The Journey

The Journey…

A spark from the eternal flame ignites,
separating from its host
yet remembering from whence it came;
What lessons do I need to learn,
it asks,
What lessons do I have to share,
it wonders,
and, with assistance, it begins to choose
location and circumstance,
privilege and difficulty,
and persons;

The spark awaits the moment when worlds unite,
and then begins growing,
preparing,
anticipating,
and as it progresses near an approaching light,
it is blessed and cursed with the forgetting,
and the learning begins
as the spark begins its return journey home;

Times of ease and struggles occur,
lessons are learned and unlearned,
meaning is often elusive
between periodic windows of truth,
errors are made, forgiveness dispensed,
sentences enforced on the self,
and time passes by;

And, the spark awaits the moment when
the real world appears,
beginning new preparations,
anticipating,
and as it nears an approaching light,
it is blessed with the remembering
and the peacefulness of home
and a new learning begins;

A spark from the eternal flame re-ignites,
separating from its host
yet remembering from whence it came;
What lessons do I still need to learn,
it reevaluates,
What lessons do I need to share,
it reviews,
and, with assistance, it begins to choose,
forgetting as a hazy illusion begins to appear real,
again beginning a return journey home,
improving, learning,
and, each time,
remembering a bit more the purpose of the journey
and the true meaning of home.

Thinking of You, verse # 10

Thinking of you…

Moonbeams and shooting stars dance around the sky
and the wind gently sings a tender lullaby
while the birds sing along in their own special way
as they settle in to sleep after a flight-filled day,
and here from Earth looking up to a star-filled sea,
the planets whisper old forgotten memories,
and images dance happily in the sky to and fro
as if they were the movie to the story that was wove,
recalling moment after moment, and each tale is true,
and each memory reminds me of you.

Wake Up From Illusions

Wake up from illusions…

Hours pass,
another day begins,
time passes by,
only time will tell if it was time well spent,
still questions linger in my mind;
Are we here by chance or reason?
Are we here of our own will?
Are we here to see what lessons we can learn?
Send wishes up to Heaven,
toss pennies in a well,
try to forget the past
we remember all too well;
Time has a way of showing
the truth we fail to see
in the blurry haze of morning
as we awake from our state of dreams;
Life can come full circle
if we allow it to be;
Do we wake up from illusions
or do we choose to see
the truth that was always right before our eyes?

As We Travel The Road

As We Travel The Road…

If I had for us a dream,
a wish, a plan, the time to see,
some sunny days to take a drive,
top down, radio up, take a ride,
we’d find ourselves starting a day
when the sun would rise over eastern bays,
we’d put on our shades, head down the line,
to see what all there is to find;

First we’d pack our bags, load the car,
a couple changes of clothes, an old guitar,
a map to lead us on our way,
a camera for the pix we’ll take,
some chocolate, well, just because,
two hats for us for when it’s hot,
we’ll grab some cash, head down the line,
to see what all there is to find;

As yellow begins to paint the sky,
we’ll start the car, follow the light,
a golden glow of golden dreams,
leading west, so it would seem,
a full tank of gas, we’ll see how far
a tank will take us in this old car,
and off we’ll go, heading down the line,
to see what all there is to find;

We’ll wave goodbye to Atlantic’s breeze,
we’ll wave hello to Carolina dreams,
glory in the light of the sun,
our journey now has just begun,
as we’ll travel along the old two-lanes,
on the radio, the oldies play,
as we leave the coast for mountainsides,
to see what all there is to find;

When we reach Raleigh, we’ll stop a bit,
study the art, maybe see the Mill,
perhaps Penny’s ghost will walk amidst
and tell visitors his story of eighteen sixty-six,
if he were to tell the truth, we’d never know,
so to the off-Broadway ballet we’ll go,
but we’ll leave Raleigh when the moon is high
to see what all there is to find;

When the dawn shall break, on the road we’ll be,
as we cross the border into Tennessee,
the sun would rise over mountains high,
and following the sun, we would drive,
catch eighty-one to forty-west,
stop in Nashville for a bite, to rest,
and we’ll travel as the sun is high,
to see what all there is to find;

Biscuits, gravy, the south at its best,
bacon, hash-browns, all the rest,
with great big smiles, we’ll eat till full,
of course we’ll eat too much though we know the rules,
but this trip is a once-in-a-lifetime plan
and we may never come this way again,
so we’ll chase it down with dessert of any kind,
then leave to see what all there is to find;

We’ll put on our hats, be on our way,
driving through this sunny day,
with balm on lips, shades on our eyes,
laughing, singing, radio high,
off the interstate we’ll go,
back upon the two-lane roads,
and then we’ll go, heading down the line,
to see what all there is to find;

With Missouri coming into view,
a small restaurant near the line will do,
where truckers talk about their route,
their cargo, haul, and schedule, too,
and as they eat, they’ll talk of home,
of families, kids they miss back home,
but soon on the road, heading down the line,
and we’ll wonder what it is that they will find;

Check the calendar, clock, what time is it,
no one’s been sure since nineteen-sixty-six,
is it one or two or two or three,
sometimes it’s best to let things be,
we’ll get some sleep and then we’ll rise,
when the sun comes up, we’ll know the time,
time to hit the road, head down the line,
and we’ll wonder what else we will find;

