~

do you know the way
to the place her heart resides?
or does the beauty
of her face,
her shape,
blind you, as you to fail to find
the many hidden pathways
that will lead
to love that's meaningful;
obscured in the shadows,
the depth that makes her beautiful;
for the beauty that you seek
is a treasure buried deep inside!
but infatuated longing,
is a hunger never quenched,
for companionship cannot be found
in what only lies skin deep;
in taking shortcuts to desire
while her depth is pushed aside.
just remember danger lies
in well-worn paths, and
cliched answers,
over-simplified.
but if you take the road less-traveled,
walkways most will never see,
the door to all her hopes and fears
will open wide with liberality;
the steps that lead past all the latches,
her towers of security,
for her heart can ne'r be conquered,

no!

instead it must be gently freed!


*post script.

she is everything to me! and i am reminded, often, that her heart i never took, for she gave it... freely, and with liberality! she is a treasure... in deed!  and the day that i take this simple truth for granted is the day that i will begin to have lost her!

~

(old beach fence)

pickets set,
once in symmetry,
straight and white...
young teeth;
now in weathered state,
discolored by
the salty spray;
rust-formed rivers
trickle down from nails,
barely tethered
to its frail frame.
in places, shifting sand,
overruns its posts,
like a winding score,
it's rhythm lagging,
holding yet its notes;
fulfilling purpose,
like an old musician,
though beaten down
by wind and storm
the music strong,
sometines pouring out
in gentle song,
oftimes belting.
out in haunting tune;
lyrics pointing,
shaking voice
still croons,
the heart still beats,
though the mind
is drifting on;
like an old,
weathered,
beach fence...
has not lost
it's relevance!

~

*post script.

in conversation with a beautiful mind, about her photo of an old beach fence.  she says, “I love the loneliness in that picture, though I'm not sure why.”  his answer just a hopeful guess, “i know why... it speaks of purpose and usefulness, despite age and state of repair; it speaks of direction, despite its apparent randomness... too oxymoron-ish to not be drawn in...”  conversation ’tween two friends, conceiving thoughts, in particular her encouraging response with these words... “You should make that into a poem! And yes, that is exactly it!" yes indeed, she is a beautiful mind, this precious, poet friend of mine!!

~

the mercury is falling brisk,
large flakes of snow are drifting fast,
her blanket heavy on the limb,
as ice paints frosting on the glass.
winter’s tapestry is forming,
street lamp’s light reflecting;
strands of pearl stretch out, adorning,
as fir transformed by snow,
become a white angelic host.
a fire burns brightly in the square,
hands and cheeks find warming here;
sound of bells festoons the evening,
children dance along in time;
’round a village Christmas tree,
bedecked with lights, the smell of pine,
a whistle heralding the train’s arrival,
a burst of steam floats on the breeze;
her clacking wheels grind to a halt,
and like treasure’s journey from afar,
one by one, her most precious cargo
laden down with parcels, disembark.
excited voice, in joyous welcome,
warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek;
familiar sound of families greeting,
newborn babe grandparent meets.
here my heart on Christmas Eve,
to us though distant memory;
for snow globe wishes,
and angelic kisses,
each as magical as these,
a hopeful prayer, a song for peace,
on earth for all who still can sing
who long... who dream,
of Christmas yesteryear;
though even if a different scene,
it's ember’s spark...
it's wistful call...
this is Christmas present,
its gift love-scribed,
on ev'ry tender heart!

~

*post script.

as Christmas arrives for you and
your family, may you be present,
reflecting, not on what is missing,
but on the joys of all that is not!

Merry Christmas to each of you.
who still dream!

~

a tribute to the good times

cannot neglect the rough.

without a struggle comes no prize,

cocoon would yield no butterfly,

and without the rain the rose would die.

so when i'm tempted to forget

just how far we've come,

please remind me, dear...

please remind me that you love me;

sweet promise whisper in my ear.

repaint the mem'ries 'cross my mind,

kaleidoscope of precious times;

remind me that our journey

of a thousand miles began

these many years ago now,

the day you took my hand;

remind me that each day

is just another step,

toward dreams and goals and promises

that together will be kept.

~

*post script.

a re-post from earlier days.  
i must be feeling particularly reminiscent today

one of the earlier poems i wrote for my wife...
had to be twenty plus years ago now.

