Taking Note of My Wanderings

There remains a shadow
tracing my steps,
clouds breaking the fall,
a northern star, beckoning
from the road not taken;

every teardrop
thought to be wasted,
saved in a bottle

cured in his light.

.

When the Chill Sets In

Words flow out
in accompanying clouds-
a prelude to November;

frost around the edges
of the windowsill,

now, outside, looking in.

Before Midnight

We stepped out of page twelve
onto the dance floor,
both, with two left feet,

both, in perfect step
with one another.

Still Standing

Winds twist and turn,
shake the foundation
leaving petals,
scattered,

our spirits, tattered,
but unbroken.

 

 

 

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The Answer

I watch my prayers rise,
reach lilac sunsets,
whirl between clouds,
catch on the tip of stars
and echo back to me
in whispers of reassurance;

boughs of trees standing
in the stillness of summer
fields of lavender, blooming
without the crush of footsteps
as we watch from the window

silhouettes of angels
spread harmony into stale air,
ripples of peace into rivers
running deeper than any disease.

We can’t forget to live,
let fear take hold,
or let love fade away.

I sigh in the silence
of this evening, remembering
that even in these windswept days

his answer is always yes.

When It Starts To Rain

He fills my sills
with colors;
cacti and wildflowers;
pulls back curtains
igniting my smile.

 

 

 

 

 

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Wanderlust

Let’s awaken to a chorus of birdsong,
roll over and pretend we can still fly,
pause to notice the way trees sway;
their winding limbs unaware
of the turmoil in this wind.

Walk with me awhile,
even if we can’t see the ocean
or revisit the snow capped peaks
where our love first bloomed gold.

Let’s turn the television off at 10 pm,
drown out special new reports,
new statistics; numbers going up,
step under a blanket of Texas stars
and dream of tomorrow,

because we aren’t surrendering
to their “new normal.”

 

 

 

.

 

Your Poem Never Wore a Suit

 

Your words were solid food
to an empty stomach,
skip the hors d’oeuvres-
straight to the meat and potatoes
of the matter.

You never tiptoed around the subject,
never flinched when it got tough.

Sometimes I want to decorate;
place ruffles around a sonnet
and make it sing,
but then, I remember you
and I want to finger paint thoughts,
scribble messages on a paper airplane
and fly it to the moon.

I have read poem after poem
since you walked away,
watched words run together
then relax

not a single one unsettling.

Birthday Card

This year, a gift of words
seems much more apropos
than pretty packages

or getting all dressed up
with no place to go.

…

Day 2 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)

Lovesick Poets

i.
You cannot separate
the poet from the heart;
love trickling
from syllables spoken
as sweet nothings
whispered in the ear,
as unspoken adjectives
when no words are needed.

ii.
The same creator
that formed billowing clouds,
bloomed dandelions
that blow across the prairie,
swelled the hearts of poets
to spill verses
like rivers,
ever flowing, far reaching
falling, like weeping willows
touching earth.

iii.
We were made to love
like showers of constellations.
ache like rosebuds past their season
slowly wilting, but beautiful
tenaciously living
just to be read another day.

Seventy Times Seven

You speak to me daily.
I love to listen
to your whispers
filling every empty place,

but, the words,
soon forgotten,
lost in translation
as distractions take precedence,
books open, then close again

my vows, unfulfilled…
until tomorrow,

but, you hand me daffodils
like second chances, daily;
the yellow of your sun
lighting my room with trust.

You could revoke promises,
cancel blessings,
un-answer prayers,

but you never have,

never,
not one.

Rejuvenation

Vase overflowing
with ivory roses
tipped,
sorrow spilling out,

but light dried tears
and buds
blossomed
again.

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