March 31

Photo credit here.

Lost socks (in the wash)

Heavy legs (ran 3 miles anyway)

Parking atop the garage (undercover, missing the downpour upon my arrival)

Figuring numbers 

Scrambling for details

Everything taking more time (seemingly)

Walking a tight wire with deadly serious consequences

Hoping for the best, but worried for the worst

I come to the end of this day glad it is over

Attempting to find the silver linings, and many appear

If I look,

But sometimes looking is difficult

And seeing is harder still.

Bedtime

 Image found here.

He held a candle to his lips

Then breathed in, pushed out

and blip it went - the darkness

consuming him.

Tree Talking II

The tree stood sloped upward at the edge of the yard. It grew long with the setting sun, reaching toward the house, granting respite from another sweltering day - or may it was rain - it's hard to remember.

The tree had stood guard over rows of corn and squash, the squeals of children hanging from swing sets, the death defying tricks on a trampoline with no pads or webbing to insure safety.

It watched the man in overalls with his donkey plowing the fields and later the same man with a tractor. It heard the cluck of chickens feeding on grain, laying eggs. It gasped each time the crack of a breaking neck reverberated on the wind.

The tree took in the smoke of a hundred fires: the ones for singeing the soft down off a chicken, the ones clearing to ash a stack of debris, and the small ones in the cigarettes the boys smoked discretely behind the barn - high on their maturity and sophistication. 

When the house burned it watched the embers glow upward on drafts, then scatter on the ground. It felt sprays caught on the wind from the fire hoses and was grateful for how the night cooled.

These moments imprinted on its rings - the internalization of all the decades of activity: famine and harvest, glee and wailing, birth and death. An observer, but also a container of the passage of time, lasting longer than any of its human counterparts. An old soul, whispering its secrets in the language of leaves blowing in the wind. 

Stand near it in stillness, and calm your soul.

- Writer's Workshop, July 2024

The Gateway

 

Photo credit Paul Reiffer

The day is gray - when water folds into skyline like its lapping heaven

Yet the face of the sky is flat, motionless, settled - still

As if the wet lick does not tickle its nose or catch just enough of its mouth to make it retract back in disgust. A pall placed upon it by hands unseen, it is dispassionate.

Yet there is a gateway - the legs reflected in the ocean's mouth, the top disappearing from its view.

Is it a chin rest of the gods? 

A step so the god may reach to grope for the sun? 

Maybe it's for the god's cigarette - that nasty habit it's trying to break? 

Or a hairpin to keep unruly tresses obedient? 

But there it is - hard and motionless; embodying in flesh what the vapor sky expresses - out of place

Like a piece of trash on the wilderness path - unthinkingly, carelessly tossed aside.

- Writer's Workshop, 2019

Journeys

Photo credit here.

I have nothing to write – no journeys within or without, no journeys from the page or from thin air. I am jumbled in my mind – like a slinky that has gone all wrong – unable to slink, unable to have one smooth curve folding in on itself line after line.

Instead, it is the cloud of dust surrounding Pigpen – ethereal and light – but chaotic and swirling – one thought, plan, decision, worry cascading around another – clouding my vision – clouding the paths I’d like to take…

 

Ethereal and light – no, not really – the specs are carbon shards and tiny anvils - each with enough weight and slice to leave me bruised and bloodied – at least in my mind – likely my soul…

 

Just writing these words helps the dust settle, the kink in the slink pop mysteriously back into place. Breathing – deeply in, deeply out – creates a calm in the chaos – a pin, prick of smooth in the midst of all the waves.

 

What journeys would I like to take? With my feet, my mind, my eyes, my ears? What worlds await within if only I give them an opening – a stillness – in which to be born?

 

And so, maybe the first journey is the journey to quietness – a labyrinth walk, a shavasana, a moment of breath – or maybe the first journey is recognition a journey needs to be made at all.

- Writer's Workshop, 2019

A Night's Welcome

 

Do I welcome the night

as wholly as the day?