On cross the line, past Sikeston, the Bluff,
the rain starts to fall and the top will come up,
as we’ll travel along the two-lanes until,
we’ll reach the limits of historic Springfield,
where Tutt shot at Bill, one shot and it missed,
long before the city gave birth in nineteen-twenty-six
to the road that would head on down the line
for all those who wondered what else they might find;

The sun starts to shine, it must have just known
how important it was for us to get to this road,
as we’ll park the car and stand by the way,
admiring the history that must have been made,
along gravel and sand and then pavement and tar,
this road, how it grew, how it came very far,
as people traveled this road, headed on down the line,
to see what all there is there to find;

As we’ll take pictures of the Mother, the Queen,
ghosts appear in images, or so it would seem,
to tell of their stories, of days that have gone by,
to tell of their struggles, their triumphs, their lives,
by car or on foot they would travel along,
some carrying everything that they owned,
as they headed out west, headed on down the line,
hoping it was a better life they would find;

We’ll get back in the car, the top goes back down,
put the camera away, again westward bound,
with the sun up above, Joplin just down the road,
we’ll go in search of some of the history we have been told,
we’ll go in search of our own history, yes, that as well,
we’ll go in search of own story that we can tell,
so we’ll put on our shades, head on down the line,
to see what all there might be to find;

Once again, softly, the night falls like peace
that blankets the Earth, so we’ll pull off to eat
at a small little diner from a time long ago
where the ghosts whisper stories from the shadows,
we’ll eat burgers and fries and drink root beer floats
that taste better than any we’ve had ever before,
we’ll order more burgers to go before resting this night,
before seeing what else there might be to find;


In the cool of the night, we’ll sit on the hood of the car,
eyes following the moon, trying to count stars,
as the breeze gently blows, we’ll talk of this road,
our journey, our lives, time not so long ago,
the writers who’ve inspired, the songs that were sung,
the movies of youth before life really begun,
the adventures we hope to have as we head down the line,
wondering aloud what all we might find;

On through the night, and as we’ll dream,
of all of the wonderful things we have seen
along the road, along the path,
signs of now and signs from the past,
we’ll dream of what is and what is to be,
what it means, all that we have seen,
then once awake, we’ll head on down the line,
to see what all that we can find;

At a small doughnut shop, just west of town
with fresh raspberry creams, the cook will sit down,
he’ll scratch at his beard, smoke an old cigar,
and tell us the story of how he had come so far
from northeast of the Mother back when he was young,
to this little shop where his life really begun,
for here he found love on his way down the line,
on his way to finding what all he could find;

The west is where he would search for his dreams,
or so he thought before stopping here, it would seem,
as he traveled alone with an old guitar,
on his way, heading out west to be a star,
and here he met a girl in a dress the color of cream,
“Ain’t it funny,” he said, “how life can change a dream,”
and so he made this the end of the line,
for here he had found all he really wanted to find;

Then with a wink of his eye and a shy little grin,
from behind the counter comes an old guitar and then,
he’ll play us some songs, do a strange little jig,
he’ll say, “That was really pushing the envelope back then,”
when he left the girl with the guitar on his back,
promising her that he would most certainly be back,
after searching for his dreams on down the line,
to see if any success there he could find;


“The west is much rougher than what it may seem
when you’re going there in search of your dreams.
Though much success I did find, and hard I did try,
but by the time I came back, she had already died,”
he’ll say the fever had taken her while he was gone
and he didn’t know she was ill until she was gone,
for he had gone to search for his dreams down the line,
and traded her love to see what all he could find;

“But, I’m here now,” he’ll say with a wink,
“and here it is that forever I’ll be,
for that cute little waitress with the upturned mouth,
well that be the girl I’ve been talking about,”
he’ll say she waited for him, called to him from the mist,
and he’ll say his youth was way back in nineteen-twenty-six,
adding at his death, he came back down the line,
to this little place and all he would find;

We’ll laugh as we pay and head out to leave,
“Remember,” he said, “life is all about dreams.
This road has many,” he’ll say with a grin,
“and once here you’ll always come back again,”
after pulling out, we’ll turn ‘round to wave,
but no shop will be there, only a lot that’s been paved,
and as we cross Oklahoma’s borderline,
again we’ll wonder what else we might find;

We’ll pass cyclists on two wheels, some motored, some not,
cars from years folks have never forgot,
restaurants that maintain the illustrious gleam
of the forties, the fifties, and the sixties scenes,
old men who still like to tell the tale
of this old road that they love so well,
so eagerly, we’ll head further on down the line,
looking to find all that we can find;

Just a bit further, we’ll pull to the side,
eating cold cheeseburgers before we lose light,
at a picnic table on the side of the road
that has seen many travelers along this old road,
and as the sun sets again, the old guitar sings
of all this old road must have seen
as travelers have headed on down the line
as we’ll do to see what all we can find;


We’ll wonder if the cook was really a ghost
as further we travel, on down the road,
we’ll talk of how people would travel or mine,
and in no time at all, we’re on Tulsa time,
but darkness has fallen, so we keep traveling on,
like so many others have done, long before we were born,
under hazy skies, we’ll head down the line,
to see what else we might find;

