Is it really a new beginning?
Or just a start to another finish.
I suppose it could be a way to a means,
Or a means to an ending.
Or maybe just an ending to another new beginning…
Only time will tell.
Category: Uncategorized
Next Life
Is is me who I grieve for.
My heart and soul wait
anticipating it all to be as I want, but
I chose you, unwisely.
Why cant you be more, be what I want?
All of you, the collective you too.
But it is only me,
smothering in want and need.
Occasionally the sun breaks through but only to be swallowed by the sea, again.
Will it rise tomorrow?
Maybe not.
It is all slipping away,
It is almost over.
Until next time,
love,
next life.
It Waits
It waits with patience hands
Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.
Its story is always the same,
Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.
There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.
It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.
It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,
Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.
It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,
In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,
For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,
The face of our existence, the light in our souls,
The essence of our being
Before we were born.
Summer Sunday Evenings
There comes a soft sadness with
Summer Sunday evenings.
A time of day that remains empty unless full,
Lonely unless shared.
One week’s ending is
Another’s beginning.
Just as his absence is just another ending
And his staying away just another beginning.
My lonely heart aches and
Forgotten tears fall in silence as
My memories of him are left to collect dust in the corner,
Their silence speaking volumes.
No one else cares,
No one else remembers, and still,
The soft summer sadness of Sunday afternoon silence
Continues without end.
What Is
The sound of rain takes me to a place of inner peace as the
Rain falls in sheets and slides down the roof and over its edge in a curtain of water.
Tree leaves dance with the weight of the rain and
Flowers wash their faces in its freshness.
The sky is lower on rainy days and
Holds us close to the ground.
Sounds are muted and muffled and
Light is defused in grayness.
But it is not a sad and depressing grayness,
But soothing and peaceful,
Full of necessity.
A rainy day, soft and dark, begs us to stop, rest and be mindful of our surroundings and loves.
It reminds us to take the time to be lulled by the patter of rain on the windows
Into a place of inner stillness,
And there remain, content to just be and accept what is.
The Stones Will Remember
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.
It Waits
It waits with patience hands
Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.
Its story is always the same,
Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.
There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.
It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.
It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,
Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.
It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,
In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,
For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,
The face of our existence, the light in our souls,
The essence of our being
Before we were born.
Out of the Darkness
He comes to me out of darkness in the night,
With soft words matching soft hands.
His smoldering passion stares me down.
I can’t look away, he is all there is.
We move together in silence, no words are necessary.
It is all so familiar.
He knows what I want,
I know what he needs.
It is a love that never ends but sometimes lays hidden in lies, or
Buried in truth, ashamed of itself.
It sleeps for months only to burn through again
And consume us once more in its power and passion.
So, is this what you have been looking for? Been waiting for?
Been wanting and needing?
Been dreaming of in your darkest hours?
Been hoping to find and hear?
You don’t have to look any further.
It is all still right here, as it always has been.
Right in front of you,
Framed by a heart.
Into Blackness
I made too much of it,
More than it was.
But not at all what I
Wanted it to be.
Yet I continued, wanting,
Wishing, and hoping and for what?
For another night? It was just a one night
At a time love.
It feels unreal now,
a waste of me, of my soul and heart.
And now begins the slow fade into blackness and silence, just like all the others, as
My soul bleeds and my heart beat stops and
My eyes, still in their blindness, wish it were not so.
Haiku
A soft whispered kiss
Midnight love is always best
His heart keeps mine close
2/21/17
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