Posted in Art, Poetry, prose

The Poet’s House -Summer

Gleeful sands of mischief
lighten oppressed time.
The celestial sphere pulls
laughter from the land.

And they laid their languished heads down upon the driftwood. Waves lapping the naked feet.

To sleep. To sleep. Under the noon day sun, Souls yearn to caress the rising moon.

To feel. To feel. Wrapped in fallen petals, swept up in leafed-out branches, and grazed by fiery skies, Summer races past their heads.

Pedals anchored to wheels
the goose waves goodbye.

Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.

Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
Posted in Photography, Poetry

FOTD—Bluets

Cee’s FOTD Photo Challenge

Bluet

What delight Spring brings on the heels of a never-ending bleakness buried in snow.

Before the grass grows tall, the shoots of violets, bluets, and trout lily dance atop the forest floor. Before the grand tree canopies, the floral bouquet is gathered to adore.

After we succumb to woodland fragrance, the bumble and honey bee dance to wax and wane their appetite. After the world awakes, we rest in slumber for time’s sake.

To remember the wildflower dotting the woodlands come September will prove beauty’s allure!

Posted in Art, Poetry

The Poet’s House – Spring

Found art in a used book. I colored Spring in a b&w image.

Translucence
follows suit
of gray doves -gone.
Hope circles, in the sky
orbit
sharp green blades
that lie low
in soil, kneaded
with nimble thoughts
to sprout joy.

It is not spring in Massachusetts. It is spring in Jeanne’s attic, where all such things are stored.

Posted in Poetry

Poetry challenge #2

Depth of thought
her feet to sink,
her mind covered deep.
The rustling leaves,
a cool autumn breeze
and soon a winter’s walk.
The crunch of snow
and gale winds blow,
for now she satisfies.
What could have been
will never be
and that she settles down.
The ocean sands
a wave of hope
washes out her mind.


Quilted Waves

Posted in Memoir, Photography, Poetry

winter

winter, winter, winter
she begrudgingly
asks “who is winter?”
me and everyone.
cold, stark,
unwelcoming spring
waits for no one.

I lie here
frozen. The wheel moves
my mind. The thaw
penetrable by
spring’s innocence.

i pray to pass up
summer’s heat
sweltering, the shame of fall.
autumn brisk.
laughing leaves
pile high, hiding tears
frozen once again.

Time stood still

Ecclesiastes 1:9 What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.