Washed upon the lake's shore,
gnarled driftwood looking wet,
showing wounds-of-time adrift.

Passionate love for craftsmen,
bringing out its beauty,
functional art it will be.

Picked up by a walker,
walking stick companion,
while manoeuvring terrain.

Dawg likes running and playing,
throw, run, fetch, and return,
wanting “good boy” with head pat.

Numerous lengthy pieces,
temporary shelter to build;
safety, shade, warmth, or home.

Sitting circular its' flames,    
pulled into hypnotic state,
calming effects absorbed.

Aromatic woodsy smell,
simple cottage, handy fuel,
chilly night's and breakfast morn.

Lighting indoor fireplace,
cozy atmosphere for all;
possible desire?

Looking at lake shore's driftwood,
never useless will it ever be,
seen as purpose for one in need.      

Tivonna

Today I feel it pulling me,
to be outside and feel so free
to dance or rake what entices,
instead of four walls and vices.

Fresh air instead of winter's sick air,
some freedom—desiring sun's glare
to swaddle me and being one
with invisible forces and blessed sun.

To feel some gradual new life,
energizing all that is right,  
Just to be—in so-called nothing,
knowing within there is something.

Invisibly and colliding,
rainbow modicums increasing,
vivacity accelerating,
its affects on life astonishing!

Tivonna

My gardens do not flower;
               its cold and snow still melts.
I walk that path that brings joy;
               but plants don't look at me.
Old drying markers seen strewn;
               as headstones where they're placed.
Sun and some rain should bring life;
             eventual blossoms.
Some gentle winds for new strength;
               to assist in beauty.
My garden cemetery;
               soon dressed in leafy greens.
Bowing to life and at me;
               while walking passing by.

Tivonna

Ingredients:

1.  Collect thinned throw away perennial plants; family and close friends are best.
2.  Choose a sunny protective garden space, partial shade may work.
3.  Collect garden implements; ***, *****, rake and watering container or hose. If none—improvise.
4.  Bring creativity, love of gardening and outdoors, frugality, patience, memories, and your hands.
5.  For those who love to get hands muddied—no gloves required.

Directions*:

Gardening rules can be broken; plant when received.  Using creativity decide on groupings or dispersing, height and growing patterns. Consider bloom times to create an ever-blooming summer garden.

Use implements to save your back and for digging holes.  To really get into it, get down on hands and knees.  With tender loving care, place that special memory plant in designated hole.  Give it a good drink of water.  Replace dug out soil, covering roots. Press with gentle firmness.
*Keep something at your side to help you up if your body won't co-operate.
Water frequently in mornings or evenings to prevent drying out.

Walk that well trod garden path throughout the summer. Check memory plants new growth.  Give it your love and attention as you did its giver.  Remember the good, bad, and sad times you have shared.  If deceased, a part of them will remain with you.  

Enjoy and share your eventual multiplied bounties with others.  May all those friendships, unique as each plant and its blossoms, continue to thrive—giving ongoing love, joy, peace and contentment.

Tivonna
April 2, 2017



*Note: if received in autumn, unable to plant, trim leaves back to approximately 2-3” from plant base and place in a cleaned out vegetable crisper in your fridge until spring.

Desire to dance
as I once did,
lightly on toes,
graceful flow lines,
as I twirled
to accompanied music;
expression of self.

today

Age has overcome,
as has gravity,
thus heavier footings,
graceful lines remain,
slower music sought
to prevent dizziness;
prayers of non-injury.

Tivonna
April 1, 2017

A very early Spring away from my home domain. Leaving the ongoing cold and snowdrifts piling high. To a renown valley where fruit blossoms will survive, protected by the ancients and its erosion—two lakes on either side.

Seeing and taking in the sounds of returning ducks, some begging for their usual scraps of bread.  Feeling the sun's warmth on exposed arms and face, while lingering over morning's fresh cup of coffee.