By morning, we’ve rested yet once again,
and look at a newspaper to see what city we’re in,
we’re in old Packing Town, the headline will say,
and with a few cups of caffeine, we’ll be on our way
to visit an Opry, the Frontier, and then,
we’ll visit the rodeo and museums,
where we’ll meet an old cowboy who once rode down the line
so that he could see what all he could find;

He’ll say, “Yes, I am real. No not a ghost,
but you must have met some of the travelers along this old road
who loved it then and love it still.
Will you meet more? Well, yes, you will!
For they each have a story to tell
with lessons each, you should listen well,
as you travel, heading on down the line,”
and we’ll leave to see what all we might find;

So, onward we’ll travel, yes onward we’ll go,
traveling along this old road,
the shoulder of the Mother always near
to lead us on, from here to here,
along the path with yellow seams,
where ghosts tell stories of what used to be
when earlier people headed down the line
to see what all that they could find;

As the day shall fade, up comes the moon,
we’ll pass by Sayre, Hext, and Erick, too,
and we’ll wave goodbye to the Sooners state,
a sad goodbye for it’s quite a place
where history still maintains a part
of life and every cowboy’s heart,
but we’ll bid adieu, head down the line
to see what else there is to find;


Dream by night, seek by day,
by dawn we’ll be out Amarillo way,
and we’ll stop, of course, to see the Ranch,
antique shop, we must do that,
we’ll eat a Biti, coconut cream,
a taste of Heaven, so it would seem,
adventures as we head on down the line
to see what all that we can find;

In the Yellow City we’ll stop and sit,
enjoy the show that’s been running since nineteen-sixty-six,
then we’ll ride for a while on horses ‘cross land
and we’ll study the west, the elders, their plans,
we’ll view local art, follow prints of the horse,
we’ll eat like a cowboy while we’re there, of course,
though it’s been much fun, we’ll head on down the line
to see even more that we can find;

At Midpoint we’ll stop and eat a small snack
as we continue west across the hot Texan hat,
and there we shall meet an old Indian guide
who will tell us his story of living and life,
there at a small table, his tears fall like glass
as he talks of the future and he talks of the past,
and he’ll speak of when he headed on down the line
to see what all that he could find;

“Look not to the west when in search of a dream,
for the west, you see, children, is not all that it seems.
Look deep within, and it is there you shall find
the answers to questions of living, of life,”
but when he walks away, gone from our sights,
the waitress shall say she saw none by our side,
another teacher we’ve found as we’ll head down the line
on our way to see what all we can find;

Through canyons and deserts we’ll travel along,
through plains and past rivers, the radio on,
the sun up above us, leading the way,
we’ll still be wearing our balm and our shades,
from time to time, we’ll look at the map,
but somehow we’ll seem to know just where we’re at,
as we laugh and enjoy heading on down the line
searching for all that we may find;


We’ll travel along, through time and through space,
New Mexico is a quiet, but inspiring place,
our voices, they’ll lower, in respect of the land,
the history, the magic, the power of this land
that awakens the senses and opens the heart
yet somehow slows pulses, convincing, in part,
to slow down a bit as we head down the line,
on our way to see what all we can find;

Colorful canyons will echo the sound
of positive greetings to be carried around
the rocks and the waters ‘till they come back again
and provide a response to our greetings and then
the sand there beneath us will flutter about
as if trying to tell us that lessons abound
in this land that has learned as souls have traveled the line,
all on their way to see what all they could find;

With beauty around us, the artists must have been right,
beauty is in living and all that’s alive,
“Mistakes surely teach you the truth is inside,
not something you find here, there, or down the line,”
old adobes at the base of a mountain will say,
whispering softly of observances made,
of when people like us have come down the line
searching for all that they might find;

With blue skies that reach out forever it seems,
our spirits will be high, we’ll be living a dream,
as we travel and study and listen to those
who tell stories of lessons they’ve learned ‘long this road,
of decisions they’ve made, oops, we’ll hear the weather report,
but pop-ups are common in this part of the world,
so with questions we’ll head further on down the line
to find all there is we can find;

When the rain finally comes, we’ll pull the top up again,
talk over the storm and remember back when,
is the Grand Canyon on this road, for we can’t recall,
so we’ll check the map, it’s not near but not far,
but perhaps on another trip we will take
we’ll see that big hole, what a fuss we will make,
but for now we’ll keep on traveling down the line
looking to find all that we can find;


Sitting, eating, beneath Arizona stars
we’ll talk of how we’ve come so far
down this road and in our lives,
the laughs we’ve had, the tears we’ve cried,
mistakes we’ve made and lessons learned,
we’ll recount them all, one by one,
we’ll catch some sleep, then head down the line
to see what else that we can find;

Red rocks seem to stretch out arms,
welcoming us with all their charms,
they’ll silently whisper upon the wind
lessons they’ve learned of endurance and then,
we’ll hear them speak in quiet moments of still
of the power of kindness, the power of will,
before we head further on down the line,
to see what all that we might find;