 

Tonight, I did

By accident

Working on the plans

of daytime

It slowly passed away

Dipping into the earth

bit by lighted bit

until the horizon

hummed blue

It’s oxygen waning.

Then a breeze

danced around my ears

Followed by the quiet

of cars no longer driven

Grasshoppers trying out

their legs’ vibration

on waves of twilight…

 

So maybe, I did not

welcome the night

Though it certainly welcomed me

Encouraging my own 

long exhale

as my waking body

embraces the dreamy night

and slips into its own

Oblivion

- March 25, 2025

A New Song

                                     

A human from the beginning. Photo credit here.

In watching Aspens leaves blown by the wind, skyward green and earthbound white twisting wildly, I hear (and see!) the trees singing for joy – enlivened by the Spirit filling this ancient world.

 

Then an Appalachian spring covers the forest floor in dazzling flowery jewels, dismissing the drab mud of winter, the brown crush of leaves – exultant in the caresses of the Sun – 

 

Or maybe the creeping light of day alerts cardinals, blue birds, house finches and Carolina wrens to the latest gossip and the air fills with tales and triumphs I cannot understand – but still my heart stirs.

 

Of course, the ocean, they say, holds the power of God – the mystery of depth incessantly rushing into conscious thought and then away – the creatures within too marvelous for the light of day.

 

I look at this body, each year changing, and consider the beginning: two microscopic cells – nothing more, nothing less – uniting, dividing (but holding together), differentiating, migrating and forming 

 

All the parts of me: the moving parts, the breathing parts

The sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell parts

The thinking and feeling

Reflecting and dreaming

Creating

 

A body like mine held God,

Knitted him together in darkness,

To be birthed in all of us

This Christmas Day – so

Sing to the Lord a new song.

-Written for an Advent Devotional, 12/24/23 with Psalm 96 as the inspiration

Many Ways

Image origin here.

 

She asked God all the time,

“What am I to do with my life?”

 

She worried at each path’s opening,

went down multiple roads, but always wondered

if another way would be better,

Or easier,

Or less exhausting,

Or more thrilling.

Turning to go yet another way,

She asked again, “What am I to do with my life?”

 

Then she stood still,

sat in the center of the path,

and tried to listen.

 

Looking around at bursts of flowers,

creeping weeds and grass,

moss clinging ferociously to the ground,

she finally heard God’s reply,

 

“There are many ways to be in the world.

Pick one.”

- March 23, 2025

A Sonnet

 

Diagram found here.

My palms never empty

My heart never full

I sell my wares about me;

my buyers are my rule

They tell me when I'm wanted

inform me when I'm through

And by their words I'm haunted

in all I say and do. . .

Then I look inside myself

and probe and try to find

that special box on that little shelf

which speaks one word, "MINE." 

And if I find that little box upon that special case,

I'll drop my wares and finally look my buyers in the face.

 

- written years ago, thankfully I found the box. If you are wondering, it's a Shakespearean sonnet.  

Envenomations

Photo credits here.

She watched as her mother took his hand again. 

She had begun counting the days between her taking his hand as he cooed,"There is no one else but you, Baby. I never mean to hurt you. . .it's just my drinkin', but I promise I'll do better. Jerry is picking me up tonight for that AA meetin' at the church. . ." and the "G-d this house is a mess, I work so G-d hard and for what? This lousy excuse of a home? What kind of helpmate are you, you lazy cow?" 

Down to 1 week.

Then the uptick in yelling eventually ended in him cursing her mom, "You are the reason I drink, you know that? I slave at work all day long and just want to come home and relax, but then, all you do is complain: 'we need groceries,' 'I thought you'd be home earlier,' 'why isn't the rent paid?' Woman, I do my part. Why in the hell do you not do yours," and inevitably he hit her.