~

her tears flow easily
on the shoreline,
with each swell
their bitter rise;
she weeps between
the crashing waves,
carried...
with the ripping tide,
sobbing...
with each heaving crest.
’tis on these rocks
her heart was torn,
her thirsty soul
here cries unquenched,
clinging to
this coast forlorn...
this churning,
salty brine,
where nothing
stills the beating,
not the bleeding
of her heart,
though her blood
has all run dry;
nor the cracked rib
’neath her breast,
though its piercing shards
erase her cries.

i lie here weeping
’tween these lines,
her nightly tears
and sleepless sighs,
white-capped sheets
her stormy bed,
churning shoulders,
tossing head;
for hope seems lost
when hope is best
an ocean’s grave,
a watery rest.
life's minutes counted
’til they’re gone
will only cease
their restless throes
when heaven’s gates
o'ercome her foes.

~

post script.

*her smile... ’tis a thin veil o'er a razor's edge
that conceals a mother’s bleeding heart

the month of his birth
and the month of his departure...
despite the twenty-five years between,
follow in such close succession.  
like a Holy Week all her own,
each step, each word, each task,
each i-remember-where-i-was-
when-i-heard-the-news,
relived in painful remembrance.
Lent... Holy Week... the Easter season...
with all its rich and meaningful traditions,
now includes our breaking bread and
drinking wine in our heartfelt
communion of his memory and
helps us to better understand
the heart of our loving Father above

you’ll cross the bridge near the center of town,
from the constable’s door just a few paces down; 
at the bend near the corner of Ash and Vine,
Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
its here you will find it, my favorite store,
its soft warmth beckons through a leaded-glass door;
your arrival here announced with a chime,
at a desk near the fire lays a writing slate.
here, a tall, frail poet sits in his chair
his sweet bonny lass stands beside him in wait,
both greet each guest with deliberate care.
a sign at the door tells of an experience rare,
“pairings of sweets for tooth and ear”;
be it chocolate and wine, for a rendezvous fine,
or crumpets and tea, for a moment of ecstasy,
each tasty treat shared with verse and rhyme
each custom creation, an encounter sublime.
the ambiance... flawless, the company... sweet,
the perfect encounter, is the word on the street.
the shelves here are filled with tastes overflowing
candles are trimmed, the fireplace is glowing
sheets full of verse, of sonnet and psalm  
sales may run short, but the hours last long
yet, each customer’s entrance is met with delight
giving no mind for any work through the night
for payment in full is made with their eyes
the giggles, the dances... the satisfied sighs.
for what would you give to know you’re the one
to restore another’s hope, the place life’s begun
and what would you sacrifice just so you’d hear
each delightful cry, see each joy-filled tear
knowing so many go hungry, and never will know 
the comfort that’s brought from a heart that’s restored, 
for hope is alive, and its hope that is shared
in each word that is writ, in each line that is paired
to each one who finds their way to this couch
whether man, woman, child, need little or much 
a custom concoction to each one unique
for this singular purpose, its a poem they seek
whether free verse or rhyme, a chorus, a song
for a mother, a brother, or a loved one gone on
for some it's a present to a lover or spouse
for others the poem is a gift to themselves
yet, whatever the reason, the purpose propelling
each word is revealing, some even foretelling
for with insight and honesty, and peace of mind,
great comfort and solace they find in each line 
there near the corner of Ash and Vine
at Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.

searching he finds her, wounded daughter, his wife

there on a wind-punished coast

at the edge of an ocean, some call “despair”

bruised and torn, lost and alone

heart at the edge of eternity’s precipice

he calls to her as she lay

only lifting her head, too feeble to rise

he kneels at her battered side

her dress is in tatters, 

with soil and blood spattered
 
he reaches gently to touch her cheek

his smile reassuring

like harbor to her storm-tossed ship

voice quiet and soothing

he beckons her weary soul

strong arms now surrounding

cradles her heart pounding

love, his potent elixir 

fuels her smoldering lantern

the light of his spirit

enveloping, warming her

healing, transforming her

breathing life into her darkness

stirring her soul

kindling a fire long cold

his life-giving water 

he whispers, gently calls her

refreshing, awakening, re-fueling

she drinks deeply as he pours himself out

then slowly he gathers her into his arms

"you’ve been sleep walking, my love

let me hold you, my dove"

he carries her back to their bed

where murmuring softly she says

"dark i’ve been dreaming

i awoke myself screaming 

i was lost and alone, 

all bruised and torn"

drawing her close, he’s stroking her hair

*"i know, darling, he whispers
 
i was there"