We’ll change our minds about the Canyon again,
“It’s only an hour,” will whisper the wind,
and like a curved finger the road leads us along
as the sun smiles down and the wind sings a song,
and we’ll feel like we’re standing on the edge of the world,
we’ll hike and we’ll bike and we’ll raft the Colorado,
and its current will seem to head down the line,
searching, it seems, to see what all it can find;

What time is it, we’ll ask again,
we’ll stay confused of where and when,
the Bonellis will surely know because
they’re the only ones who have a clock,
we’ll see the museums because they’re near,
and in Kingman, the old mine is near,
so we’ll take the tour before heading down the line
to see what else that we can find;

We’ll stop by the road to take pix by the sign,
hard to believe we’ve reached the California line,
never, ever before have we been this far,
driving along any road in this old car,
we’re on the last stretch, just a little further to go,
we will have almost made it, driving coast to coast,
so after some shots, we’ll head on down the line
to see what else we might still find;


Following the sun, we’ll need to pull off to stop,
a man walks down the road, a mirage, maybe not,
near the town where needles rise high from the Earth
in peaks that remind dreamers of all that their worth,
his black suit and tie must be hot in the blaze
as we’ll watch him walk from around the mountain through haze,
like a dream he’ll appear from on down the line
as if walking to see what all he can find;

“What be the trouble,” he’ll ask as he nears,
“don’t usually meet many people near here.
But back in the town, I get to meet quite a few
and hear all sorts of stories of travel and news,
from people who travel on the black iron horse,
stopping to rest and to eat, why, of course,”
a sense of adventure as they travel the line
rolling along to see what all they can find;

“The tire,” we’ll tell him and point, “has gone flat,
and the travel club won’t come out to this place where we’re at.
It’s not on the map, is what they told us, “ we’ll cry,
“as if we somehow we’d traveled back into time.
So, we’re changing it ourselves, with help from the guide,”
and we’ll show him the manual, jack, wrench, and the tire,
and he’ll offer to help, he’s also traveled this line
looking to find all that he might find;

Strange how he’ll never break a sweat as he works
changing the tire, not once will he curse,
and he’ll tell us he walks this road whenever he can
to breathe in the beauty and remember this land,
but he usually stays in town, keeping eyes on the road
for those who still journey along this old road
seeking adventure, heading on down the line
searching to find all that they might find;

He’ll say, “I came across oceans to live out a dream,
and a dream I did make or so it would seem
to those who think money or fame is the goal,
but I learned that success is having peace in the soul.
And here I did find it in the mountains, the plains,
but one need not travel for their peace to gain.
Peace is wherever you are, but still fun to head down the line,
learning from all that you see and you find;”


We’ll offer a ride, but he’ll say, “No, not today,”
he’ll wish us well, then we’ll be on our way,
we’ll turn ‘round to wave once we’re back on the road
but the road will be empty, no, not even a soul
or a haze or a sign of the man dressed in black
who helped us so kindly with his lessons, the flat,
we’ll remember him fondly as we head down the line
and we’ll learn from all that we’ll see and we’ll find;

Is this place open, we’ll wonder aloud,
the sign will say Roy’s, but there’s no one around,
then a man with a hat and a curvy mustache
will walk out from the building, “Fill ‘er up,” he will ask,
we’ll shake the dust from our hats and the dust from our clothes,
say, “Yes, please,” and wipe the dust off our faces, our nose,
in the desert we’ll be as we head down the line,
in search of anything that we might find;

“Don’t get many visitors through here anymore,
so, nice to meet ya, make yourselves at home.
There’s good things to eat and it’s a good place to rest
for people traveling this road, psst, the pie is the best,”
he’ll say with a gentle wink of his eye
as he’ll fill up the tank and we’ll head inside,
stopping a bit as we head down the line
on our way to see what all we can find;

We’ll go inside, but there’s nobody there
but an old friendly waitress with a rose in her hair,
“Pull up a chair and stay for a while,”
she’ll say with a curious grin and a smile,
“and tell us the story about where you’re from,
your travels on this road and how far you have come,”
a nice conversation on our way down the line
looking to find all that we can find;

“We’ve been here for, well, forever its seems,”
she’ll say as if from within a dream,
and the man with the mustache will come back inside,
and we’ll notice their uniforms date back in time,
“This was our dream and, yes, it still is,”
he’ll say as he’ll bring a cup up to his lips,
“working and talking to those who go down the line,
seeing what all there might be to find;”


“Those who have peace, travel for fun,
but those who feel lost, go in search of the sun,
but the sun is living light years away,
impossible to chase it and live for today,”
he’ll say as he smiles with the slightest of grins,
“You can’t catch the sun, so you must look within.
So enjoy your travels as you head down the line
and see what all there might be to find;”

“The crater’s extinct now and the road, so it seems,
but we’ll never leave this place of our dreams,”
the waitress will say as she brings us our plates,
and we’ll notice how the smile never seems to leave her face,
“The real dream,” the man says, “is happiness within,
a feeling of blessedness that cradles and lifts,”
and we’ll hear them whisper on air as we head down the line,
“We’re all just searching for what we can find;”

Onward we’ll travel, on down the road,
talking of how lucky we are back at home,
deserts will change into cities and towns
mountains in the distance, buildings rise from the ground,
and we’ll talk of all that we’ve heard and we’ve seen
as we travel through towns of lights and of dreams
as further we drive, heading on down the line,
still searching for all that we can find;