At first her mom tried to get out of the war zone, but he just chased her - further enraged by her impudence; seeing her flight as a sign of opposition. She eventually just sat there crying, trying to appease him, "Honey, I'm so sorry. I know you work so hard. I know your job is stressful. I'll be better, I promise," and then another blow usually to her chest. She yelped, unable to breathe and sometimes passed out.

This level took another week.

Her step-father would leave her mother splayed on the ground. Jess then moved from her hiding space between the couch and the wall and ran to her mom.

Jess learned from a TV doctor show how to be sure people were still alive. She would find a mirror and place it under her mother's nose. When the mirror fogged, Jess released her breath. 

She had only called 911 once - the first time her mom lost consciousness, but her mother made her swear she would never do it again. "I could lose you, Jessie," she chided the child, "Child Protective Services would take you from me in a second, and we don't want that, right?"

Jess shook her head.

"I'll be fine, Jessie. Tom is just going through a rough patch - as soon as his work is less stressful, we'll be snugger than 3 peas in a pod. Just wait and see." 

This was 5 years ago. Nothing had changed.

She begged her mother to leave him - especially after her mother regained consciousness and alcohol had finally blacked out Tom.

She'd look at Jess and shake her head, "You just don't understand, my sweet girl. I can't leave. We can't leave." 

- March 20, 2025. An article I read said 90% of the envenomations in my area are from copperhead and cottonmouth snake bites. I would beg to differ. 

Infinite Neverness

Photo can be found here

Memory betrays

the present

and the past

as I try

to piece

the many layers

of our life together

To make edges fit

To find some pattern

To bring about a whole

from meager scraps

Yet you are not here

A force of mind

and memory

who let the flowers die

for lack of water,

who ached for a life

which forever lay just beyond

reach

And now you lay

beyond my reach

our togetherness

an infinite neverness,

threadbare fabric

blowing in the wind

- Title/Inspiration from an article in JAMA, March 2025

At the Labyrinth's Center

May Your light bathe me always

(lighting my path, warming me

the symbol of Your Love and Care)

May the wind blow gently upon me

May Your Spirit flow around

and within me

May Your River of Life flow through me

(to a world in need of refreshing,

in need of Your Love)

May the quiet of the Center

Radiate outwardly in peace

(and peace, make concentric circles

encompassing more with each radiation)

May I know Your Love and 

share it in return

The poetry a whisper

and a call.

- October 2023

This Happened Before

Find this image on Etsy here.

The shadow grew long in the face of a bright light appearing among the aspens. The orb glowed orange-yellow before exploding to encompass the whole of North, South, East and West. The scene felt familiar. 

He grew up where the sky blanketed the earth - prairie and plain kissing endlessly everywhere he looked. A small stand of trees soldiered every house, every barn and punctuated the fine "S" curves of a stream.

One fall night, he ventured several miles on foot to camp below a knoll on his neighbor's farm. The milky way swirled and twinkled above him and the brook gurgled nearby. The harvest laid bare the earth and it smelled of decaying shafts of grain and the dust of too much sun. 

He fell asleep, he thought, and awoke to a startling light pulsing in the trees by the brook. He wiped his eyes and blinked, hoping the orb might disappear - an apparition of a fading dream.

It did not.

He felt his heart throbbing in his chest - his mind racing to determine the next steps. How did this light get here? 

- Writer's Workshop, February 2023

Making Tracks

Photo credit here

She looks at her phone - again- waiting for the text that could change everything. 

Nothing.

She looks up at the tracks, then across to the other platform. How long had it been since she ventured on a subway - to take the hour long train into the city - to arrive in the bustling Garden where only concrete and basketball grow?

She looks around. No one is looking anywhere but at the palm of his or her hand. . .

What was it like? Does she even remember? When the phone booth sat at the corner of the street? When she last stood awaiting the Metro with nothing  but her backpack and time on her hands? 

Maybe there was a paper or magazine - an ad across the way. Then a stranger with the 3 piece suit or the beleaguered mother and her toddler. There might be a conversation - a comment about the weather, a communal huff when the train did not slow down. 

