Summer went away today,
I saw it on a cloud.
First the sun, and then a mist,
across the sky, a shroud.
I thought I should be sorry.
But then, no...sadness,
the winter brings such life,
steamy fields, from freezes
that stir the bulbs to show
their tips of green,
indeed a welcome sight.
As seasons change the guard,
a festival explodes.
Fallen leaves and tiny tips,
that tell me all is well.
Colors red and yellow,
to fallen acorns show,
that there is sense
in all I see, and even what I smell.
Crisp leaves crunch beneath my feet
making me feel well
Pleased by thoughts of
cozy nights of fireside
knitting, watching sleeping.
An Altercation with Cancer
The body being vulnerable, and times fragile, will oft’ betray us.
The mind, pliable, strong and loyal, bends to accommodate the treachery of the body.
Dismissive of the frailty of the body; the mind stays true, and on course.
The self-rises to meet the mind as they journey on, drawing strength in foul weather; seeking joy in every season.
I wouldn't be called Imelda,
but there'd be a name for me.
There'd have to be.
People would notice
that I had so many handbags,
they'd be sure to label me.
No real appreciation for a bag,
no idea of the delight
in the look of the hardware,
the critical appraisal of the shape,
returning, disappointed. Empty.
People wouldn't know.
The awareness of just how much
one is prepared to pay.
Too much is too much,
and too little is not a consideration.
A sale often brokers the deal.
A delicate callabratiion.
One might relent.
People love a sale.
The seduction of color,
texture and size.
Nothing but leather
The right color
will change from
sensible black to
turquoise, blue or other.
Some people know.
A bag for all reasons,
sometimes the seasons,
doesn't quite capture the zeal
of the sense of having,
this symbol of true identity.
The plasticity of the self,
requiring a bag to match,
People may get it.
True knowledge of a bag
Mercurial, even to the self.
Hard wired, immutable.
People would talk.
Poem - Apropos of nothing really...
an ode shall
bode well. You say.
You say the muse must be
told that she should leave. This
will leave many things unsaid - sad.
May she tarry a while so we can savor,
her joy of life, of flower and bird, peace and
love of life. We will gather her pieces of life
and connect them in our baskets,
until they are overflowing with love
of each other and joy of nature.
She can pass to other souls
who have need of wonder
But she must return
Blackberry leaves in winter.
The frost has sketched a silver outline around webs
The mist is patchy, and I can see filtered sun rays
The bushes hang heavy with rich red berries
The blackberry leaves are a rusty red
The nights are crisp and cold
The days grow shorter
The trees are stark
The birds have flown away
The wattle shows a tinge of yellow
The rain is sleet like, sometimes snow
The bulbs are beginning to show their faces
The days grow longer and with them my sense of delight.
Curtains in the Morning
I remember so well
the gentle stirring of curtains
early in the morning.
The sunlight caught between the folds
as they moved,
transferring light and fresh sweet air
down the hallway.
A morning melody sung in fabric
through open windows.
carried the promise of the day,
the intoxication of sweet peas moving slowly in the garden outside,
giving off a delightful perfume.
The anticipation of a day not lived
meandering through my unconsciousness.
The endless possibility
contained on a breeze
as it played with the curtain,
revealing itself with such coyness.
The Message On The Tide
The coastal tides carried forth a tale, it slip-streamed on a breeze.
It told me that my friend was ill, I felt a great unease.
Attacked once more by merciless foes, my friend had suffered much.
My heart lurched hard ‘neath my chest; I felt my fingers clutch.
They curled themselves into a fist, that told me there was more
to conquer here this day, than random thoughts of war.
A skulking force was in our midst, and one that made us fear,
for life and love and all we knew, and all that we held dear.
We told each other he would fight, a battle fierce and strong,
he’d spare no effort to be free, to sing another song.
He’d live to see the days he craved, and he’d meet another dawn,
to write another line at will, and see a book be born.
I said, “So it be, consider me on board, the boat you sail,
to meet this foe, with fury and with sword.
So that’s just where we left it, we’d fight ‘til day grew dark,
then on all night, we’d set the watch, we’d strip this evil stark.
We live in hope, and trust out wills, to see this battle through,
and all the while we stand our ground, for worse we do eschew.
We’ll fight as one this foul assault, as friends who love you dearly.
A love that floats like sin on waves, for all to see so clearly.
And if we falter we shall say, we gave it all our worth,
convicted in our knowledge that you’ll not leave this earth,
unless you choose to close your eyes, and break the hearts of all.
But know you, that you called the shots, you chose to leave the squall.
June 1 2017
I am the one who sees the sunset in awe; the one whose breath catches at the sight of mist hanging gently in a valley.
I love Vera Lynn singing “The White Cliffs of Dover.” These are my post-war memories - filtered to me via my grandparents.
I want to see the rays of early morning sunlight, on the tips of Acacia trees before a frost has thawed.
I love to hear bird song; blackbirds for Dover, magpies for Canberra, an owl or Mockingbird for Paso Robles.
I want to eat toast and lime marmalade or Leatherwood honey for breakfast.
I love to run my fingers over the tops of bulbs as they begin to show in late winter. I want them to last forever because they tell me that my garden will soon be alive with color. An expectancy of joy balanced on the tips of Paperwhites.
I love to watch Ginger Rogers and Gene Kelly tap dancing. I want to be able to dance like they do. I am smart enough not to try.
I love to play hide and seek with my dog. This game makes me giggle with willful glee. But not as much as the time I played that game with my daughter and grandchildren. I was breathless with happiness.
I love blue summer skies that go on forever, haze on the horizon.
I can’t choose between the skies and the mist, but I may put my money on the mist; it fills me with a joy that I can’t describe.
I want to write about who I am and what makes me happy, but nothing about how old I am. Writing about my age may suggest that there is a finite degree of pleasure in experiencing all the things I love and that just wouldn’t be right.
I know there will be an exquisite delight, if only in memory, of a magically suspended wispy mist in my final thoughts.