And then there will we be, Santa Monica Pier,
looking across the water, talking of there to here,
how we’ve traveled so far along this old road
ocean to ocean, the stories we were told,
as the sun sets above us, with the people around,
we’ll know we were never in search of a road or a town,
for a dream is inside, not on down the line,
who knows, in the future, what all we might find;

What time is it, it’s getting late,
and who knows what path we each may take
we’re trying to learn lessons heard from down the line
about the importance of living and the importance of time,
mistakes will be made, some things will be won,
as we move on through life and we travel along,
making our way as we head down the line,
searching within to see what it is we will find;


So, if I had for us a dream,
a wish, a plan, the hopeful gleam,
together we would spend some time,
share some stories of our lives,
the birth in nineteen-twenty-six
was not so much of a road but of a wish
for people to share as they would drive
along the highways of their lives.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Gone but not forgotten…

It sits there,
waiting like a long lost friend,
gently beckoning to go back in time,
a time before the tall wildflowers teased the outer walls
and before the gravel drive became invisible
beneath the grasses,
its eyes seem to brighten in the sun,
reflecting back the images of a time long ago
in fractured mirrors and panes of dirty glass,
and although the timbers and bricks
appear older now,
they still remain a solid sense of strength,
proudly standing,
the front steps creak with quiet enthusiasm
at their visitor,
and the porch echoes the gratitude of the company
that will ease its solitude for a while,
“Hello,” the door whispers as it brushes against the floor,
“Come in,” it requests as panes rattle in the frame
and a long, dark hallway seems to lighten
and smile with delight,
flashes of gold and yellow accenting its panels of brown
and extending welcoming arms,
inviting one to enter beneath the spiders’ tapestries,
each tinted with silver that winks at the visitor,
quiet footsteps walk where others before have tread,
a slow shuffle alternating
with the whispers of the house
as they have their own private conversation,
an opening to the left of the hall leads to a room
filled with objects playfully engaging in a game
of Guess Who as they remain covered with sheets
to disguise their identity,
yet with a quick and equally playful whisk
the sheets, in a move of southern hospitality,
reveal a comfortable location for the visitor
to sit and chat for a while,
“Coffee,” wordlessly asks the table,
“Or, perhaps tea,”
wonders a silver teacup and kettle,
waiting patiently on a silver tray
that sits upon its cherry support,
“Hello and goodbye again,” giggles the breeze,
entering through an open window
and leaving the same way after circling about the room,
checking on its companions,
curious about the visitor
and the reason for the visit,
but then anxious to be on its way,
to whisper the stories to others in other locations,
the air that remains begins to drift about,
and in its arms it carries the aroma of cobbler,
freshly baked and topped with cinnamon,
an aroma followed to an adjoining room where
dust envelopes an ancient table in a loving embrace
beneath an elegant chandelier of gold and crystal
that hangs above like a spotlight
observing the dance of time
and neglect
while a basin sits nearby
dry of any signs of its own life,
white porcelain decorated by rust
and a restless spider exploring his world,
once the shelves held plates of blue and white,
willows,
but now they sit empty,
reaching out their arms, asking for purpose,
and yet comforted by the rays of hope
beaming in through a window
with silent words of encouragement,
“It will be alright,”
“Yes,” the cabinets reply,
“Yes, it will,”
and the walls exhale a stagnant stillness
with the sound of a long sigh
as the reawakening begins,
and the floors inhale new life
as sensation begins to pass through the wires
and word of the visitor spreads throughout,
“Good to see you,”
thinks an oil lamp to itself,
as footsteps pass,
gliding across the planks to a room nearby,
“Stay with us,”
the door moans as it opens in to the room,
the eyes within the walls peer inward,
a book about birds sits on a yellowed settee
to differentiate the cardinals from the wrens
as they peck about the sill with a message not yet decoded,
on a dresser awaits a hand held mirror
glancing toward the eyes of the house,
echoing the afternoon storms rolling in,
“Stay with us,”
an invitation extended by a bed now covered
with violet flowers wrapped in stems of green
on what was once a blanket of snowy white,
“Yes,” the visitor replies in thought alone,
lying upon the familiar mattress
until fading into a misty cloud of dust,
gone but not forgotten,
and home once again.

Merry Christmas, # 16

Merry Christmas…

Shoppers with their bags
are now filling up the stores,
and the chill upon the air
is nipping at the nose
of the old man dressed in red
who is filling up his sleigh
with presents for the world
to be opened Christmas day,
trees light up the avenue,
pretty colors, red and green
and music plays amidst the crowd
to complete the Christmas scene,
and snowmen wave from yards
with their eyes made of coal
while the children do their winter dance,
hoping for more snow,
and I sit by the fireplace
while Christmas cards I write
and remember fondly memories
of our youth, you and I,
of the Christmas times we shared,
of the crazy games we played,
as we’d guess about the packages
‘neath the tree for Christmas day,
and how we’d do the winter dance
and pray for a mighty snow,
and decorate the Christmas tree
and wrap gifts in pretty bows,
they say that life is made of memories,
and I believe it’s true,
for as I do throughout the year,
I sit and think of you.