Now, the conversations were only virtual with someone miles away, though she was so close to them all.

What had she lost? Was it worth what she gained?

Did she ever account for the change - think about the shift of interaction from people to machines? 

Or did the world rush forward - barreling down a track with an ending it may not expect? 

- Writer's Workshop, 2019 (or earlier)

Bad Writing

Artwork by Thomas Joynes can be found here

 

The graying light angles though a rectangular window near the ceiling, casting a shadow on one side of the room and illuminating the woman sitting cross-legged on her bed. Little tornadoes of dust move through the beam which, with an adjustment of the eyes, show a desk stacked with books with a lean-to bookcase, a sweater draped off one shelf. 

 

The room is compact – a pole between parallel walls is filled with hanging clothes. A small door catty cornered from the bed leads to a small funnel for urination and defecation, a slightly raised floor tilts imperceptibly to the corner, draining recycled water from the showerhead during the 30 minute cleansing allowed each week. 

 

She stares up through the window to see the curvilinear gleam of the Circle of Life – then beyond – pure black dotted with the stars and galaxies yet to be named. 

 

It is silent.

 

She turns on the candle as she pulls out one of the three drawers below her bed. It moves out and then a top piece hinges up and over her legs creating a small table. Meals are served based on the day’s schedule and arrive via the small compartment to the right of the door and above the foot of her bed. 

 

No food has arrived in the last week.

- Library in the Forest Writing Group 2024. We were encouraged to "just write" even if we considered it "bad writing."

Bad Ideas

Imaged used during writer's workshop, unknown source

"This is likely a bad idea, but hell. . .why not?" she thought to herself as she picked up the tiny dessert fork and dipped down into the pillowy white layer of the Pepto Bismol slice of. . .

Well she wasn't sure what. It looked like a dessert, but serrated like tin - hot pink and puffy cloud tin on a darkly colored crust - maybe chocolate? licorice? 

But she doubted even this as she signed up for the Expect the Unexpected exhibit hall on her Vegan Safari. A trip she planned over a year ago when her then passion was tofu scrambles and "I-can't-believe-it's-not-meat" burgers. 

Turned out to be a phase - as they always turned out to be.

They being her bright ideas of the moment: her this-will-change-everything-and-fill-the-hole-inside schemes which undoubtedly led her to places - figuratively and literally - like this. . .

A Vegan Safari in the Expect the Unexpected exhibit about to eat something entitled "Martian Sky-High" made with absolutely no sugar, no dairy, no fat, but obviously a lot of pink dye (beet juice?) and what she imagined might be mung bean paste (as the epitaph read, "It's high because its protein content is through the roof!") whipped to the frenzy before her via blending. 

"Very bad idea," she chided herself as with one fluid motion she placed the concoction in her mouth and promptly spit it into her napkin, "I'm going to find some Edwards." 

- writing workshop, February 2025

Breaking Up

 

Image can be found here

"It's cold, " she mumbled looking down at the wet wood between her feet.

"I just meant. . ." he trailed off wondering how once again he lost her eyes and found the top of her head.

He placed his hands in his back pockets and looked up at the void of gray above them. "At least it's not raining now," he thought," it could only make things. . .no, not worse, just more complicated." 

"You always 'just mean,' Mike," a sniffle breaking her words. Was it the cold? Was it her anger? Was it her sadness? 

Then it happened. She tried to go with it - the sniffle, the sadness, the heartache of another shoddy explanation - BUT NOTHING HAPPENED.

In the space between her body and her soul - the space that fills her stomach with butterflies or pours chills down her spine - that space was empty; white, colorless - like the space that surrounded them now.

And in that space and in that space within her, she found release. Release from anxious anticipation of what their next encounter may be - one of love? of cautious friendship? of convenience? Release from giving a damn about his opinions or thoughts about her. Release from the emotional cat and mouse that left her exhausted and demoralized. She looked up at Mike and jabbed him in his Adam's apple. "I don't give a damn. Not anymore." 

