lives before I knew ~


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of time
I’ve held my measure
(o so fine)
and lives before
I knew

of a color –
(my favored few)
all I hold
is holding (still)
another other

as winter softens
by the light
(a softer glow)
for memories
to gather
(from the cold)

of roads
we thought (forever)
a coming back
for a moment (touching
time becoming

. . .

pondering –


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from the meadow
buffaloes appear
and graze on treetops
careless they float
in ether –
the leaves they nibble
are higher than my roof
and soon their spring feeding
will change to a fall
of crackling orange cover
on tin roofs
(they do not see me)
in their reality –
they are a spell
of my imagination
while I bask in fading sunlight
though one day
when we all dream
these clouds will become
as precious
as the people
who seal our hearts in love
or a moment –
the origins of shooting stars

. . .

in my dream ~


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sunday find me

in my dream
I sit in a coffee shop
composing haiku –
counting syllables
on caramel fingers
a reactionary in flip-flops
aging white linens
and faded parasols
tourists burning red –
alive in dime store

sunlight see saws
across muddled
pink rimmed skies
whispers fill the street
I order another cappucine
swirling with foam regalia
– my collected box of

in my dream I am
a mere student of words
stealing minutes
from your sunset
before the moon smiles
o’er nights well remembered
from light years ago
when the stars
were our children

. . .

the same as rain ~


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The-Early-Evening-Mist-Orton #1

remember now
a twilight touch
(a sigh
the same as rain)
whispering a promise
to remain –
beyond the ease
of leaving
was the will
for letting go
were ever I
(a sorrow
still to know)

wherein the daylight
streamed –
veins and lilac
(to make of us
some other
sunny day)
laid beneath
the timbers
lush with muscadine
yet to trade
(another time)

. . .

Photo: Cherokee National Forest 2016

bloomed ~


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and for a future made
pieces blue and bright
a vision –
all I held
within my sight
a road no longer
walked along
and branches
of ancient times
and once I thought
to stay
wrapped in you
listening –
to silence
just as mine
gathered near
where secret whispers
keep me here
stay the end
and let me hold
to where I knew
you held
the way
to home

. . .

three doors down ~


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I’ve always held to the theory that we are exactly where we’re meant to be, even when we might wish ourselves otherwise.

On more than one account, I’ve found myself in prayer – grateful that I’m not the ‘keeper of the clock’.

Recently, it was proven to me yet again.  FB_IMG_1500090354285

Though the ‘days between’ may be long, I hold relationships among my sweetest treasures.  Not long ago, I learned that a dear friend was hospitalized; to be honest, she was the mother of my ex-husband. Despite the years (and obvious adjustments), she and I remain extremely close.  At times, she shared a secret belief that her purpose in this life was to know me……to love me.

I made several trips to her bedside, where she continued to decline as the result of a freak incident involving insecticide used on her garden.

Two weeks after her initial admittance, her family received bad news – her days were numbered (as if any of us are exempt from the counting), and she might not survive the week.  It was Saturday.

On Sunday evening, my husband complained of fatigue and a shortness of breath. Given his heart history, we rushed to the emergency room, where he was treated and admitted for observation and further testing. His heart rate had dropped dangerously low; the doctors attributing it to a bizarre spike in potassium levels.

His room was only a few doors down from my friend’s. Over the next several days, I was back and forth between the two, delivering leftover food, whispering assurances, and sharing in the telling of stories dear to everyone.

It was exercise in leaning – one into another – closing the gap between now and then.

On Wednesday morning, my friend (Lucille) surrendered her struggle, surrounded by love and fearlessness, despite the fact that death had come as an unexpected wolf to her door.  As I huddled in the hall with her family, her daughter-in-law (one of my closest friends) commented that Jay was now ‘free to go home’. I assured her of my hope that such might happen later in the afternoon, following another check on his vitals.

But, when I returned to my husband’s room, I was met by his doctor, sharing the good news. My husband’s potassium level had neutralized and his heart rate was back to normal. He was released within hours.

I am not one to ever believe in coincidence. We are exactly at the place we were meant to be (destined, as we chose, to be).

At a time when I was desperately needed (three doors down), I was given another reason to be there and the strength to bear both.

when my garden
yet in splendor breaks
faces to the sun
let there
my day begin

held within
the forevermore
I prayed would come
this way –
again to know
the mystery
of you

. . .

Lucille Lundquist
1935 – 2017

lets pretend ~


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they warned me
of a poet’s son
of distances
of paths beyond
the memory of paths
fields beneath
a starry night –
lay my body down
to trace
the ways –
becoming this
every world to one

where whispers
bloom a purple hush
and always
takes my breath
words I cannot speak –
a verse ignites
ancient skies
to others past
blossomed lets pretend
where stars
no longer burning
score the night

. . .

as a psalm ~


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leave me breathless
e’en when the silence falls
when years are passed
unwillingly to night –
tis there
the petals
once reserved
are opened by a sigh

essence unrelenting
as a psalm

remember me
as melody –
verses into one
tracing notes
shades of stone

breathe to me
as answers come
by names another wore
let me sit
while silently
they dream

. . .

Author’s Note: There are nights when I pull awake with a start, returning from another place – not so far. In the darkness, tears pool as I search frantically for a place to write.