worn to rust ~


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the mail came
and the walk –
not much further
than before
when scented pages
threw a kiss
across the landscape
never threatened
by the rivers
or mountains drawn

a whisper spawned
of poetry
worn to rust
rhyme we never
claimed to understand
the way it was
pressed into the fold
ink became
the memory of dreams

. . .


songbirds ~


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ten thousand songbirds
swim amidst the trees
echo their songs

a million tiny voices
stir with longing
a quiet place where none

so many shadows
forgotten by light
and that which shines
cannot hope
to save the rest

starlings soar
once an orchestra of many
flutters from the

a cacophony
of trees grieve long
the beauty
was once the song
of songbirds

. . .

eighteen ~


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Now and then, I’m reminded of the unique wonder that is inherent to our living, loving, and journey through the number that becomes our days.

And while most travels are the same, others can vary based on age, our place in the world, and even the area where we are born to.

Just yesterday, I made the trip to see my mother, some thirty minutes down the road. Along the way, I passed a place I have overlooked hundreds of times, but this time was different. I noticed a cluster of trees and just as I passed, I realized there was a worn down path – a road (less traveled) that navigated between them, through them.

And just like that, I was at another place of my life. I was 18.

While I don’t for one minute think that ‘parking’ is unique to the south, I think that every place we find love is unique in some way – even if only unique to us (every kiss, the first, the sweetest ÷ the only).

In the south (or at least in my part of the South), we would never spend a Saturday night in the backseat of a car when the option of a blanket of clover beneath and stars above is so readily available.

could I tell you
the truth of this –
of secrets writ to skin
of nights
not left to injury or scar
the memory returning us
not so weary
not so far
to fields where clover blooms
beyond the stars

. . .

set to loose again ~


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golden dawn

had I been gifted
one more eternity –
another virgin dawn
to linger
o’er mysteries
almost understood
saved from nights repented
and set to loose again
days returning –
a baby cried
with want for one last kiss
a lifetime never lost –
by counting done

. . .

Happy New Year’s, my friends.  In the house that is my heart, you are ten thousand windows!  ❤

~ and still he sails


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along these shores
forever walks
a sailor not forgotten –
strands beneath a winter sail
make his passing true
stories of deliverance
tales of wealth and sorrow
dreams to sink beneath the waves
the rest to float away

but on another bank
there sometimes stands
a maiden gift with promise
words worn through
by circumstance
I swore I’d never cry

life is passing slowly
the waves of time are falling –
and he still sails
come home
remember this –
remember me
the keeping of your compass
grains of sand adrift upon the sea

come again
leave her arms –
returning to the river
the ocean cries –
o please return to me
cast aside your tired oars
and step out on forever
I’ll watch the tide –
and walk the shores for you

. . .

Author’s Note:  Originally written in 2009 but lost in a folder of drafts (and waves).

winding roads ~


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as I the pages
of a story
last you wrote
of home
and winding roads
to bring you here

as I remember
were days a chord replaced
snow –
along the fences
left to clear

retains a memory
of breath along the way
wonder sits
as empty –

was I a moment
or more
than words can find
of choices
I am whispered –
I am all

. . .

to love ~


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beyond the breath of time

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

. . .

best ever ~


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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.

freed ~


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Maybe it’s the rush that is the season, but lately, I’m more and more reminded of the present that is the present.

A friend recently commented that her goal for 2018 was to be wherever her feet were – to be grounded in the now – looking nither forward or back but only to this ‘perfect’ moment – free from the boundaries and ultimate limitations inherent with the others.

As expected, it got me thinking about the present and how wisely (or not) we spend our moments. I’ll readily admit that I love talking about the past. Not in the sense that I speak of it with regret or sorrow, but as part of the larger story – perhaps the place we began, though it might not have appeared so at the time.

The stories are what define us, help us to grow, and in sharing those, we allow others a part of us that exists (like the present) beyond the grasp of past or future.  In my humble opinion, there is no relationship nor circumstance that cannot be made better by four simple words – tell me a story.  In the sharing, the present becomes greater than the depth of a moment, a season, a lifetime.

Of times I spent with my daddy, the gift of being present rewarded me with amazing treasures – parts of him. There were stories I had heard before, but others, I had not. The same is true of my visits with mama. From an ordinary conversation about fishing comes a story I didn’t know.

When she was pregnant with me, she couldn’t work in her daddy’s cafe. Yet, there were days when he needed fish for the restaurant and he took her with him. That part of the story is sweet enough, but there is another part. Because she was expecting, there were times when she grew nauseous or tired. He carried a blanket with him so that she could nap in the bottom of the boat while he fished.

I love that story……a piece of my grandfather who died a month before I was born. A piece of my mother, and a piece of me.

And now, in another way, perhaps a piece of you too.

I never tire the revelation, of the insight into all that matters. When faced with a grieving friend, the simple words, ‘tell me a story about her’ (or him) is enough to alter perspective, allowing us a shared place of memory, intimacy, solace and connection.

In our stories, we are at once a hero and immortal. Where the story remains, so our name, repeated long past the expanse of either past or future.

So, tell me………

when last I dreamed
I lay awake
and wandered unto home
the safe and sweet
once was you
tell me now
some other time
of who you are
and why
you knew my name
before I thought
to love

. . .