Lonely hearts,
Collect cobwebs in the corner.
While words left unspoken,
Hang like dust motes in the sunshine.
But Life goes on with paths un-taken, names forgotten, hearts neglected.
A love was left behind,
Unwanted.
Where did it go?
Is there a place for misplaced love?
A place where it is held
And comforted or does it just dissipate slowly
Like dew in the sunshine…
I don’t know.
I just
Don’t
Know…
My Sunrise lover sleeps in
Soft, warm darkness.
As sunlight filters in at dawn and
The room brightens, his form slowly comes into being,
Emerging from the rumpled pile of bedclothes.
He is smooth, warm, dark and lovely.
I lie next to him, my face resting against his.
In the early morning’s half-light I can just make out
His eyelashes, resting on his smooth cheeks.
His noble nose is outlined by the
Light spilling in through the window.
His lips are beautiful and full,
Soft and sweet.
And as the room continues to lighten,
His breathing quickens and his body stretches.
I move away from him just a bit
To take in his whole being.
He is strong, lean and beautiful,
All I could ever want or need.
He must feel my presence and
His eyes flutter open.
His smile, at seeing my face so close to his,
Is so beautiful and welcoming,
As if to say he missed me while he slept.
| Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built? Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home, But birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south, Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken, Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people Who called this place home?
When the last one left, Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys? Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care, Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved, The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones. Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride, The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember. |
| Sad little girl,
Come, sit with me. Let me hold you, dry your tears, Kiss your sweet little face. I know you are hurt, I understand, I see her, I see how she is, how she treats you. Come and sit close, you can trust me, I will protect you; there is no hurting here. I know you are too little to understand, and Too innocent to see the shame and fear she holds inside. All you know is the pain of her betrayal. I know and see how hard you try to please her, yet still she is hateful and mean. I hear her tell you daily that you are not good enough, are funny looking and how she wishes she had never given birth to you. I see and feel your pain and frustration, and It breaks my heart to watch this happen to us. I have learned and grown while you have waited and now the time has come For me to come back in time to you, to a time when we were one. Look for me and don’t be afraid, come close and I will read you a story, I know she never did. I will hold you like my baby and sing your sorrows to sleep, She didn’t know how. I will show you that you are better than good enough, and I will prove to you that there is nothing wrong with you, in spite of what she said. You will never be alone again, The wait is over. Trust me my child-self, I have enough love for both of us, I pinky-promise.
After re-reading this post it has finally dawned on me why my anger and hurt at being neglected is still so strong… that was my punishment as a child for not being what my mother wanted me to be…. first she would yell at me and then she would ignore me, not speak to me for days at a time, and when she finally did, it was only to affirm how worthless I was… my husband treated me the same way, and so did other men in my life… unbelievable… so wrong and so sad for that little girl who still lives in my heart. |
Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof
Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway
Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built?
Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness
To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings
Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and
Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home,
And birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock
Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south,
Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken,
Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people
Who called this place home?
When the last one left,
Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys?
Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were
Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago
Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell
and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence
The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of
Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void
Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home
Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care,
Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved,
The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones.
Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story
Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride,
The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember.
I have to wait, just wait,
There is nothing left to do.
Tonight is cold and dark,
I must wait for the sun.
My love is intense and passionate,
I must wait for its object.
My mind is confused and alone,
I must wait for a friend.
My heart aches and pines,
I must wait for a song.
My life is a series of waits,
But my soul is tired of waiting.
Time must slow down,
So I can catch up.
And when I do, all of the waiting will have been for nothing,
Because I will find that it is all already here.
Nostalgia, longing,
Is that what they call that slow, sad ache in my chest?
I get it when I think of my distant past,
My childhood, those days of security and family.
Parents who took care of everything, a father who was
Always there and the most honest man I have ever known.
The nostalgic pain is refreshed when I go on line and look at
Pictures of the town I grew up in and the memories they bring.
Today I am sitting in my writing desk listening to an infomercial on the tv in the other room.
It is an ad for recordings of love songs of the last 50 years, the nostalgic ache is as great as the music is beautiful.
A Time/Life collection of love songs from the past a few of which are: “At Last” by Etta James, “Stardust” by Nat King Cole, “Chances Are” by Jonny Mathis, and one of my very favorites “What a Beautiful World” by Louis Armstrong. Where have all the good love songs gone?
Are they gone because love isn’t the same today as it was then? Is it because sex means nothing more than a bodily function to most people? Are people really that difference now than they were in the recent past, or do they just not know any better?
Have we changed so much that love and sex are not personal or important anymore? I hope not although that is the way it seems more and more.
But I refuse to believe it even though I have loved and surrendered myself, all of me in truth to three men in my life and have been used and left behind by each of them.
Did I expect too much, expect them to be more than they are capable of? And was the past really so much better or have I painted it with unrealistic and romanticized memories based on songs? I don’t know, maybe.
But I remember my dad dancing with my mom in the living room, and I remember him telling me that there was no greater job to be done in this world than the one my mother did taking care of us and our home.
He lived and treated us and everyone in his life with respect and love. My ideas on how things should be are greatly influenced by him, and for that I am thankful.
Maybe it is because of him that my disappointments of the past and the most recent one have so deeply affected me, my dad is a hard act to follow.
But on the other hand it is because of the things he taught me that I will try to keep my heart open in the hope that maybe somewhere out there is a man who remembers the old love songs and what they really meant.
A man who is open to love and trust, understanding and compassion. I’m sure he exists; I just don’t know where to find him.
Parking lot windmill
Blades spin in silence, marking the way.
Rolling field of cars, trucks
And people.
Patchouli, silver, crazy hair
All marks of common individuality.
The pine forest path, is alive with
Footsteps and hoof beats.
Humanity and animals moving together
In one direction, with one purpose.
The darkness and shelter of the forest
Leads the way as
Geese fly overhead honking their
Farewell.
The aromas of open fire cooking and
Dried herbs greet before they are seen.
The tide of humanity funnels through the
Narrow gate and the fair experience begins.
Rows of tents housing crafters of natural goodness and
Organic foods are offered for sale.
Barns of animals grace the open fields
Sharing this natural experience with us.
Life the way is should be, always,
Natural, whole, nourishing and good.
Children dressed as vegetables
Parade around the grounds.
Dirty faces, hay filled hair and
Bright sparkling eyes of health.
The common experience of wholeness
Completes the equation, no litter, no lies.
Only goodness and the hope for a new, gentle and wholesome
Way of life is to be found at the Common Ground Fair.
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