The Cookie Jar

The Cookie Jar…

Sitting in a corner,
painted gold many years ago,
with large flowers that have since begun to chip and fade
as if losing their petals for the winter season,
is a simple cookie jar.
Decades have passed since the sturdy, ceramic jar
has held the aroma of
chocolate chip or raisin walnut or cinnamon sugar,
yet its value lingers on.
There it sits in the corner,
sitting regally and strong upon a delicate hand-woven doily,
a time capsule to family history
and a monument to cherished memories.
The lid is purposeful,
a round simple design with a handle upon the top,
just the right size for a young hand to grasp when
visiting grandma’s house.
Its belly is large enough to hold a couple dozen,
at least,
although it seldom remained full for very long.
It has no grand artistic design or fancy decorations,
no glossy finish,
no airtight, screw-on or snap-on lid,
and it is made of no lightweight materials.
It’s just a simple, old-fashioned cookie jar
that has stood the test of time,
sitting in the corner,
watching as time has marked children’s birthdays
and wedding anniversaries,
summer holidays and winter snowfalls,
going away parties, and family reunions.
Selflessly, it has sat there,
this simple cookie jar,
helping to ease the pain of scraped knees
or bruised egos,
helping to congratulate a passing grade
or a job well done.
It has moved through the homes of three generations,
it has moved across states and time zones,
it has moved from one corner to another,
this simple cookie jar,
which isn’t really so simple at all,
and, yet, still sits there,
regal and strong,
silently reminding the present of the past,
silently offering its services for the future,
and waiting, waiting.

The Sword

The sword…

A sword of golden flame,
yielded by the strength of the universe,
by the hand of an unseen force
that is not living and yet can never die;
Excalibur bows before its mighty power,
and none have felt its handle save one;
it was born of a thought,
it was born of desire,
and it lives on in service to the world
and to those who ask for its assistance;
with one pass it can swiftly cut the ties
that bind a soul to heartbreak
or grief
or misguided pursuits;
with a swift invisible cut of the air it can
cause the air to feel fresher,
lighter,
easier to breathe;
a sword made of fire
that can never be extinguished,
that is willing to be an ally to us all.

Bridget, the Fairy

Bridget, the Fairy…

Bridget sits upon the edge of a flower,
such a playful little thing,
in her dress of green and blue
and a tiara made of corn silks in her hair;
From her porch, she looks out across the world,
and sees the beauty of all that lives,
and she sets about to keep it beautiful;
Quickly, she glides through the air,
though humans dismiss the blur they
think they see in the corner of their eye,
and she playfully pulls a strand of hair
or gently whisks against an arm to say hello;
Bridget loves laughter and happiness and people,
and she loves her home, the Earth,
and she loves the colors of the flowers and the trees,
and she nudges the humans toward healthy choices
for the planet, the environment, and for themselves;
Bridget greets the newborn children
and says a little prayer for their health;
Bridget whispers into the ear of the ailing
the tonic that will make them well;
and she lightly pinches the hand of those who
mar the land or the water with their litter;
she protects the nests of eggs
when the mother can’t be there;
and she helps the butterflies and the birds learn to fly
and tells them where to find twigs for their homes;
Bridget likes to peer into the water’s mirror
and giggles as a fish swims through her reflection;
and she’ll do all she can to help and protect her friends
and she can never have too many friends,
and to her friends,
she will reveal herself.

Love is the Answer

Love is the answer…

The past is there to teach us,
but have we learned at all,
mistakes often get repeated,
though a wiser voice will call,
through the shadow feel the pulling,
a tugging toward the light,
the option of another choice,
a decision to set it right,
the path is of our choosing,
of this we can be sure,
and the lesson to be learned
is that love is the only cure;

the violence need not be continued,
the devastation can be healed,
the hunger can be ended,
the answer already revealed,
we can bring about equality
and in the future live in peace,
the days of war can be over,
we have the answer that we seek,
the decision is ours to make,
of this we can be sure,
and the lesson to be learned
is that love is the only cure;

can you hear the heartbeat
of the Brotherhood of Man,
of the Earth, and of the Air,
listen closely if you can,
it is your very own you hear
should you listen with your light,
for when you harm another,
it is yourself you smite,
the choice is our own choosing,
of this you can be sure,
and the lesson to be learned
is that love is the only cure;

we all have the peace within,
the light to lead the way,
we only have to listen,
let it guide the choice we make;
the answer will come easy,
for it is already cast,
we’ll be caught up in the flow,
we’ll have finally learned at last,
yet we hold the power of choice,
of this you can be sure,
and the lesson to be learned
is that love is the only cure.

The Light

The light…

Within each being there is a light,
that connects us back to whence we came,
a light that radiates from our deepest core
and can never die but can always grow,
it is the light we followed into this world,
and it is the light that will live on when we leave,
the light trusts not in what we think we know,
it has a greater knowing that guides it
and this knowing will guide each light within each being
back to the original light
to be reunited as one for eternity.