~

when eve’ning calls
the day to end,
and steals away
beloved friend;
naught for holding,
naught for love;
only yearning,
for what was.
once where pillows,
cradled heads;
swallows tears,
wept on their bed.
once the soil,
on paths two walked;
turned to dust,
beneath a rock.
within each tear,
the salty sting;
a silent sob,
the daylight brings.
lips that spoke,
in loving notes;
that kissed each dawn,
with healing hope;
mem’ries now,
a silent voice;
whispered prayer,
a stifled choice.
these the trail,
of loving well;
leavings of
a lover’s tell!

~

post script.

“brother-in-law”... when a beloved sister loses her battle, what becomes of that title...  do the words drift apart as the hyphens are disbanded?  and what of the light that once added brilliance...  is it forever fractured?

thirty-nine years is a trail long walked; a tale colored by hues both light and dark.  a loss such is his, is to me inconceivable; i believe i would choose death instead.

~

my dreams walk
the blurred lines
between sub-conscious
hopes and fears
never predictable,
ever straying
tiptoeing further
than i dare think
in waking moments,
extracting
from some sleeping recess
the dusty musings
of experiences forgotten,
it uncloaks
a painting masterful
hidden long
and then defiles
its canvas
with the random spatterings
of fearful colors,
running down
fluid feardrops
from frame to easel
and onward to the floor
until it pools at my feet...
where it wakes me
from my restless sleep
leaving me to wonder
just how many more
hidden passageways
and rooms are waiting
to be unlocked...
revealed...
and then...
repainted.

~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.

~

in this place of darkness,
a quiet chill seeps deep within;
the place where light won't reach,
far below the noisy din
that floods my life above;
the noise that swallows me,
distracting purpose and resolve.
between this rock and hard place
hidden from all time,
where i feel there is no space;
though threatening in its silence,
and though i feel it’s crush;
this place that i despised,
had come to hate so much...
this rock become my cleft,
the cleft became my rock!
where i'm hidden from my foes.
from all that wish me harm,
where loss becomes my hope,
where pain reveals my gain;
where my tattered, filthy rags
are washed in water, clean and cool;
where i'm held in deepest love,
and sheltered from the storm.
as with mercy’s grace in action,
deep below within the earth,
water finds the darkest traces,
seeping to the lowest places,
the foulest air it displaces,
as it finds and fills
the needy spaces.

~

*post script.

is between a rock
and a hard place,
in reality within the cleft?  
perhaps it’s all just perspective.  
my hardest, darkest place
being under his protective grace.  
as water always falls,
down, down, seeping, trickling,
flowing, till it pools
in the very lowest
and darkest places;
just like mercy...
and what is mercy
but grace flowing…
grace in action!

~

a child's hand print,
and under
a color-filled
paint-by-number;
it bears
the usual adornments,
photographed moments,
magnetic attractions
from faraway places;
but my heart
it no longer begs
to leave this place,
stuck in time,
i am...
in space.
my mind can't conceive
this loss i can't see.
throw back these covers,
you will quickly discover
an empty dark hole,
where once stood a soul.
and now our
'frigerator's adornments
point outward no longer,
covered instead
with daily reminders
that point to this inward;
its gnawing
and clawing
this scratching
and hoping
and just this one,
an unanswered,
open invitation...
"please come home
for dinner,
just once more,
son!"
a candle is lit,
in your place
no one sits,
only this
empty plate,

awaits...

~

*post script.

i miss you, son!

in the river that is grief,
the current is not constant
but rather changes,
sometimes often,
daily even,
at other times
a low sense
of numbness pervades.  
what is it of fall
that increases its flow?
it is not related to
any calendar date,
more a change in flow
with the season  
such is grief.

