Gone with the Morning

(Gone with the Wind)



always my dreams

swept into oblivion~

world’s routine of swirl



Jane Penland Hoover


RLB Wed Prompt






keeping to my walk

eyes lingering on dampened

swash of leaf

sweet tremble signals

bluebird’s lift


Jane Penland Hoover


~keep, dampen, tremble~

Three Word Wednesday


The Home of Patience – 5 poems

Morning Visitor


A little sparrow

sits head-deep in slender grass

beyond my window


tapping at the earth

up and down, up and down that

tiny head pursues


plunder of insects

in wonder of her rhythm

feathery cover.


Beyond my window

a world awaits, another

morn still dawning.


As I tap into

my own store of memory lore

of those times before


when I was the small

one tapping through each morning

persistent as this


visitor ~ within ~

unearthing what is wanted

life for one more day.


I visited you

in that room too bright to see

the long corridor


the two of us would

tread in days ahead, the past



I, the reminder

then for you of who you were

still, beneath those sheets.


Yet, today you sit

beyond my window listening

as the sparrow sings to us.


Our Trees Our Forest


Curves grow shorter as

we climb into what my dad

calls the widening sky ~


what I know he means ~

his true sense of going home

where wonder rises


all around, like pines

and oaks, the hickories too

secure in rooted


place. Wooded forest

where children play at discovery

imagine lizards ~


dragons come to greet

them ~ once again upon return

to trees and forest


becoming home, sure

to them as to their Dad who

once imagined them.



Apology Due ~100% certain


Routines abide now

in our days, long and airy,

every hour our own.


Still we set schedules

as if we had a busy life

requiring order.


At noon we may be

found in the café, lining

up to push our tray.


His one handedness

hinders only the carrying

which I easily do.


Everyday the same ~

he sets tray with silverware

on salad bar slides.


From the hot-line I

spoon his favorites onto plate

he then carries off


while I make salads

select colored nourishment

place plate on our tray


before filling cups,

choosing desserts from cooler

and joining him at


our table. Always

in our chosen corner spot

unless we are late.


Then kindness wins and

we sit, in our good spirits,

in some other space.


Today at the bar

I watched Bob, heard him ask his

wife where their tray was,


pointing at mine.  I

spoke quickly, “don’t be getting

my tray,” lifted it.


Still miffed by my own

sharp words I told Ron of Bob’s

confusion about trays.


Ron puzzled, pointed

out to me that we had three

sets of silverware.


Now I was the one

trapped in her own routines

betrayed by memory ~


Just yesterday I

asked Ron to quit putting our

tray out. He had.


Coming Round Again



Little duck


Mallard, solitary one
on the pond today~
eyes watching

nothing more to do
than listen ~ look up ~

from the shaded cove



Little bird


brown-headed nuthatch

another day with

nothing more to do

than love the world

beneath blue sky spread wide

scent of presence here



Little buzzing bee


honeysuckle, jasmine,

roses in all hues

opening up for you

with nothing more than

sips and slips, to pass

so much life along



Little steps


that brought me near

camellias falling through

spun air of spring

days growing longer

one by one

revolving source of wonder






Stone Patience


Early morning on the floor,

curling into myself

imagining if I am small enough

there will be no room

for ache or groan —


no way a scream can gather

itself into a sound

huge enough to summon him.

Let him sleep until

I discover what is wrong



Mute and limping,

he can do nothing

to help me.

His empty stare,

a quizzical appeal, would

be for me to manufacture

both his question and

my answer, which I can not


through this wave of pain.


Later I would learn

about the tiny grit,

calcification that moved

into a passageway

never built to carry

anything except a

warm golden flow.


On the floor holding tight

to my fright that night

praying morning come

more quickly than the soft click

the clock brought.


The clock…

What time it is?

Where is the phone?

Can I wait?



And I close tighter,

lean into the coolness of the tile

accept my position,

fevered cold

the whole.


I am silent, silent, silent,

until dawn and a daughter’s voice

answering my ring.

“Come – sick…”

She knows not to make

me say more.

How does she know? I pause.

There could be a long answer

but now is not the time.

She is familiar

with his muted stance,

years of her life too

without his voice –

but mine

so often heard,

now a  rasping force of words

squeezed out of patience

still hoping for a bit more.

Field of Dreams



Beyond dawn of morn

Before fade of all our years

There our field of dreams


Poetic Bloomings Post May 6, 2012  http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/05/06/playing-favorites-again-prompt-54/

Golden Oldies

It’s sort of old

this shared life ~ your

blue-eyed smiling

song of how you

came to know  it’s

sort of me and

sort of you…

It’s sort of old

how years enfold

and sort of new

how grand ones come

~add harmony.

It’s sort of new

how your silence

shelters her ~ it’s

sort of old how

they don’t let go

ever ~  never.





solitary one

on the pond today~

eyes watching