Thank You, #6

Thank you…

As we grow older,
there is much that we learn
from the lessons of the past;
we learn that time is precious,
we learn that life is now,
we learn that happiness is a choice
we make in each moment,
we learn to trust ourselves
and we learn to trust others,
we learn that love is priceless
and that friends are true treasures,
and we learn the importance of
telling those we love how we feel;
You have always been an inspiration
who has taught by example.
Thank you.

Look Forward to the Future

Look forward to the future...

Look forward to the future
worry not of what you leave behind
change must happen in the present
such is the goal of time.

The Water

The Water…

The Mountain stands commanding,
the Earth is a solid force,
the Flower willingly leaves not its humble home in the soil,
The Mighty Oak sways, but remains an unmoving strength,
but the Water flows,
the Water flows;
the Water flows,
always moving,
always exploring,
always eager to find what is just around the bend
or under a bridge
or over a rock;
it winks at the Sun and twinkles as it dances
its way beside a small fishing boat or an enormous barge
and it happily sings its trickling song as it journeys;
it knows no fear of distance or time
or of getting lost along the way,
it travels with no map
and along no prepared route,
remaining open to change, to new paths, new territory to explore;
and though it may become angry at times,
raging at the obstacles mankind has placed in its way,
it quickly regains its composure,
returning to its joyful song, its playful dance;
and the Water flows;
without judgment of the land or boats or mountains it passes,
it recognizes only love in all it sees,
without attachment to what might wait ahead
or be left behind,
the Water flows,
the Water flows,
the Water flows…

The Stillness of a Lake

The stillness of a lake…

The stillness of a lake is deceiving,
for the water always stirs beneath the surface
as if thinking, meditating perhaps,
on some delightful mystery of the universe.

The Last Gift

The Last Gift…

As the ones we love pass over
to the other side of the veil of life
could it be that they present us with
a final gift;
their lives filled with hope, laughter,
tears, and regrets
ending, changing from human form
to something unseen,
and learning that the past cannot
be changed
and regrets can no longer be corrected;
this is their final gift to us,
if we shall receive it;
we see their opportunities
come to an end
and we recognize the same
possibility in ourselves;
we talk of things they left undone,
ideas never sprouted,
plans never made,
wishes never attempted,
and all that can no longer be righted,
and we sense within a haunted knowing
that the favors and the regrets of our own life
remain with us in the next,
but without any means to alter even one;
this is their final gift to us,
a sense of time,
a sense of purpose,
a sense of now,
a new fire in our bellies lit with the
flame of life,
a new inspiration to live while there is time;
for in their dying breath,
they have so generously given us
this last gift, the gift of life;
Do we accept it?

Those Who Have Gone Before

Those who have gone before…

Those who have gone before
have left behind a trail for us to follow,
yet we retain our freedom to create
new excursions.

The Magic Bowl

The magic bowl…

There once lived a magic bowl,
who helped the young at breakfast time,
but how the magic was performed
was never known to I;
the porridge would be eaten,
spoon by spoon, bite by bite,
and when the porridge was nearly gone,
there was a lovely sight;
for in the bottom of the bowl,
each and every time,
a flower magically appeared,
of gold and blue and white;
but perhaps the greatest magic
of that bowl at breakfast time
was helping the young to eat their porridge,
every morn at nine.

Don't Give Up, # 6

Don’t give up…

When you feel as though the flame of creativity
has begun to flicker until it has nearly burned itself out,
look again;
born of passion and kept alive by hope,
the flame of creativity can never lessen, can never die,
and will never leave your heart;
peer deeply into the golden flame,
listen to the whisper of it gently whipping within the wind,
speak to it silently of your intentions,
and watch the flame grow.

If I Help You

If I help you…

If I help you
and you help another
and that other helps another still
then with one single act
we can all help each other,
and know that in doing so
we have actually helped ourselves.

The Gifts That We Are Given

The gifts that we are given…

The gifts that we are given
are the gifts we need to share,
for until we share these gifts we have
do we really know they’re there?
They linger beneath the surface,
they whisper to our souls.
Do we listen to what they say,
their lessons do we know?
Do we fear that we will lose
if a sacrifice we make?
The truth is there is no sacrifice,
the truth is that we gain.

Pretty Little Teacup

Pretty little teacup…

Pretty little teacup,
delicate and blue,
with white flowers that dance about your rim
as if children playing ring-around-the-rosy
around coffee or tea or cocoa,
flavors and treats that you so generously help to deliver.
So tiny your handle,
just large enough for a single finger to wrap around
as it helps you to fulfill your purpose.
Youthful playfulness once drank from you,
pretty little teacup,
while sitting with teddy bears beneath an old oak tree
on summer days.
And, older wisdom once held you in strong, yet wrinkled, hands,
while conversing with lifelong friends.
You have toasted new marriages
and comforted broken hearts,
and sometimes,
pretty little teacup,
you have sat quietly behind the glass,
patiently waiting to be of service.
Oh, the stories you must have heard
and faithfully, loyally, kept to yourself.
Oh, the eras of time and change you have seen.
Yet, here you are,
pretty little teacup,
delicate and blue,
with white flowers that dance about your rim
as if children playing ring-around-the-rosy,
still offering service, comfort, and timelessness.
So, listen closely,
pretty little teacup,
as the steam rises above you
and the liquid swirls within your walls,
and you’ll hear a story to add to your unspoken history.