~
a taste for crab driving him mad
with the early morning’s outgoing tide
away he bobbed among the waves
like a floating bottle he did ride
for lacking a boat, he climbed on a life ring
for bait, a chicken wing and thigh
the last to see him bobbing claimed
they saw a dorsal fin nearby
some say that surely he made land again
that he’s gone home to bake his take
but i say don’t expect too much
for i think he met an awful fate
for surely what can one expect?
when a man gets a wild hair
and off he goes on a bobbing ring
with only a wing and a prayer
~

~

coniferous forms
dance in the umbra,
flickering oranges
of molten tongues,
of yellows and reds,
bathing the night;
its hungriness fed,
in the softened light.
like fingers it reaches
across the deep snow,
long shadows are creatures
in ember’s glow;
devouring consumption
as flames turn to ash,
like ravenous huntsman
his prey in his grasp.
a ghost in the darkness,
’neath a sliver of moon;
a howl in the stillness,
a shivering tune;
in patience awaiting,
straining to see
a dark horse arising,
’cross a bright galaxy;
the fire now low as
he aims and he shoots;
an eye for his target
ends a night of pursuit.
his prey is now captured,
his work here is done;
the camera now loaded,
his drive home’s begun.

~

*post script.

the astrophotographer’s task is almost always lonely and usually cold during Milky Way “hunting” season. from the vantage point of Watchman’s Fire Lookout overlooking Crater Lake, a friend spends nights in a tent (or even an igloo), his only companion perhaps a campfire in the deep snow, chasing his dream of shooting the night sky.  his reward for his labors?  incredible videos and stills, caught in the lens of his camera... and our praise.  Matthew’s motto is simple - “capturing the light in the darkness!"  and what heavenly light he captures!  interested in seeing some of his work?  simply Google his motto!

”tonight we fall back,”* 
she calls from the kitchen;
as another year of savings 
comes to its end.

but what she doesn't know 
can't comprehend is
her partner’s been scheming 
to create a new trend.

the time is approaching
he hardly can wait
to make his announcement
to change his own fate

he knows it’s his moment
to make his debut
to shine in the sun, yes
they’ll adore him, he’s sure

for in secret he’s plotted
their rules to bend
their idyllic practice 
he’s about to upend.

those roll-over minutes 
that each Fall they give back
he’s been saving them up 
for a trip to his bank.

he watched everyone else 
as their hour disappears
while he’s saved up his minutes 
for twenty-three years.

so this Monday’s the day 
that he’s cashing them in
a whole twenty-four hours
a full day to spend;

in trade or as barter
he could gift them for free
to spend how he wants 
any which way he please.

or, when all of his friends 
have to roll out of bed
he’d have twenty-four hours 
to roll over instead.

its not counterfeit money 
he’s sure that it's not
he’s just saving his own
that yearly he got;

it can’t be a crime 
its not like minutes he prints
he’s just exploited in full 
their time-savings mint.

so if ever you’re time-broke
you might heed his advice
your roll-over minutes 
you will save if you’re wise.

~

your apothecaried words,
your healing blended herbs,
soothe this wearied soul,
reduce the aging in these bones;
like streams of cooling water
flowing down from winter's snow,
light my path and show the way,
dispel the night, usher in the day;
these like soothing raindropped kiss
brings my thirsty soul some bliss;
to the corners chases bitterness,
and nudge aside its lonliness;
you lift the scales of fury's blindness,
furl the sails of life's unkindness;
tis the secret garden where i come,
where in comfort i am home;
free from harshness of sojourning,
thee my haggard soul afirming,
by your apothecaried words,
from this bruising world
my troubled soul is carried
my hearth and heart ignited
with your overflowing warming!

~

*post script.

these walls are my home,
sacred to a few of you,
making sacred paths
for me and thee,
a port of refuge
on life's tempestous days. 
if e're i swerve from being comfort,
please...
send me messages to show my error,
for of my life and of my wit and writ,
i would not be one who seeks
to show his teeth or seek revenge
within these halls.
you and these shall ever be
sacred walls to me. 
these and the words above
are inspired by Pamela Rae,
a gentle soul and
favorite herb blender here!
though there are many others too
who hold the line,
the very best here are
in my humble opinion
those who resist the urge and
refuse to participate
in wordy blood feuds,
or other forms of bringing
the harshness of life,
into these sacred halls.
these know the power
of their pen and
choose the better path,
wisely using their words
to bring healing, life, and light
and of course some
much needed laughter!
to each and all,
you who chose this path,
you i salute!
(: Steve

~

•she  sounds  her  clarion  call... •

•to   birds  of  every  feather•

•be  they   large  or  small•

•heavenly…    everyone•

•for they are angels all!•

•‘calling    all   angels,’•

•with quill  in-scribe•

•with prose enthrall•

••winged  lovelies••

•leave  your  fight•

•find respite from•

•••migration's•••

•••• flight••••

•each to take•

•your sacred•

•••place•••

••within••

••these••

hallowed

•halls.•

­•••

••

•

~

post script.

