start down my list of reasons to be sad without bumping into reasons for thankfulness and gratitude. I can’t think about how much I miss my daddy without thinking of all the wonderful moments we shared. One gets in the way of the other in a way I am not sure most would understand.

I can shed tears of gratitude, but not for my own personal loss because my loss is far outbalanced by my gain.

And such as it with most everything I might grieve. My tears aren’t of sorrow, and may not even be seen as tears of joy.

They are instead tears of having been found.

Yes, that’s it….. And the answer, ‘all the time’.

. . .

cleave not to December
the reminder of spring
~ a sparrow returned
to the nest
with faded remembrance
of faraway sighs
futures ~
the color of snow

grieve not the leaving
but the coming around
to place
by time
tears of reflection
are falling around
~ far from the living
we’ve known

. . .

stilled ~


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is never
as close as was then
to my cold

somebody wrote
themselves into story
e’en now
I remember
the way –

the essence
of light
when stilled
by surrender

purpose made sweeter
by the giving

a shimmering
of love yet

the same as was
morning –
found new
on the day

. . .


in another life ~


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I wonder
in another life ~
was I an eastern wind
or a whisper
come to rest
upon your bed

was I a night
like all the rest ~
in my hair
a cloak of make believe
and endless wish

was I a song
o falala ~
something worth
the dance
sung beneath the covers
one morning
chill of May

do you remember now
the way I warmed
to places in between
til forever
lest I stay ~

like I was all
you needed
a whisper in the night ~
starlight and
a note beside
your bed

. . .

solitude ~


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how often now
my soul is fed
with crumbs of yesterday
of memories
I’ve yet to give

o precious song
of silent lips
when whispered –
come to me
could e’er the wind
such mystery

a solitude
of aging sands –
by graces undenied
tis not for me the silver
grew –
another youth
to hide

years replayed
and laid again –
o’er those I dare not keep
dreams –
beyond the countenance
of sleep

within the hall
where time is charged
by one still yet
to know –
love becomes a river
to wash upon
my soul

. . .