Tiny yellow and mauve perennials resting in leafy green collars. Tree buds bursting from their old and weathered grey sleeves, with the smell of freshness, yet a sweetness in the air.

                                                    A moment in time,
                                               Savoring this new season,
                                                    Peace­ful calm inside.

Tivonna
March 31, 2017

Saddled on black night's shooting star,
                                        towards galaxies of delight,
                                        not knowing whence we come nor go,
                                        leaving a trail of dazzling light.

Twinned by one in our direction,
                                        parts of shooting star's origin,
                                        picking up speed and greater light,
                                        enticing us to follow him.

It remains the blackest of nights,
                                         into realms off-course, not traversed,
                                         nor parallel to co-exist,
                                         but falsely led . . . being coerced.

Aborting aspects of itself,
                                         for in great darkness we now flee,
                                         hoping to discover new light,
                                         to land ourselves protecting thee.

Guiding prophecies to protect,
                                        sent through the ages when less hope,
                                        yet new worlds being desired,
                                        difficult in dark downward *****.

Shooting star continues to shed,
                                        its burdensome load of its weight,
                                        diverting course—new direction,
                                        whereas its twin star will abate.

A ride of no comparison*,
                                        shooting star's journey and impact,
                                        now written in the sands-of-time,
                                        imprinting­ what's laid in its path.

                                        Tivonna

In isolation I have lived,
                       protecting me from love's sorrows,
                       contemplating . . . *what is true love,
                       while developing inner me.

Steep hills and valleys I have trod,
                      step-by-step in awed wonderment,
                      contemplating its creation,
                      yet learning teachings that it gives.

I recall being a young mom,
                      many emotions in its tests,
                      contemplating life-birthing pains,
                      now all dulled because of its joys.

Memories of family and friends,
                      whether old, new, or now passed,
                      contemplating nearness or loss,
                      their essence over-powers all.

I see news-clips of those displaced,
                      some with smiles and wondering why?
                      Together in supportive bands
                      with courage facing the unknown.

Romantic love is tempor'y,
                      regardless of its length of time,
                      taking us up the ladder's rungs,
                      while learning about selfless love.

That true love great teachers have spread,
                      creation learned or by others,
                      through selfless acts and by be-ing,
                      will last unconditionally.

Our unique gifts we develop,
                      becomes the ladder's brace for rungs,
                      supporting each phase that we now step
                      and that we can give to others.

Tivonna

Oh, how you sparkle as diamonds so rare,
dancing suspended in mid-morning's air,
face against glass in a trance I do stare,
while warding off the bright morning sun's glare.

Almost invisible to human eye,
it is light and refraction to define,
with unseen prism effects to rely,
painting pale rainbow shades so sublime.

Each crystal is floating, weightless it seems,
hovering low to allow me to see,
their show of exquisite beauty as deemed,
hypnotic—this rare jewel's dancing team.

Effects of crystalline dust a glowing
sustained in visual concentrating,
intense calm while spiritual mapping
my awes and experiencing  time-lapsing.

Tivonna

Entranced by your spell
             as your internal flame glows,
             fully protected
             within your rigid glass home,
             tantalizing my desires
             to soar to distant new worlds.

Distantly I watch,
             mesmerized by your spirit
             when lit with new life,
             turning dark nights into day
             and warmth to my chilled spirit.

Your aura of blue
             flickers in heated currents,
             desiring release
             to dance consuming passion,
             now felt in heat crescendos.

Released in dim light,
             you project your dark image,
             pirouetting lust
             in your tempestuous dance,
             reflecting your true essence.

Your moods oscillate
             when conditions entice you,
             peaceful when controlled,
             rage if neglect succumbs you,
             smouldering—when flames are snuffed*.

Tivonna

Standing alone in life's river . . .
          taking in its vastness,
          incomprehensible of its beginning and end,
          for it can not be seen,
          except . . . what lays before me,
          be its peaceful calm or its rage,
          depending on external forces not of its control.

