unpublished-

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there are pages
yet unpublished
inkstain of a kiss
times and days
remembered
unto this

breath where i
another taste
a night
not long ago
words became a whisper
i love so

poems writ to places
shadows sworn to fall
binding us to something
more
than e’er we may recall

fingers bent
to fingers
silence bears us still
beyond the reach of leaving –
the memory of will

. . .

nothing else ~

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duck river

how is it now
the past is come
scattered by the wind
hardened crumbs
were once a croissant
dreams we shared
with ne’er a thought
of sunset o’er the break
darkness settled deep
into our bones
houses kept apart
from joy
bliss we dared believe
the dawn would press
warmth to sleepy eyes
assurance of remember me
lest nothing else make sense
heaven held to shadows –
dusted yesterdays

. . .

from whispers ~

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these hands

where
beginning
just this now
from roots forgotten fell
to make of weeds
a bushel more
than e’er my lips
could tell
from whispers
once a secret kept
awake most all night long
words I scarce remember
yet my heart
has made to song
where paper fails
shelves
where none are felt
a vault is lined
with buttercups
and lace
linen was my color
more lavender than blue
verse infused
to fill my blood
with you

. . .

another almost this ~

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20170331_152004

I dreamed
beyond the edges
into a thicker deep
where buttercup and lilac
weaved a spot of shade
of one more
ever after
one more winter past
rocking chairs
wherein my laughter sits
reminders of another day
another almost
this
nights when not a one
were stars
we made

. . .

Author’s Note:  Many years back, my sister gifted my daddy with a concrete bunny for Father’s Day.  It sat in the grass next to an aging bird bath, with one exception.  When it was time for mowing, my daddy would lift the bunny to sit atop the bird bath so that it wouldn’t be accidentally forgotten, damaging both the bunny and the blade.  For almost two years now, it has sat atop the birdbath.  Though time has passed, we know the hands that put it there and have no desire to displace it.

How often do we need reminders of love?

. . .

tethered ~

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“Sometimes, in the midst of a crazy day or a crazier week, I get an email from my brother, ‘meet you below the falls in five minutes’. And just like that, I am somewhere else, breathing in the cold spray from high above, as laughter echoes off canyon walls. Even now, I close my eyes and hear the wonderful music that is bare feet on flat rocks.”

If we’re fortunate, we realize the blessing in the midst of its becoming rather than only in retrospect. In doing so, we free ourselves from bitterness, regret, and a future filled with frustration as we attempt to re-write the past.

In doing so, we erase the illusion that is time.

While the body may be tethered to the advance of hours, years, seasons, love is not. As someone near and dear to me commented recently, ‘How time dissolves in the mind, when our frame of reference is simply love …’

Touché

unfocused ~

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As of late, my mother has been sharing stories. Some I’ve heard, but others, I haven’t. It seems almost impossible that this much time could pass without me knowing that my mother lied about her age when she married my daddy. Of course, on the other hand, it seems unlikely they would have married had she not. My assumption that the laws were different then had never really been tested so I was surprised to find numbers written on the edge of their license. When pressed, she confirmed she had lied.  I suppose the justice wanted the ‘last word’, noting their ‘supposed’ ages to the official proof.

There’s another tale about her leaving the basketball team when my grandmother gave her the choice to either quit the team or stop seeing my dad. My mother actually fretted for a while over that until I reminded her that they only dated for a couple of months before marrying, at which point she quit school. I wonder how much of the last 62 years have been filled with angst, when in reality she might have missed two or three games.FB_IMG_1488552217459

But we do that, don’t we? The things that shouldn’t be given any weight at all are made bigger by our insecurity, anger, frustration, jealousy and need. And yet, the things that should be viewed as ‘big’ most often aren’t. We lose sight of the first kiss, choosing instead to focus on the first broken heart.

The attention given to my sweet Aunt Lyda* isn’t near the amount given to those whose lives were defined by bad luck and worse choices.

Mom wants me to write a book filled with her stories. I’m all for it, though periodically, I put down my pen and exclaim, ‘that’s not making the cut’ or ‘sorry, but that story’s going with you’.

It’s not the burden that breaks us, but the way we carry it.

tell me now
again
I will you
speak of times before
split the veil
wherein my name
is sewn
listen this reminder
lest I should pass
the night
burdened with
the memory
of every love
I’ve known

*My great aunt Lyda (my granny’s sister) was a beautiful soul. She married a man whose first wife was lost to illness. She helped to raise his three children, though she never bore any herself. They were hard times, and his wife had been buried in an unmarked grave. When he passed, Lyda had a stone made, bearing his family name. The first wife was moved, and for more than 40 years, they’ve lain next to one another, Ruthie and Lyda, with the man they shared between. It’s a story I love to carry.

mccoy