'Tis the Season

by Me

Lights twinkle and shine
Hearts open in love and hope
Gratitude abounds

Hoarfrost

by Me

Sunrise Thru Birches

Wakeful Moment

by Me

Naked branches dance
in shadowed splendor
through stationary
slatted blinds
upon kitchen wall.
Darkness making light
my sleepy thirsty soul.

Birthday Blessings

Fall, Falling, Fallen

Grateful

by Me

Autumn's bounty seen
Harvesting eyes wide open
Reaping heart's delight.

Beauty Unexpected

by Me

While walking at dusk
I looked down at the wet
shiny pavement and noticed
golden leaves scattered.
A street light shone through
tree limbed foliage
super imposing a shadowed
leaf pattern under foot.
Too beautiful for words.

On Friendship

Each friend represents
a world within us,
a world possibly not
born until they arrive,
and it's only by this meeting
that a new world is made.

Anais Nin

Que Sera-Sera

by Me

It's ironic how memories have a way of attending
the present mind's eye. I must have heard my
mother sing that song a hundred times as a child.
My mother, I now believe, for reasons of keeping
her sanity, used to pile us kids in the car and
drive to places unknown. Often, a neighborhood
kid would hop in too. There was a mountain that
sat on the periphery of our little town. Actually
the mountain was little too, more of a large hill.
It was called Mars Hill Mountain. Maybe the
name changed to Bigrock after well travelled skiers
cracked jokes about our beloved hill of till.
Anyway, something about circling the mountain
inspired Mum into a nonstop sing-song.
Pioneer Girls had nothing on my mother.
She sang a variety of melodies that plucked
at our heart strings, sometimes not so
gently. She came into her element when we'd
plead, "Sing Old Shep, please sing Old Shep!"
By the time she had finished singing about
Old Shep's departure to the place
"where the good doggies go...", most of us
were in tears and feeling a rather noble
touch of compassion for the futility of dogs'
plight. Our nobleness was further nurtured
by her as she pointed out nature's sights
and smells. She'd say, "Smell the sweet hay"
or, "Feel how soft these pussy willows are."
We were alway smelling or feeling something.
"Isn't the sky beautiful?", she'd ask. It
looked like a sky to me. She'd mention the
clouds and the different shades of blue.
Didn't we see how the sky looked like the ocean
and the clouds like a rippling shore-line?
I see it now. Wasn't Mum brilliant?
She knew God personally, you know.

Sign Language (Happy Birthday, Mom)

by Me

You used to hold my hands.
You said mine were so soft,
that they hadn't done the work
your hands had.

I looked at your hands.
They were rough and red.
The nails irregular.
Your hands told their own story.

This is what I remember about your hands.
I remember their touch.
They caressed, soothed and nurtured.
They held me when I was sick.
Your nails traced circles on my back.

Your hands did a multitude of things,
a multitude of loving things.
My hands will never be rough
or my nails uneven like yours.
My hands tell their own story.

I hold my daughter's hands
and tell her how soft they are.
Will she remember my hands?

Written 20 years ago for Mother's Day
I love you Mom

Lime Lit

by Me

Oh, verdant friend,
you come gifting winter's end!

Sprightly, lightly, leaves are peeping,
exposing dark spirits of winter's keeping.

Colors burst, buds soon bloom,
petals sweep away the gloom.

Nymphs, gnomes and fairies wild
spring to life for season's ride.

Delighting the senses with every hue,
you bring us hope and faith anew.

A friend we see but once a year
a treasured friend we hold so dear.

My World

by Me

Sweet childhood long gone
left in its wake lingering memories.
Crisp sunlit mornings greeting
an innocent of five.

Sun filtered through the kitchen window.
A spotlight shining on the red and white
checked table cloth. A blue table with
sparse red trim.

Sweet melon and cheerios enticed.
All was orchestrated by Grammy Brown.
She wore glasses and a printed apron.

Then to the world of play.
Behind the barn the blades of grass
glistened with dew.
A magical frolicking time.

Later the creation of mud-pies.
The sweet smell of dried earth
on the skin always amazed.
It made the skin look old and parched.

A huge lilac bush provided refuge
for the hidden observer.
The ground was cool,
the ants were marching.

An innocent of five.
Alone in body yet fulfilled in spirit.

Happiness

Happiness cannot be traveled to,
owned,earned,worn, or consumed.
Happiness is the spiritual experience
of living every minute with love,
grace, and gratitude. Author Unknown

Of The Mind

by Me

Cold morality is in me.
It's icy fingers caress me, taunt me.
Living a rigid code of ethics
trying to be good, proper.
Getting swallowed up by the
everyday regime - a self inflicted regime.

Ahh - I feel a warmth spreading
throughout my mind.
A whisper of heat permeates my soul.
Frigid limbs become limp with desire.
The harness of my being is loosened.
Steam emanates from the moisture
of my frigidness.

Your touch, your eyes.
Spontaneous combustion.
My cold morality is ablaze.
You melt me.

Juxtaposition

by Me

You dance attendance on a limb,
waiting, forming, unfolding.
A bud reaching for sunlight-
you and nature as one.

You're so supple, so lush,
veins running helter skelter
throughout your palm -
feeding, nuturing.

Growing, frolicking on your secure extension.
A sprightly existence;
experiencing the elements.

Time passes, seasons change,
it's time to return from whence you came.

Protruding veins -
character lines on your parched facade.
Letting go a bit at a time.

Melding into the earth,
relinquishing your hold on life-
to join the harmony of nature.

Masquerading

by Me

Your brilliance is an illusion.
You are but a reflector -
A mirror image.

Do you enjoy attending the monthly ball?
In your disguise
you outshine most.
You are the starburst in
a sparkling orchestra.

I will dance with you,
attend your ball.
You see I know your secret.
Without the sun
I wouldn't see you at all.

Winter Wonderland