As he sputtered, she lifted her collar, tightened her scarf and turned down the path.

Bent over, he looked to see the yellow, then brown, of her Timberlands walking a away.

A soft rain began to fall.

- Writer's Workshop, 2020

Burnout

Image found here

 

I feel a winter's pall and it's June. Sunshine all around - just not when I'm outside these doors.  Fluorescent sun is all I get of rays, the happy mural of families outside the only trees, the only laughter. For me, I'm not burned out as much as I'm "stuck in": this building, the long hallways, the constantly rotating parade of illnesses - each with its season. Yet, I don't have a season, but I have many. For me, it is hospital beige and gray season, information overload season, if-I-get-one-more-ridiculous-consult season - all in a day or even a few minutes - yet my view never changes. No fall color change, no spring bulbs or summer bloom - just the gray of winter all year round.

- Lexington, KY

Miracles

 

Picture found here

"We're going to sanctify those suckers right on out." 

I wasn't quite sure what the man meant, having heard him in passing. I turned toward the voice, shading my eyes, and saw he wore a sign "Get Sanctified, Get Saved, Get Holy." 

The man stood in a white collared shirt buttoned just below the neckline of his Fruit of the Loom: A balding head reddened and sweating in the sun. A second man dressed similarly, but with a head full of brunette, stood head and hands lifted as if waiting for a globe to be placed there.

An older woman, round shouldered and hump backed, had what looked like a baby stroller in front of her and as I locked in on the carrier, I saw movement.

The woman appeared to be crying, tossing a handkerchief at intervals as she said, "Thank you, Jesus!" and "Yes, Lord. . .please God," in punctuation to all the bald man said.

"We know God can save!"

        "Yes, Lord." 

"And He will do this miracle for us."

        "Please, God." 

"All we have to do is believe Him when He says the prayer of a righteous man availeth much!"

        "Thank you, Jesus!"

Eventually, when a small crowd had gathered, he said, "Do you believe?"

        "Yes, I believe," she said.

Again he asked, "Do you believe?"

        "Yes, I believe," she replied.

A third time, even louder, "Do You Believe?"

        "Yes, I Believe!" she cried.

"Then believe your miracle. . ." and she yelled, "Hallelujah!"

The man ripped off the blanket which had covered the carriage and a dog popped up and barked.

"This is what needed the miracle?" he said seething.

        "Yes," the woman said, "Precious is my baby. I told you as much." 

"So just what does this dog need saving from?"

        "His bad teeth. They are just something awful and I don't have money for the dentist." 

"The dentist?"

        "Why yes - you said you could sanctify the cavities out." 

"We DON'T DO THAT lady." 

         "Sanctify?"

"No, heal dogs." 

        "Does God not care about dogs?"

At this, the preacher, redder than when he first started, looked at the snickering crowd. He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. He glared toward the woman who had picked up her dog to soothe it. 

"Sweet, Precious, " she cooed, "he may not believe, but I do. God made all this world holy and marked it with Love. God loves you as much as anything in creation." She kissed him, "Wanna go get a pup-cup from Jiffy Cream?"

At that, Precious barked and spun, licked and panted. And when I looked closely, I could have sworn, I saw dazzling white.

- Writer's Workshop, April 2024

Darkness and Light

Image found here

It sounded like the cracking of leaves - the paper lanterns catching the wind, jealously protecting the flames billowing in their bellies. A thousand candles in the sky, punctuating the night into a universe of our own making.

Children giggled and laughed, a toddler wide-eyed in wonder yelled, "Whoa (!!!)," and the adults within earshot smiled and tried to grasp the awe of heat and air, molecules shifting into new configurations allowing the lanterns to lift - molecules of oxygen and nitrogen pushing the lanterns up further and higher - drafts blowing them toward the darkness, dispersing them to the horizons.

For a moment a hush fell over the crowd - a contagion of awe and mystery as each person kept his or her light in his or her vision until it became indistinguishable from all the others.

