Archive for August, 2009

Not the Bermuda Triangle

Last nights rain dripping with each breath of wind
damp mix of dawn shadowing my hand
the contrast sense of one thing blocking out
while ink-wet words continue making tracks.

I could get lost in this delicious sense of
Cardinal notes sung to hums of cars traveling
Cornwallis Road toward some destination
similar to the one that’s calling me.

I pause, think how unsure I was at first
how unknown the path this road and all those
others drew, connecting community whose
custom considered home The Triangle.

So much exploration to do before
I learned to navigate, find this interlace
of asphalt, dirt, and wide interstates my
easy transport to places that support

my writing life where I read at open-mikes,
write with friends all over town, and town, and
town, and never imagine I’ll get lost,
though I practiced time after time driving

into new territory, wandering
until I found some familiar sign
like here where crows call warnings overhead,
perhaps about two cats crouched in thick grass,

reminding me of that other home we left
and the danger of one car following
another, shadows blocking sight until
all red lights trail, transform, become the same,

though those ahead of me are no longer
his and he is unaware that the truck
moved between, severing my hope of holding
close enough to not be lost from him again.

Nothing familiar to me now, though he
found a ramp-off where we rested once
long ago before his stroke when he knew
words, how to speak, find help without me near.

Still someone found him standing in the dark
dialed my phone, heard my frantic voice, distant
still from him and what was our Georgia place,
or the home we now call The Triangle,

where no cats roam the grounds we walk at dawn
but where we listen as birds sing freely
on their way from one place to another
while we hold hands, acquainted now with loss.

From prose piece at PenStrokes


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She stood tall then, as tall as possible
in her four-foot frame, when the man rose,
invited the congregation rise with the
motion of his extended hand. It was another land,
a land in time washed fine by softened lights
of Sunday nights’ dim hymns, murmurs of concern,
desires for one another, always enough
to draw her up into the throat of notes
where sound and joy drove through her solitude
once, before stroke’s withholding washed her world
with lies and loss pretending they were not,
and she shrank back and down into a place
too small to hold a girl with secret dreams,
thin pencils, and a clutch of much unsaid,
caught between once before and now, until
graphite gushed through her instrument,
yellow swish, stubborn in its swaying power,
beneath closed lid of yesterday, completed
script she will intone without a microphone
after rising, pushing the podium aside.

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Rest your hand upon the knob
Before you turn
Into the space I’ve saved




Speed unchecked increases chance
Of missing out
On days uncaught by you




Hate persuades a fearful place
Deflates the soul
Then hides grave faults





Sun upon the frozen pond
Enough to spark
And melt my angry heart

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Our Garden Cove

Our Garden Cove


Verdant green greets feet

dawn slipping up 

tendrils hanging down

wafting scent

jasmine floating

in the misty morn

a silent overture


prior to

the cacophony

from mocking birds,

caws dispersing flutters

from one pine bough to another

heron poised at the water’s edge, waiting,

osprey flying over

the place we sit listening


on the bench

your hand rubbed smooth

once long ago

before your fingers froze

before your voice lost

its tone, your steps failed

to carry you with ease


paused now

the rabbit in the grass

will rush the bush

and disappear


yet tomorrow,

for the life of us,

we will all be here again

feel rays call.

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In another time, yesterday or tomorrow
but not today with you secure and far from here
except within some cellular space I borrow.

Back then a room, your molten moves seared
thick air. Attention’s stare, a heated glint, eyes
focused clear dissolved my reservoir of fear.

We gone now to time and letting go deep sighs
yet your shimmer comes again to quench my thirst.
Visible like desert waters, you mesmerize

make me realize you are no mirage, but my bright first
sweet liquid sustenance, the feathered touch of skin
drawn fine and long inside. Days dispersed

an arc through time spooling on, and on, gold thin
vitality, breath taken in and in and in.

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On Gardening and Love

On Gardening and Love

I imagined I might fall in love
with gardening, if only
I could stay close to those
who loved the taste

of green, the feel of

bloom on stem.

And so I joined them,
the little club
that met each week
in Shirley’s den.

We listened to the speaker

talked about hydrangeas,

violets, planting pink impatience,
and what sufficient moisture

and the sun might do.

I didn’t fall in love.

I found one must

kneel on damp earth

reach deep into
its darkened soil,

bend, rise, bend, rise

again, and again,
fingers dripping dirt.

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We have come to a new place

in our life


So much now finished well

so much yet undone


We have moved from one state to another

following grown daughters


North to children and homes no longer ours

where we are well welcomed visitors


We have crossed in time to understand

support we gave, we now receive


We lived through brilliant days and dreamy nights

to discover, still, more to claim in our new place


Sized exactly right for the two of us

and 600 other folk


Who offer up a smile, maybe a bit of irritation

as we limp along and nod our gratitude


Here where we say thank you fifty times a day

and never feel the thought grow old


Of home, where comfort and community feed

the need to live and live, and we come again and again


To swallow each new minute


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