With Willow’s Grace

willow's grace 2

Willow’s Grace

I don’t know
What becomes of us
A drop a rain
A grain of dust
A gust of wind
That bends
The willow’s grace

Perhaps it is only fate
That finds
The ray of light
The state of mind
A grain of sand
In hands
Of warm embrace

Perhaps to wander
Deep blue skies
When sparrows sing
Where angels fly
A verse in rhyme
That time
Cannot erase

I don’t know
What becomes of us
A drop of rain
A grain of dust
A mindful blend
To bend
With willow’s grace



Knowing One from the Other

Knowing One from the Other framed

Due to circumstances that I would prefer not to discuss on this blog (though many of you are aware of those circumstances by reading my other blog) I have not written anything as of late that I would consider worthy of posting.  I hope to return to writing poetry of at least some value very soon.  Until that time… please enjoy a post from the past that I am sure many of you have not read before and those of you who have… I hope will enjoy once again.

Knowing One from the Other

I am stumbling in between them…
All that is beautiful in the world
And the depths of my insanity…
Enchanted by my own ignorance
Of not knowing one from the other…
Confused as to which one
Breathes the reality of my being
And the one embroidering
The beauty within my mind…

Do the fields of lavender
Swaying with the gentle breeze
Possess more beauty
Than the hues of indigo
Surrounding the sadness of a broken heart…
Do the rhymes of the greatest poets
Fulfill my longing more completely
Than the ancient runes
That echo in my head
From the voices
That no one else can hear…

Perhaps reality does not exist…
Except for what dwells
Within our own darkness
Lingering in the thoughts
That no one else can touch…
The truths that no one else dare to wonder…
Wandering amongst the creatures
Who shadow our perception
Of what is real…

For none of us would be who we are
Without the shadows that prowl our minds…
The one’s we share with no one…
The one’s that no one dare
Look deep enough inside our souls
To awaken…
For no one possesses the audacity to
Tempt the creatures of another…
Unless, of course…
They too are standing in the middle
Of what is beautiful
And the depths of their own insanity…
Enchanted by their own ignorance
Of not knowing –
One from the other…



Unveiled 4

Painting by Betty Bell Sanders

Though her eyes were closed
She could still see forever
Far beyond the doorway
Where she stood
Unveiled to the world
To the angels
In her dreams
Bare feet drawing grace
From the wood

The wicker
The wood
The breeze of the morn
The sunlight
Soft gainst her skin
To feel the embrace
Of the love
In the silence
Washing away
Where she’s been

In the hues of the morn
She could still see forever
In the absence of time
Transposing the words
Of a story once told
A most perfect rhyme





I know…
This was a beautifully
Clean blank page
Before I decided
To blather all over it
With what I will most likely
At some point in the future
Profess to be some
Semblance of misguided poetry…
Every day I hear someone say
“Words make a difference”
Though I’ve left at least
A million words
Upon these pages
None of which
As yet
Have changed the world…
I pretend
There are those who read them
And my words make them smile
But I cannot see them…
I pretend
There are those whose hearts
Are touched
By certain words I say
But I cannot feel them…
I pretend
There is one soul
That stirs within my words
But I cannot find them…
I pretend
My words will change my life
But I cannot reason
What does not stand before me

I know…
This was a beautifully
Clean blank page
Before I twaddled
All over it
Pretending that
My words of prattle
Showed at least
Some semblance
Of misguided poetry…
But within these
Misguided words
I can pretend
That they will change the world
That they will put a smile
Upon the face of another
That they will touch the heart
Of someone in need of feeling love
That they will stir the soul
Of one who is searching
To find their way…
That I will 
In some most delicate way
Find reason to understand
What does not stand before me…


Family Secrets

Family Secrets 1

I suppose they had no choice
But to pretend
Though sadness in their faces
Stirred a fateful potent blend

I suspect the family secrets
Never crossed their mortal lips
Except when amber liquids
Shared the night with passing ships

But still there is the fractured ink
Left neath the bottom drawer
And bones that rattle softly
When the wood creaks in the floor

Stories left untold by those
Who passed without a word
Still linger in the gentle breeze
When ere the dust is stirred


Fore the Mockingbird’s Yawn


It was early in the morn
Fore the blush touched the willow
Fore the mockingbird’s yawn
Turned to song
Voices from the ceiling
Speaking words of introspection
Wandering in my mind
Tween right and wrong

In the hues of the dawn
In the chatter of the sparrow
When light sifted softly
Cross sculptured stones
Voices neath the floor
Speaking words of resurrection
Never speaking of the door
That hides the bones

It was early in the morn
Fore the blush touched the silence
Though light out of darkness
Dimmed the flame
Voices from the willow
Speaking words of intellection
Till the ravens came
Calling my name


The Poet’s Last Plea

My beautiful picture

The Poet’s Last Plea
    (Distant Shores)

They are nothing but words
Trapped on the parchment
Where time only breeds
Fractured ink
Never to find
Their pathway to freedom
To flow to the pond
Where we drink

While poets are lost in the rain
In the dawn
In the hues of the petals of the rose
Capturing verses of the light
And the shadows
In the dreams
Of the lyrics we chose

They are nothing but words
Placed in the bottle
Set free to wander
The sea
To find distant shores
To be known by the stranger
To share the lost poet’s
Last plea