songs on a breeze

There was a song that floated in on the breeze

Singing of softness and simple things

A fire and some stones to sit around and sing

A window pane telling stories of work and sensitivity

This song has chords, here and there, 

That speak of things that are not soft, 

But they always melt back into harmonious delight

Of lovingkindness and thoughtfulness fair 

The breeze brings with it memories 

And shining eyes with joy and tears

Through to the end, it wraps the notes 

In gentlest of tones that float across the years

Forgetting all the times of pounding out 

The notes on unforgiving keys

Writing a melody with words 

That go unsung 

Who will take these notes that look like words

And give them space and time, allowing them to sing

And bring a lighter, brighter sound

A happier charm, replacing the beating of the drums

Teach me a song I can trust and carry with me

In my heart and on my sleeve

No matter where I am or where I go, 

To show me love is what I know

This sweetness grows on me like moss

So softly hanging on the edge of a pond

I never knew I could touch such pure simplicity 

By caring for these precious souls 

Who offer me each passing day

A smile and care-laced questions

Each day is gained a mutual trust

Respect, and happiness in every song I see. 

 

these lines

The lines keep writing across her fading skin

The stories that she lives

The words keep being tattooed across her waning heart

As it slows while she lives

The gifts she has are tucked inside 

With the hopes she once would say

But the lines are all fading now

And the words are losing 

Their fire

buried

buried in dishes 

completely unromantic

unclaimed destiny 

glowing

glowing up this lane

reinventing ourselves now

forgetting the old 

about time

I don't know where I went wrong 

Most of the time

I can't seem to get things right 

Most of the time

I won't take the chance

Some of the time

I can't see down the road

All the time 

 

about life

The palms of her hands are still soft 

Though she works at life like a 

Field hand with no rest 

The whites of her eyes are still dry

Though she cries on the inside about life like 

Someone who has been punched in the gut

The strength of her mind is still sharp

Though she cannot hold life's memories like an

Old woman with nowhere she knows is home

dull

My pencil tip has been too used. 

It is dull and cannot find more words to muse.

The days are long and tiresome

Like the last bits of writing that come

From the last nub of a pencil, almost all used. 

sanctity well worn

Sanctity well worn

Fading flower left to die

Fighting against night

clouds stroll by

Crawling across the sky with not a care in the world

These gorgeous, daring clouds stroll by like a pretty girl

Floating like cotton candy without its paper stick 

These pillowy, billowy clouds are purely photogenic

Such loveliness and comfort, like a blanket for the air

These blue and pink and white piles of clouds laid bare

These clouds go by soaking up some warmly lit sun, having a bit of fun

springtime fait accompli

Guide me to the garden path that's strewn with roses wild

Take me to the pathway's hedge laden with fragrance mild

Stand with me in the archway, holding our dreams with the golden honeysuckle strands

Grow with me in the sunlight, reaching for love like happy violets holding hands

Wake me if you must from this sweet springtime reverie

But let it last while it can, for its assured end must be a fait accompli 

song of the lamppost man

We did not always need you—before the street lamps came to be

But once we saw the light at night, we decided that created a job must be

You did you work with precision—on the dot with help from your clock

You brought out the light on time to rise like suns with your ladder and pole

And returned again at close of night to let the authentic sun take its turn

You lent us security in the darkest part each night

You offered up a change for extra time to play or even fight

Yet as time passed, we found new ways to always have our night be day

And we do not need you anymore; you're written out in a thankless way

But when we perchance walk home at night, we feel your sacrifice

And cherish all the light

burnt out

Ground up pieces of old kindling memories

Sitting, almost waiting, in an old tin can 

With not much more than worn out niceties

Pushing persistently against this worn out plan

A plan to always be that forever friend

A person to lean on and never pretend

That something can come from nothing 

Although nothing has come from something—

And the fire is nearly out. 

shine!

Shine out! Shine out—you glorious fool!

Remember! Remember! Do not forget who you are—

A queen or a king, triumphant supreme!

You, yes, you are a treasure and beam!

Your light is bright. Your worth divine. 

Give to the world the light that you shine. 

Give glory and goodness with your story sublime. 

Let your words shine as they pour onto each line. 

black and white delight

black and white delight

facing stark reality

guiding truth remains 

rain

I hear it patter-pitter-pattering across the glass and landscape 

Below and besides and oftentimes 

The soothing quality is lost in the heaviness

Of the pressure system that surrounds every nerve 

Across our skin and sends signals that confuse 

Or delight depending on the day, the mood, the circumstance

But always pressure on all sides 

When it could be different—

It could be soothing loveliness that blesses, not divides

It could be light and bright refreshment found 

When the sounds come patter-patter-pittering across the glass

So gentle and kind like the caress of droplets on roses 

The refreshing caressing blessing of rain in spring 

she brang joy

She did it. 

She lived to care for her own. 

She lived to watch over many. 

She tried. 

She sacrificed. 

She cried. 

She sang and gave

And brang the joy 

Of God to life. 

She made sunshine out of rain—

Made something out of nothing—

Fearless warrior woman, mother saint

Dedicated to Frances Trotter. 

make it make sense

Wonder is a wonderful thing except for when it paralyzes. 

Who wants to not be able to move or choose or do what needs to be done? 

No one, that's who. 

Yet here we are. 

We are, day after day, pushing against the paralyzing indecision. 

We wonder too much about how we will be okay without doing much about it. 