Mary considered her light, the hours she spent finding the paper, the carefully constructed wire holding her flame. In her mind, the flame held the hopes for her future, the wishes of her ancestors, the sparks of imagination which would find rest in the heavens and illuminate the path she needed to take now. 

Henry, who stood beside her, knew nothing about why he was here. He had walked up to the park to leave the raucous mess which amounted to his life and found them here - the thousands of people with their lanterns and their lights offering what they had to the night. The cumulative impact of all those people, all those lights stilled his mind to a single question, "How can someone keep offering his light to the darkness?"

- Writing group, November 17, 2024

Being Left

 

Image courtesy of elms

Shadows grew long across the drive, another sun setting on the gravel, the grass - highlighting the Everests of ants, the sequoias of earthworms, the deserts of crickets. 

I stared at the elms, bare armed and anorexic, aching for what was left of the blue sky. Maybe I ached having watched the car pull away, being left alone, again, to take in all this space.

Sure, the grass portends spring; fuzzy tree limbs, the adolescence of the year - but now my heart felt the bitter cold of winter - its barrenness as well.

Will spring arrive in closed chambers coursing with grief? Will the scent of apple blossoms reach down into the earth and breathe its sweetness? 

In this moment, I do not know.

- Writer's Workshop, March 2024

For Ezra

 

In the land of ducks

with no water

save a fountain

in the lobby,

we journey to see

our duck (?) to be

baptized from

a font at the altar.

We are all creatures

of air

and land

and water

in our separate

lives, which

push us to believe

somehow

we are not

the same,

but

We Are.

- Peabody Hotel, Memphis February 2025

White-walled Tires

 

Photo Credit: User:Dante Alighieri

By his sunken cheeks and tobacco-dried skin – his wispy physique and broom-head hair – he was more stuck in the past than setting a trend. The coppertone four-door luxury Oldsmobile with the thin white walled tires said as much, but the high gloss wax and bright white sparkle, belied a certain care for appearances which the driver did not mirror. Maybe his wife demanded the pristine appearance of at least one thing she owned. He could at least talk back, laying claim to what was left of his person, his style, his swagger – which included the shy reluctance he expressed while exiting his car.

 

“Damn,” he thought, as each opening of his car door revealed another car, coming with speed, around the corner. “Double damn,” as the post office drop off box, informed him pick up wasn’t until 5 PM that night. He had hoped driving to the post office would mean quicker delivery of the payment. The one that needed to get to the bank before the closure threats became reality.

 

The trailer wasn’t much, not even double wide, and almost as old as he was – he bought it secondhand for what he thought was a good price. No, he didn’t have all the money and the stent in the pen made credit hard to come by – but he had gotten some advances on his paychecks, and everything was hanging in the delicate balance that exists between making money and paying for life.

 

The disruption came that February when an annoying cough married the flu and the children they spawned were pneumonia and something the docs called respiratory failure. Insurance was so damn expensive that he failed to apply, so the bills piled up while money dried up, and the only calls he receives now are from the collectors. He disconnected his phone, broke his cellular contract, and relies heavily on the car and the USPS to connect with the outside world.

 

He thought of all of this, standing in front of the boxes, “not a damned thing I can do about it now,” and he shrugged his shoulders, turning his hands palm side up and went back around to the driver’s seat. He punched in the cigarette lighter, waiting impatiently for the red light to come on, twitching the cigarette between his index and middle fingers with his thumb. When the lighter was finally hot, he pressed the cigarette to it and drew a deep breath. 

 

For a moment, a peace settled in his body…

 

then the coughing came, rattly and wet: jolting his body in and out until a small amount of phlegm finally exited his mouth to the pavement. “Damn, these things are gonna kill me,” and he stuck the cigarette back between his lips, placing the car in gear, and pulling out in front of a Prius, which honked in one long blast, but so softly, he never heard it above Patsy, standing by her man.