Monthly Archives: September 2020

Joy Replete

I love to live where it snows.

Where I tuck my cold toes
Against my husband’s warm legs

And we can stay in bed
Watching the snow, in wispy flurries,

Bury all our reasons to hurry
In graceful drifts and banks of white

Sleeping soundly through the night,
At first light baking bread, scrambling eggs,

Brewing coffee hot and stout, laced with nutmeg,
While some pork crackles in the cast iron pans

Calling forth my offspring better than I can
In peals of giggles and visions of wintry delights

My husband and I drink up the sights
Black coffee kisses by the kitchen stove

He is the fullness of man: an endless trove
Of potent strength and character- his able hands

Built the space wherein I stand
Safe, cherished, with ample provisions:

His life is a million noble decisions
For which I lay a million kisses on his beard

I love living here
In a space none has torn asunder

Where the work itself becomes the wonder.

Of a Monday

Fast, another day breaks new
More tasks await than I can do
Thus I engage, in the historical sense,
Searching for the significance,
Sifting the vital from the inconsequential
Assigning value to inherent potential
By the framework of my worldview

As every human is prompt to do.


Along some rocky bank
Of wave-bleached stone,
Threshed sand, tangled strands
Twisted weeds like strings of
Ransomed pearls
Where brave men stand alone
And weary women glean
With spines like wilted stems
Both holding hands
In the ebb and flow
Salt-licked gusts the
Howling metronome of the
Foamy churning of days-
Along this bank
I broadly face the sea
Echoing the sirens’ call
In soft falsetto tones
Harmless in humility
Helpless in my humanity

And out upon the vast expanse
The Great God hovers
So I send my call,
My love song,
Across the misty-tided
Ocean of evidence

He called for me first.

The Derelict Palace

Pursed Doors,
With disuse,
Become wall hangings

Parsed Stories
From inside
Eventually stop rapping

And the bare knuckles
Of things that have been
Fold across the still lap
Of inert chronos

Wrapping over the lips
The muffled mouth
Of closed doors.

Framed art
Oft passed by
Neglects to capture
The incalcitrant eye
It fades into flat spaces
Of cobwebs and refusals

The day breaking impotent
When the mouth reopens
To finally loose
A foreign tongue.

Evicted Verses

Where shall I keep my secret thoughts?
Scrawled in ink on fallen trees
Whispered to the roving winds
Migrating on the wayward breeze
Folded thrice in covert deposit
In the cupboard hidden beneath the stair
Buried in a vacant coffee can,
Etched in ash against the night air
Swirling upward in funeral dirge
A final surge of flicker and flight
Where might I discover the habitat
To keep these little thoughts aright?