Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Warm Westerly



Chinook arch is strong today,
lingers long across the sky.
Southeast to northwest the way
clouds bow and stretch from side to side.

The western wind warms all below.
Changes temps to balmy height,
releases streams of melting snow,
elates the heart and brings delight.

Beware if it should make landfall--
where you stand becomes a fright.
At a hundred clicks or more, the squall
will tumble all within its might.

Fast it’s gone and birds can rest
on the branch tips without fear;
sing their songs and build their nest
as sky returns to blue and clear.



​Photos: from my back deck on this date

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Sometimes


Having a dog roots me.
Sometimes
like feet in gumbo
the suction so strong
if I walk
my foot slides out
of the stuck rubber boot
and lands splat
back in terra muck

Having a dog roots me
Sometimes
like the strength
of hundred year oaks
made patient by the grasp
of ancient acorn
reaching through its leathery shell
for life and the love of dirt

Or like the extendable leash
keeping us connected
Hard to tell who’s walking whom
but the red woven strap
gives and takes
keeps us both secure, entwined
Together

She roots through blankets,
garbage, and my heart.
Sometimes
she blankets my heart
and roots out the garbage.

Having a dog roots me
Sometimes
I circle three times
before sighing to sleep
Letting go of
the leash
the muck
the grasping

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Colon Cancer


I am a passenger in a van
My mother is driving
My mother never drove
Two people are in the backseat
We drive into a building
A deep pool of water
we are sinking
This is my one phobia
trapped submerged
I rehearse how to escape
Wait while
the interior fills with water
I’ve rehearsed this
Don’t panic.
As the car fills I fill my lungs
Try to roll down the window
No power
Reach for a manual handle
In the miracle of dreams
It is there
Roll it down
We all slip out

Except my mother.

On the surface
I refill my lungs
Look down
Still no mother
The van is nose down and sinking
I take the rear bumper
Pull it up like superman
Spin it around
To get to the drivers side
Reach in and pull mom out
To surface and safety
She’s not breathing
I hold her hug her
do the Heimlich
the Heimlich?
We call for help
But she revives
I save her life
Because it’s my dream.






Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Cold Cuts



Ah, bitter January,
sandwiched between
festive December
and loving February,
your cold silence
is brittle
and unbecoming.


Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Goodbye


As the sun disappears, 
temperature drops
and thanks rise 
for a good heater 
and heated seats 

Drive 
thru a frozen fairyland;
ice crystals bloom
from every sprig, 
tuft and tree. 

Fly 
thru flat fog ribbons, 
drifting ten feet above the plain, 
again and again, 
then          gone.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Catch a waterfall in a paper cup


Sunset
hover at the torn edge
of mountain silhouette
explode through the trees
while shadows smoulder above

Fire fingers
stretch across the horizon
stroke luminous colour
on soft underbelly of cloud

Arrows
reach for the east
and me
sans camera

Ah, well, iPhone shall do



Photo: "From the Family Room," personal collection

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Darkness to Light


Only when you emerge into the light can you begin 
to understand the darkness thru which you passed. 

Hold on, follow close 
to the One who is the Light.



Photo credit: personal collection

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Autumn Is


Autumn is heaven's gilded frame on faded summer; 
a vault door opening to winter treasure; 
compensation for all that is not, was not, cannot be.



Photo: Bluerock Wildlands 2010, personal collection

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Thursday, September 28, 2017

In love with Autumn



On this day in 2009:
Autumn blows fierce against
summer’s lingering warmth.
Aspen and willow wave wild,
surrender bare branch bouquets
of lively leaves
to the first dance of fall.

On this day in 2011:
Kick through dry-crisp leaves
sprinkled over still-green grass,
squint into low-rider sun
uncovering fresh-snow mountains.
Hello, deep-breath happy-place.

Today:
peaceful golden glow
of summer's sunset
calm quiet
warm and languid
fade into fall

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Life is Not a Highway


Some might say life is a highway
but I much prefer life lived on neighborhood streets,
holding hands in hospitals, meandering back roads
or mountaintop paths with friends.
A life of honest conversation, laughter and song,
whimsy and character and possibility,
the heritage of farmhouse, harvest, horses, hard work,
corn on the cob, newly dug potatoes, hand cranked ice cream,
perseverance, weather worn, quiet afternoons by the pond,
little girl giggles, tea parties, games of tag, fireflies,
pastels, cinnamon buns, white eyelet curtains ruffling the breeze.



Photo credit: Joyce Rempel, Cranking Ice Cream at Heritage Park