We strive and try and cry and do things to feel alive. 

Yet here we are. 

What is this life but a series of questions gone unanswered? 

Until—one day—something happens. 

Something good and unexpected but expected at the same time. 

We are ready for it all, all the joy and pain, and how it now makes sense. 

Almost. 

dreams on a stone shelf

Dreams on a stone shelf

Indescribable sorrow

Hope greets tomorrow

this road

Where can I find the peace I seek as I wander on this lonely road 

This road with no end in sight that has taken my whole heart to traverse

To bravely traverse the ups and downs, the hills and valleys, has been my life's work

My whole life's work seems never-ending like this road that breaks me down into pieces

Into ground down pieces of humility and hope, I find myself broken and shaped for more

For much more am I destined, and my soul understands where I can go for peace

For the peace I need is in my faith and hope and charity that leads me on toward Heaven

comedy of errors

One thing led to another and another, and the next thing you know

We've got a comedy of errors on our hands, 

But I never learned how to laugh at that kind of thing.

Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. And more buzzing. 

Clicking the buttons off and on, trying to get life to go right. 

But it just is not enough—or maybe too much—probably the latter. 

Then kindness steps in and smooths things over, silencing the clatter. 

Patience takes a turn to soothe the soul and set things right, 

And it turned out alright despite the tension in her shoulders. 

I believe UNFINISHED

I believe in goodness that lifts us when we're down. 

I believe in joy that teaches us it's alright to frown. 

I believe I can do most anything—if I let myself try. 

I believe you are capable of greatness when you let yourself fly. 

I believe in God who is the Father true. 

I believe He made a plan to guide me and you. 

I believe in a world where treasure can be found… 

hanging on the heart

I remember when I could not remember anything. 

It calls to me—even beckons me to come back home. 

Thinking on it now pulls me in closer like a warm embrace

On a cold night when we were not expecting any guests. 

I want to show you more of what I know is there but hidden, 

What is right there, near, but invisible if we cannot open our eyes.

The times I cannot tell you of are resting in my mind, 

Hanging in the heart, where the soul and body blend. 

I open up a window to find mirrors everywhere, 

Forcing me to reflect on what Eternity I have been working toward. 

Do you ever contemplate the time when you could not remember? 

almost grown

The glint in your eyes

That smirk when you are confident

Your little laugh that makes everyone want to know what you are thinking

Your youthful insights growing into the long game called wisdom 

My little boy becoming a man

you are my therapy

Stop writing long enough and all you need to do is write one word. 

One word turns into another and another, and next thing you know—

You have sheets and sheets of words formed into a flaming heap

Resembling the state of your brain or mind or whatever it is you were losing. 

The words mean things that are not very happy

Because you are not. 

And those words stare back at you like Truth often does

Telling you things you did not want to acknowledge. 

Unhappy is the real cut-to-the-chase truth if you want to know the truth. 

Living too long on the last line of pages filled with nothing 

But the same story written over and over with different details 

To keep things somewhat interesting.

Holding out hope that one more string of words

Might be the ones that fix me. 

Sofa time and getting charged by the hour, 

With so little to show for all the work, 

Write another word and then another 

Like learning how to walk again—or breathe again—  

My pen, my therapy. 

coursing through my veins

Did I tell you? 

I can't remember if I did. 

Did I say the thing that I wish weren't true? 

I really couldn't say one way or another. 

Did I happen to mention how I am on the edge? 

I really am quite on the edge 

Of a cliff, a knife, or an epiphany; 

I honestly am unsure which. 

Always running up and down the lane

In my mind from all the fight or flight 

That is stuck on fight 

With all this cortisol coursing through my veins

Like oxygen but toxic 

Like life's blood, but it is taking not giving

Did I tell you? 

I can't remember when it started. 

Maybe it is just the way I'm built—

Surviving on cortisol instead of love.  

scraps everywhere

scribblings on this little piece of sticky note

scratching on a ripped off power bill

notes here and there 

the beginnings of something yet nothing 

since nothing was done with them 

these words that float from pen to paper to 

garbage heap 

scraps of life 

scraps of art 

scraps of something that is really nothing 

but honestly should be something 

but the scraps are everywhere 

with no way to gather them 

without losing something 

in the process 

patience

Misty morning with a sunrise like no other

The bright white of snow fresh fallen smiles back at us

Like the hope of dawn that always comes 

Pouring out the love of ages that collect within the edges

The perfection of each crystalline formation 

Shining and smiling, giving us a show 

A promise formed in the sky and sinking into the earth

Pushing on patience to know it must wait

But oh the wait is well worth it when water glimmers

When the children play and refreshment finds us all 

Patience feels like nothing but a drop in the bucket 

Called Life. 

on the edge

Working on a few things 

Here and there

We run and run until we are ragged and 

Ragged leads to being 

Left on the edge and 

Not really knowing what to say 

Or do 

Or how to feel 

Or how to do anything but 

Survive

finding home

seen and heard and loved and held

in the warmth of the sun on a cold, cold day

faith whisperers and speakers of hope and help 

golden, angelic, watchful friends 

the words of devotion holding on 

teaching us something we used to understand

just forgotten

just remembered

just a soul 

finding home

can't

forgotten space spilling over with life

nothing seems to matter that used to matter

words fall flat on the cold surface of never

and I look around with no hope of forever

with anyone who would choose 

only those who are tethered 

one way or another 

and I wish I could

forget this space

forever

but I 

can't