Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
    the sound of wind.

Close your eyes. Darkness. Good
Look into the darkness, look into the deep.
Peel back the layers, coast onward, don't sleep
Faster. Faster.
Feel the days go past -- the minutes, the seconds.
Feel the bliss of the dark rushing past
Slowing. Slowing.
Listen to the nothing, so loud and profound
Listen to the heart, where all is found
Slower. Slower.
In the pitch blackness, your quest grows longer
And as you look around in nothingness
You watch as the darkness fades to white.
Slower. Slower.
Over.

Curiosity grows.

The darkness protects you and the light blinds
From seeing nothing in the dark
To seeing nothing in the light
Blind is blind in the paradox of life

Frantically blink. Just look around.
Take in the view and make a quiet sound
You hear a small gasp, but don't see the culprit
While you are a victim, inexplicably confused
-- wonderfully amazed.
You see a new world, new colors and shapes
Vibrant and new, the world seems a fake

Look at the day, what do you see?
What world exists within your mind?
Describe to me this simple experience
Describe to me just what you see

Beyond your eyes,
Within your mind,
What do you see?

Imagine.

Funny phone thinks it's funny.
I'll show it.
Funny phone can be funny no more.
No more funny phone.

I desire a place to be
Where all my soul will be at peace
        Instead of how it is now
                                       On the floor
                                                             in piece

I desire a place to be
Where the all birds sing
                                         and where the breeze blows gently
                                                                                                    through my heart, becalmed

I desire a place to be,
                                    a place I can call home.

The ocean comes in
The ocean pulls out
And here I lay,
In the quiet - in the dark

The moon shines
And the dog barks
And here I lay,
Alone - in the dark

In a small world,
I feel even smaller
Insignificant
Insecure
Always living, always unsure

This life we live
What does it mean?
What is my purpose?
What should I glean?

Under bright stars,
Under big trees,
This is my perspective.
This is my plea.

I am small,
I am weak,
I am still,
I am me.

I lay in bed
And listen to thee,
The ocean that sways
And rocks me to sleep.

A most beautiful Rose

In all that beauty, that of a rose
To see, its scent, may I propose
A sonnet or some rambling prose
To compliment it as it grows.

A pink, a yellow, blood red verse
A turn of phrase to intersperse
A sanctuary where I immerse
A once off bloom not to rehearse.

Be great; be graceful in your bloom
Posy soft, petal pantaloom
Life’s union of young bride and groom
So vibrant in their special room.

Such dreamy gentle lines that find
A paint brush, colours intertwined
An ******* for creative mind
Natures gift thus wined and dined

All fifty years, each well walked mile
You still reduce me to this smile
So radiant flawless in your style
Fill fifty more, it’s all worthwhile.

I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.

It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.  

The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.

She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.

—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.  

The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.

Rock forward, rock backward.

What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.

Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.

Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?

I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks  
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.

Rock forward, rock backward.

Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.  

She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.

Rock forward, rock backward.