A single Saturday rose
Reminds me in gentle ways
to love, listen, give and forgive
Even as the petals dry and leaves wilt
A single Saturday rose speaks of love
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Speaking of Love
Author Archives
In the Quiet
Take the boat around the lake one more time,
Let the bow explore the shallows between the rocks and sand bars,
You will find what you need if you listen
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The Blues
I was drawn to blue.
Sapphires.
Oceans, sky,
My bathrobe, hyacinths, sun glass,
Our sofa, the bedspread, my running shoes, that favorite candle,
Blue, all blue.
But now, purple is creeping into my life.
An odd shift that I’m not going to analyze.
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Holding On
She held his hand, letting her thumb trace the spaces between his fingers
His breathing, in and out, kept time to the ticking of the clock
And then the clock stopped,
And she knew she had to let go.
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Sleep
Sleep doesn’t come easily to me anymore. I fall asleep fine. But, if something interrupts my sleep, it’s all over. And I am finding the more I think about writing, the more I think about writing. The other night, the cat decided to jump on the bed and sit on my chest, purring loudly. Once awake, I started analyzing the plot to a story I’m working on. I really like one of the characters, but I hadn’t developed her enough. Finally, I had to get out of bed and write. (Thus yesterday’s poem about finding morning to be a relief.)
I am also taking the advice of writers who say we have to be willing to write badly. After years of writing only nonfiction (as a journalist) or posts on my blog, I am treading carefully into creative writing. It’s painful, at times. Yet, I take seriously this gift of time to explore my creative side through painting, sketching, and writing.
And, now, back to work….
A Thought
As the sun shows its bold self
Morning rituals bring relief from night’s wondering
A new day sheds light, shaping thoughts and worries into perspective.
Such clarity comes regularly, if we give it a chance.
Such sweet intervention is welcome.
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A Grandmother
The worn path that leads from the tall Oak to the raspberry bushes
reminds me of my grandmother.
She once planted tulips and asparagus,
filling the spaces with blues, pinks, and yellows.
In her cotton dress and wide-brimmed hat,
she dug and sifted, clearing her garden of impossible weeds.
Dreaming of books and poetry. A writer.
I only knew her in her garden.
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We Are Fine
We sit, laptops open.
Did you know too much happiness is a bad thing, he asks.
Hmmm, are we too happy?
No, he said.
The cat yawns.
The dog scratches.
Did you know eating fish three times a week prevents heart attacks, I ask.
Hmmm, we eat it twice. Is that enough?
Yes, I said.
The cat stretches.
The dog sighs.
We are fine, you know.
Yes. I know.
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Coping
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Cold fingers
Cold toes
Cold nose
Chills, aches,
Pain like little needles.
Air conditioners whir and churn .
Give me a hot day under a tree, a breeze by the beach.
I dread the coming of the machine.
Summer at the Beach
The ocean cracks against the shore,
I listen once again from my bedroom.
Falling asleep, I imagine the creeping waves, reaching and rescinding,
the sound changing only with the tide and wind.
We could learn much from the constancy of nature.
#npm prompt: constancy