Its rocks . . .
          grouped or alone,
          held within her bed,
          stuck in-time . . .
          yet her waters wash each crevice,
          polishing its ragged edges to smoothness,
          bringing out the beauty held within.

Releasing granules overtime . . .
          to be a part of its greater whole,
          creating something new,
          a cushioning . . .
          for what obstacles may take hold
          as the water's power sends.

Many unknown tributaries . . .
          to explore while travelling
          life's river meandering ways,
          even to its constriction,
          obliterating her flow
          to almost nothingness.

Leaving the river's full life force . . .
          to maintain an entrance,
          to naturally change its course,
          if chosen not to explore her tributary veins
          or to cleanse her overgrowth from obscurity*.

Tivonna

O My Beloved . . .
          I am entranced by your spell,
          since your appearance
          made to me from great distance.
          Your spoken words touched my heart.

Lessons I behold . . .
          even with a new season.
          I gaze upon you,
          as you drop your finery
          while gentle breezes stir you.

The Raven descends . . .
          his usual swooping greet,
          a shoulder he seeks,
          your attention he desires
          and your years of rooted strength.

My Love please heed him . . .
          His longed absences you sought,
          the void you have felt.
          His presence fuels your spirit,
          transference—to my essence.

Winter for a spell . . .
          taking that long needed rest,
          gaining energy
          to bring forth renewed beauty;
          expressing all that you are!*

Tivonna

a memory 1990

Her chair sits in the corner
of that lonely sterile room,
no longer collecting dust,
for now she sits all day long.

That sad forlorn wrinkled face,
fingers intertwined in lap,
darkness permeates her room,
curtains are closed in daylight.

To some they think it's her eyes,
but she is lost in mem'ries,
a slow quiet rock is heard
as she tries to calm regrets.

No visitors seek her out,
care-providers pass on by,
avoiding her lashing out
for the surface they just see,

not the person in the shell,
whose life once held great purpose
as wife, mother, and best friend,
now losses out of control.

I asked to sit for awhile,
on that low stool at her feet.
Questioning why I'd want to
because “others pass me by.”

My inner voice poking me
to sit humbly before her,
to use my patience as 'ear'
and shoulders to 'weight her words'.

In this well stamped memory,
I recall her word's wisdom
as she released life's regrets,
while I became the student.

The following day . . . sunshine!
That rocking chair now empty
as she stood at open door,
and watched passerby's looks.

Tivonna

I stand on the pier,
old and crumbling over time,
my prints embedded,
accumulating sand grains
as waves crash against the rocks.

A new day awaits!
Illuminated glory
no longer slumbers,
now peeking horizon's edge,
reflecting glist'ning waters.

Anticipation . . .
as wind stirs and waters swell,
sighting those distant sails,
now tattered beyond repair
from life's full-sail voyages.

Enhancing my gaze,
I leave my well-known pier,
a new direction . . .
trusting my whispering heart,
to find a new pier to wait.

In each unique way,
both weathered the elements,
commonalities . . .
Courage, Believing, and Trust,
following their heart's compass.

Love's beauty returns,
even with rusted anchor,
now docked in full view.
All sails taken down to float
in peaceful new calm waters.

Tivonna

Journey to the unknown
on roads less travelled,
seeking the heart's desires,
yet it does not speak.

The eyes strain for that window
to open the soul,
to touch that wandering heart,
to let the sun in.

Allowing splendorous rays
to melt away doubts,
and any apprehensions
that have become fears.

Allowing only beauty
to light this new path,
to transcend and to enfold
in peaceful comfort.

Tivonna

I remember special houses,
          my brains memory vault,
          a cache of stored life-tapes,
          a period in-time.

I remember headstones,
          walking in a graveyard,
          etched in its history,
          natives and whites co-exist.

I remember field trips,
          visiting museums,
          a life of history,
          for appreciation.

