Can't Put the Pen Down

just as if I was in my write mind…

Let Go the Wind

Leaves applaud the wind
in sudden outbursts of joy.
Wild adulation.

Harder to impress,
bough and bole just nod and sway.
Grudging approval.

But roots slumber on,
unmoved by windy speeches.
Blithely unaware.

And I let it go.
I take it into my soul
Then I let it go.




Wet on Dry

Thirsty paper swells.
Pigment irrigates the nubby surface,
depositing brilliant silt;
fertile soil on the banks of the Nile.

Gems bloom at the end
of squirrel hair brooms
that swish and sweep the bubbles of colour into trees
and rivers, and cloud speckled skies.

But beware the heavy hands of gravity,
clawing the sparkling rivulets
into muddy puddles
at the bottom of the stillness.


the Spark, the Flame, and the Ember

It starts with a spark.
A blinding synapse
that focuses your gaze
through a magnifying glass hovering over
combustible potential.
The rest of the world becomes small and insignificant
compared to the sparking tinder.

So still, so quiet
you can hear your own breathe
and his
fanning the flame within.
Flames that grow and sear away
sorrow, lick away tears, and
leap through the darkness.

The tinder is long gone but the years,
banked up in a comforting glow, remain
a warm bed to cradle embers.
You and I,
this life,
the spark, the flame, the ember.



Hidden Miracles

I am not a flatlander.
Honest open fields give me vertigo
and a feeling of eyes looking over my shoulder.
Drunken grasshoppers, launch
haphazardly and land on their heads,
lurching towards some kind of freedom.

I want trees, lots of trees
and the communities within
their branches, the worlds beneath
their boughs, and chickadees so close
you can make eye contact.

I want horizons that swell and surprise,
and hint of mysteries and possibilities tangled
in every game trail and sudden stream.
I don’t want to know every nook
and cranny of my landscape.
I want hidden miracles.


Red Wine and Good Conversation

Red wine and good conversation make
the years fall away
and sometimes it’s the telling
over of the past that makes the future
Brushing away
cobwebs, sweeping aside
twigs, and kicking stones
can make a path easier;
make the choice of turn
or twist clearer, but
horizons being what they are,
all roads lead to ruin.
But for now there is red wine
and good conversation.



Praying on the Willows

The willows are brown again this year.
Skeletonized leaves hang crisp and curled and I wonder
how many years in a row can this happen
before they truly die?
How long can they survive with only the tinge
of pale green on so few leaves?
I wonder what disease or parasite is so selective,
sweeping through the woods and only
preying upon the willow.
Maybe next year will see the resurgence.
Maybe next year the green lanceolate loveliness will spring again
and quiver in time to the breeze, thrill
to the stormy gale and bob happily
in the gentle rains.



Orange Nasturtiums

There is something about an orange nasturtium.
Is it the colour,  so piercingly deep and clean
and paint-box perfect?
Or maybe it’s the graceful arcs the stems describe,
like pale green, wrought iron standards.
It could be the plump little buds
with their cheeky wee spurs.
Or the open, honest leaves bouncing
merrily in the slightest breeze.
Perhaps it’s the peppery bite they add to my salad,
and yet the bugs don’t seem to relish them.
Even the seed head is perfectly turned out
in scrolled elegance,  a lined matriarch
proudly bestowing her legacy upon the world.



A Study in Green

I study the forest outside my window,
my eyes tracing faces in the tangled branches,
sailing ships swaying in the outstretched arms,
limbed antlers, twig webs, stump mountains,
and the graceful ellipses, the watching eyes,
as the forest studies me back.


Hats Off

Many women are accused
of having far too many shoes
I haven’t fallen prey to that
but I know I have too many hats.

The hat I wear when I’m at work;
in charge and self-assured.
The hat I don when I’m alone
and feeling insecure.

The singer hat is large enough
to hide behind on stages.
The ‘Mother Hat’ endows me with
the wisdom of the ages.

My friend hat is much smaller
and is more for decoration.
My artist hat is paint stained
with high-lights of frustration.

My writing hat is comfortable
I wear it every day.
The hat I wear to clean the house
I’d like to throw away.

But I’m happiest going hatless,
the way you taught me to.
Today I’ve made the time to take
all my hats off to you.




Too many paths to choose from and yet
they all wind up the same place I bet.
Straight as a die
or as the crow flies
is never as straight as it seems,
especially when swimming upstream.
But that’s silly,
crows don’t swim.


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