"birdland" by SoulSurvivor
the inspiration for this one.  
she who loves unconditionally
is also one who others coalesce round.
and whether she chose it or no,
she is nonetheless a leader among us,
a bird to which we flock.
you who know her well will agree,
as one who shares so unabashedly
and who in such intimate detail
shares her daily struggle
and her daily triumphs,
and who encourages soooo freely,
she is herself a joy to read;
and is one i can say without reservation,
she defines "friend"!!

much love to you, SoulSurvivor!

if you've not "met" her,
or ever read her poems,
begin with this one:  
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1546434/birdland/

~

when your final day approached
did we know it when it came?
were we given time enough,
to trace the lines of your face,
before you faded fast as dusk?
will the final words we spoke,
the familiar sounds of your voice,
echo ever in our hearts as the
fading whispers of your sweet goodbye,
becoming etched indelibly,
in the pages of our memory?
yes...
your final day arrived,
but no...
we didn’t know it when it came
no trumpet blew, no drum was beat
no final hug, no goodbye kiss
just empty silence, only this
makes us ponder all we missed

we pray the hint of the forest,
that always lingered on your clothes,
will ever be reminders of your
yearning heart for nature’s wonder
and as we walk among the swaying pines,
beside the waters still you sought
we hope you’ll linger in the sunlight,
in lengthening shadows of the hills,
where you laid your weary head,
as we scramble to the heights you loved,
we’ll listen for your voice of bravery,
in the thunder of the waterfall.
we’ll see the outline of your footsteps,
imprinted always on the carpet,
of the room you’ve left behind,
all of these we’ll look for, reach for
in the home we’ve built for you inside.

~

*post script.

verse 1 looks back, as we must do for instruction on how best to look forward.
verse 2 takes its instruction from the pages of his life,
considers how he lived, his motto, his life creed...
“travel light, enjoy the journey!”
how we must choose to continue, chose to live.

we only wish we had understood his suffering better. the deep losses of others hammers home our own, losses from which we think we are recovering... and then this.

inspired by this note from my beautiful wife several weeks ago:
“I have this daily Bible verse app on my phone, it has not been turned on to notify me for months, but today, march 25- i woke up to this one. Last day i saw my sweet Daniel’s face. :'-( “

Isaiah 26:4  Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord God is an everlasting rock.

~
in our book of tears you’ll find,
a lifetime of memories now fixed,
a colorful kaleidoscope, pages in time,
loving tributes from those left behind.

so turn each page, oh so gently,
for there are times we cannot bear the pain,
were it not for this hope that we cling to,
knowing we’ll see his face again.

each lament composed in great sorrow,
every poem & writ in deep grief,
pictures our hearts have tenderly framed,
of one we no longer can touch or see.

tear-stained pages, every token,
each unique, full of memory,
though they cannot return our brother and son,
help our hearts to still, to beat quietly.

for though battered we are not broken,
for though bruised we are not torn,
our hearts we know you've not forgotten,
held together our spirits are yours, Lord,
in your grip, our spirits are yours.

~

Springing forward this last Sunday, 
A most confusing act;
For reasons clear no longer,
Our sleep we so impact.
Bodies still adjusting,
Long after clock's re-set;
A change that's so alarming,
'Tis trickery we can't abet.
They say that we'll get over it,
Our sleep won't always lack;
But by the time we're rested,
Sadly, we'll be falling back.

~

from a world of unknowns
you entered my realm of all known;
your inquisitive mind,
questions of the divine,
my existence inquisition
to you answered the question;
to live is to feel,
to feel, to be real!
ancient life work as Sufi
juxtaposes our selfie.
this new fixation
giving life to rumination.

~

*post script.

those more privileged souls, well-studied in the anthropology of poetry will already know him, but to me he was  virtual unknown until a recent daily script caught my eye; a reference to Rumi, one of the greatest of Sufi poets, Jalal al-Din Rumi wrote poems in the 13th century  see http://hellopoetry.com/rumi/ .  this poet challanges the entirety of my thought processing. only wish my discovery had come earlier in life.