I remember field crops,
          a patch-work of colours,
          kissed by the autumn sun,
          its harvest to feed many.

I remember so much,
          yet my vault needs dusting,
          'my house' needs some order
           for the joys in my day.

I remember 'my house,'
          a gift for me to dwell
          while I make my own mark,
          my imprint in this life.*

Tivonna

My love, I beheld your hidden beauty
on yesterdays crack-laden garden path.
To restore, my fullest pledge and duty,
for your honey-nectar words did attract
my heart, my love, and all you could extract.

Without farewell, setting sail in darkness,      
taking all your 'longings' and honey-casks,
to face the unknown and weather's harshness
without an anchor and faithful compass.

Now marooned on distant shores of wasteland,
alone with casks-of-honey—yes, heartless
and loveless—perils away from homeland,
for your actions did not match your sweet words;
reserved for wastelands and scavenging birds*.

Tivonna

Oh, those dubious hill climbs*

Mani's full glow . . .
          emanates from the heavens,
          penetrating atmosphere's layers
          to those child-wondered hills.

Filled with his love . . .
          endless in time,
          watching his frolicking children
          in attempts to fetch life's waters.

Always shining with love . . .
          in their attempts,
          to climb that well-trodden path,
          yet they always seemed to tumble.

Helplessly watching . . .
          their trek uphill,
          he continued to light the way,
          knowing they missed that well again.

To intercede became his plan . . .
          to prevent further injuries,
          that earthly crown could take so much,
          along with multiple bruising.

Wisking them away . . .
          to fly in the heaven's with him,
          bringing them home again,
          and to find their life's water.

Tivonna

seasonal – growers
earthen – sunshine
shadows – brilliance
garden's – rainbow
eye – candy
beauty – designer

natural – remedies
medicinal – powers
mood – elevators
calm – inducers
perfume – infusers
aroma – inhalers
energy – giver
soul – speaker

bee's – delight
honey – maker
humming bird's – nectar
bird – sanctuary
butterfly – adornments
ant – attractor

home – greeter
inside – sunshine
heaven – indoors
decor's – friend
room – deodorizer
winter's – paradise  

word – forgiver
word-loss – wonder
peace – maker
love's – gift
compassion – healer
appreciation's – bouquet

seed – spiller
multipliers – in-time
propagation – wonders
ever – giving
limitless – bounties
poetic – writes

just – because

Tivonna

My long red-blonde hair my first address,
comb-parting down head centre’s back mess,
now gathering above each ear,
to tie making mini horse tails.

On my rack's find, a bright green T
to dress big balloon ***** me,
a mirrored chuckle I do see,
no need to exaggerate ****.

My style most cheerful and trendy
in my beautiful canary
double x painter's bibbed coveralls,
the last accessory is shoes.

Always my dream and great delight
to shop for shoes that are just right,
always, always one-of-a-kind
for striking co-ordination.

Today's find are designer shoes,
my flats coloured peacock blue,
long with rounded over-sized toe box,
satisfied—my look now complete

Except—to apply my makeup,
exaggerating long lashes,
with thick clumps of midnight black,
to flutter when they are needed.

To outline my lips in ruby,
taking their shapes lead but outside,
enhancing my so-called great smile,
now reaching towards both my ears.

Oh, but my many quandaries,
what do I do with my nose?
do I wear a bulbous big red?
or paint its tip a heart in red?

The later because it is me
each day and whatever I decree,
today it's healing in laughter,
to visit the sick and dying.

So now it's clowns in happy twos
strutting walking waddles on cue,
albeit a hesitancy,
to hospital ward allocation.

An elderly woman sits crying,
her husband now is dying,
no family at the bedside,
except for a couple of clowns,
at a loss for words—I did mime.

The clown and the me dropped a tear,
while holding hands and she in prayer,
Later told, “ I thought angels had wings,
now I know they have red noses.”

Tivonna