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.