Mother Moon

Mother Moon…

Mother Moon, Mother Moon,
what are you thinking way up there
as you take your nightly journey across the sky?
You rise every evening
as faithful evermore
and the darkness is made beautiful with your light.
You’re there each night to wish on,
you make hearts flutter with romance
and, yes, you can even rule the tide.
But, Mother Moon, Mother Moon,
you do so much for us.
What do we, Mother Moon, do for you?
Do you think and feel and wonder, as we so often do?
Do you ever tire of your journey ‘round the Sun?
Do you ever wish to change the path and soar beyond the stars?
Do you know where your journey ends before it has begun?
You pay no mind to distance
and you pay no mind to time
and you pay no mind to what you may receive.
So, thank you, Mother Moon,
for all you do for us,
for your selfless service and for your lighted beams.

What Lies Beyond the Stars

What lies beyond the stars…

What lies beyond the stars?
Do I really need to know?
Is that which lies beyond the stars
that which lies beyond the rainbow?
I really need not travel far
to find the answers that I seek.
What lies beyond the stars
is already within me.

From Inspiration to Reality

From Inspiration to Reality…

Inspiration comes in many forms,
traveling into our lives through open windows
and open doors,
delicately flowing along highways and hallways,
joyfully bouncing on the breeze like a feather,
its young life a journey as it searches for a home,
a gentle, open heart in which to grow
and be nurtured
until its metamorphosis
into a dream.

And the dream patiently waits
as time passes,
its energy ebbing and flowing,
strengthening in some hearts,
forgotten in others,
as it waits for the heart to recognize
the open doors and open windows
and travel through them
so the dream can grow into reality.

Merry Christmas #15

Merry Christmas…

Ring the bells of Christmas,
toss pennies in a well,
wish for luck and sing the songs we know so well,
look toward the star,
hope for things to come,
carry a lighted candle and it will lead you home,
follow every brick,
one by one, they’ll lead the way,
leading you home along the path toward Christmas Day,
here we will be waiting,
a star upon the tree,
to shine upon loved ones as we celebrate Christmas Eve,
food upon the table,
gifts with pretty bows,
are waiting here for you as you make your way back home.

The Time To Say Goodbye...

The time to say goodbye...

The time to say goodbye always comes too soon.

Life Is Now

Life is now…

Time does not cease to pass for anyone,
nor does it bow to the gods of obstacles
that we try to put in its path,
hoping, it would seem, to fight the unfightable,
to slow down the progression of time,
to mold it to submit to lesser phenomena;
In a heartbeat,
time is gone,
taking with it our opportunity
to enjoy this present moment
before it, too, is gone.
Life is now.
Life is this moment.

All we ever have is now.
The past has disappeared,
those moments never to return;
Tomorrow is an illusion that never arrives,
always remaining a day away;
Life is now.
Life is this moment.

Do you waste this moment,
this gift of life, of time,
in regrets for earlier moments wasted?
Do you waste this moment,
this gift of life, of time,
worrying about moments yet to come?
Do not waste this moment.
Life is now.
Life is this moment.

Happy Earth Day # 4

Happy Earth Day…

Grow a flower,
plant a tree,
a bit of beauty for you and me
that shall age through time
and in years to come
will be a bit of beauty
for the younger ones.

It Knows

It Knows...

A tree beginning to grow
or a great oak standing tall in a forest
asks not,
“What am I?”
Nor does it peer into the water
shaded beneath its mighty branches
and question if its limbs grow as strong
or as straight as another;
It Knows.

A bird nesting in the comfort and safety
of a crook near the trunk of that tree
worries not about what activities should fill its day
or what nourishment should fill its diet;
It Knows.

A single blade of grass
growing at the water’s edge
toward the radiant Sun
with awe and determination
asks not,
“Can I grow?”
“Should I grow?”
It Knows.

Because unlike the human life
so filled with questions,
the tree and the bird and the grass,
and all of what is called “nature,”
trust in the Source that made them
and have no ego to distract their attention
with questions that hold no truth
in their meaning.
Their answers, like the questions,
are merely illusions that
block the view of truth.

For no tree compares itself to another.
No bird worries of its decisions.
Not a single blade of grass questions its power.

But, the human, too, can experience this
peacefulness, this knowing,
by following the example
gifted to us by nature.
Look away from the ego mind and
trust the Source.
It Knows.

It Knows.

The Sacred Heart

The Sacred Heart...

Time spent together,
Time spent apart,
One knows no difference with a Sacred Heart;
Journey together,
No, never alone,
In a single breath we find ourselves home;
Space an illusion,
Miles disappear,
The Sacred Heart travels without thought to fear;
Love is the answer,
Love is the key,
Keep your heart open and home you will be.

Time

Time...

Time is a measure of how long it takes for the Earth to travel around the sun
and an indication of when the rose blooms will return;
Time is a distance between a fading sun and the new dawn of day
and the dimensions of a rainbow;
Time is a monument, a tribute to life standing tall and
reminding us
that time is a clock,
stating how long you’ve been alive,
able to take chances, able to grow,
and how long we’ve been fortunate enough to know you,
to watch you breathe in the life around you
and give back so much more.