golden promises shimmer in summer’s sunlight somehow cozy now think eternity somehow cozy, snuggled in velvet lined starlight as earth turns toward fall no comfort of faith within Fatima’s secrets
Golden Promises
Category: metaphor
Of Wounds and Winter
Winter exists in this quiet realm: The place of spring dreams where from rich loam colors emerge vibrant, as if hope, become a virgin, offered her hand to lessen Winter’s ache enough the wounded reach to touch without wounding in the trying.
An Unrepentant Sky
merge with the unrepentant sky, learn the truth, the reasons why suffering and fear and hatred abound, feeding upon human souls, destroying what Nature did so elegantly design, the beauty of humanity from the inside out-- until we are devils, our mouths foaming blood-tinged froth while our claws fill with sinew torn from our innocent brethren, who different from us, are deemed worthy only of hate— and the earth turns on its axis of destruction in an unrepentant sky as any God that be cries.
Where Cloud Shadows Paint
still quiet, breath stops a moment-- striations apparent upon the red rock in the distance-- sound unheard speaks a language our ancestors once knew-- perhaps our souls once spoke words lost to us now yet here where clouds paint shadows upon the land our souls feel the rhythm of a language we once knew
The Heart
An odd creature, powers through a day, decades, a life. A four chambered survivalist beast, outlasting all fracturing cracks of grief when the spirit, will, mind drift away. In imitation, a four chambered thing beats on and on.
Ink, Time, Books
A few minutes every day, at times, stretching into hours, I write to you in this book, writing words whispering mysteries of the winds in the mountains. At times, my words still, shifting, settling then sighing as moonstone white clouds rest, caressing the tops of mountains. I have burned hundreds of ink filled books over these many years when disgusted with the imperfection of my scribbled pages. The heat of their fires never offered much warmth. Now, I save my scribble filled books though you may never see them. Forty-five years, I have written words to you, yet you never knew, and neither did I until this moment.
A Small Moment
Strong, the breeze this evening
bringing the scent of grilling burgers
from a distant neighbor’s yard.
The sounds of soft sighs issue
from the dogs at my side.
The hummingbirds perform
an elegant ballet concerning
territorial claims as the symphony
of their brilliant buzzing
makes us all look up.
Stillness—
Then—
A rumble in the distance.
The scent of rain at war
with the scent of grilling burgers
from the neighbor’s yard.
The drops of rain pelt,
driving away
the smell of grilled meat.
Now, only the scent of rain remains.
The battle won.
Protected under the patio cover,
The dogs and I sigh.
My Mother’s Washboard
The old washboard
stands in a five dollar flea market tub
with three faded, scratched up tall coke bottles,
a rusted plaid patterned lunch pail,
a red plastic mesh bag filled with used beach toys,
a broken hobby horse some kid rode once
while yelling, Hi, Ho, Silver! Away!
Among this disregarded dusty junk,
the old washboard looks fragile
as if the wood surrounding the corrugated steel
might fracture should a woman grasp it
intending to use it to scrub stains
from familial laundry
like my mother did with her’s.
I remember my mother’s washboard
standing in her soaking bucket,
filled with 20 Mule Team Borax, Biz, and hot water,
which stood in the concrete laundry tubs
in the basement of the house.
I remember how her knuckles turned red,
the skin raw looking, as she scrubbed blood
from a blouse, pouring salt from a Morton’s
salt container onto the stain then scrubbing
up and down, up and down on the washboard,
then dunking the blouse twice
to see if the stain was gone.
Pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
The pattern, the rhythm, until the stain erased.
I have no soaking bucket,
no Twenty Mule Team Borax, no Biz,
no washboard
to get my stains out.
My spray bottle of Oxi Clean Stain Remover
pales in memory
of my mother’s washboard.
Your Wings
Dreams fulfilled and abandoned, the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy-- Tears fallen, dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind, and those never allowed to fall-- The skins of selves I used to be the wounded and scarred the shrunken down inside her skin the sacrificial to survival-- Take these things I freely give, adding all my wishes my dreams my hopes for you. Next, Add all you want, all you dream, all you desire, wish for and hope for in your life Then weave of them a chrysalis bout yourself to cushion and protect as you grow into your own skin. Leave your chains of fear, your yoke of worries with me. I will bury them deep inside my chest. When you emerge, your wings wet and beautiful, you may perch upon the branch of pride growing from my soul to flex and flutter your wings until dry enough to fly, beautiful as you have always been, never to shrink or curl away your wings again.
Morning Coffee
the coolness of morning enters
it drifts into the veins
chills feeling for a time—
when the hummingbird perches
to drink the fresh sugar water
I made for her that morning,
I smile.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 