Gift

April 12, 2020April 12, 2020

Waking to Life

Being alive, feeling alive is
having been awakened
Being alive, being awake
All feel as having been
resurrected

The sun’s rays shining brightly
as the brisk morning is
late of frost diminishes,
relinquishes, is vanquished
& is gone

So life is new and all signs
of disease and suffering
begin to recede into
the distance
of my being

The future awaits brightly
as a glimmering beacon
admonishing gently
to not fear

for everything right is still here
& will be here in the blinking
of an eye, in the fluttering
of a heart beat new

in all that is a gift we can see
in each breath we take
in all the beauty of nature
if we but take time
to see

This Photo Taken From Public Domain Pictures & Created As Art

May 3, 2017September 2, 2017

Dreaming of Children

A landscape of memory littered
with pieces of dreams
children that once lived
once laughed
oft times schemed

she sees a house abandoned now
ought times with love filled
each & every birth an
auspicious moment still
& each year

she knows she has been gifted
that any tears shed
were merely a bridge
between yesterdays
& tomorrows albeit

as other mothers cry oceans
of salt filled tears
for children that lived once
without fear in loving arms
with kisses, soft still

their auspicious moment shattered
a broken memory like
shards of glass
now buried descending deep
earth’s grief surpassed

whose sorrow cannot rebuild
houses in ashes smoldering
whose dreams
hold ghostly remnants
pale & fading

where a timeless epitaph remains
of young lives interrupted
photos tinged yellow
touched by death
a noxious poison

thinking of this she turns pages
a book of photographs old
& knows dreams
will still be her comfort
will still unfold

that some mother’s dreaming will
become a vile nightmare
an interloper in sun rays
unwanted slumber
empty days

I am a little late to post this on my site. It was first posted in the Bezine last month. You can read more of some wonderfully written poems and other posts at https://thebezine.com/project-type/the-bezine-april-2017-vol-3-issue-7. The photo below was taken from the Morgue File & Digitized by myself.

Dreaming Children

January 25, 2017September 2, 2017

Bitter Salt

The air of life of which I breathe
comes down upon me
as soft green leaves

to beckon me my words my gift
to settle my soul bereft
as bitter salt
doth sift

through each pore each cell
within my being
crying out why
why I see

she was born perfect as
the newest of snow

she was born of my self
born of my soul

but he sought her out one day
came down upon her
has kept her nay

has kept her within each
labored breath
has made of her short life
a life long test

she endures each painful trial
he passes her through
smiling of it all
as flowers do

there is always tomorrow
a new better day
though she knows his eyes
discovers his ways

my words tell me what I should know
she was born perfect
as the purest snow

she was born of my self
born of my soul

though why he chose her
I will never know

File Taken From Morgue File & Digitized by Myself

purest-snow

My oldest daughter was diagnosed at the age of 23yrs with Lupus, an autoimmune disorder for which there is no cure. It took ten years to diagnose and now at the young age of forty she has once again to overcome more new diagnoses of which, all but one, are more than likely due to her Lupus. Lupus is the Latin word for wolf, which was given for a name to this disease, due to some of the ways in which it presents itself when on the skin. I have come to think of this disease as one of predator and one which my daughter has spent a lifetime in battle with. She is strong, positive and always optimistic about each day. One of the angels I always say that walks among us.

December 17, 2016September 2, 2017

More Than A Gift

The gift arrived in my twelfth year
while I was being taught
the accumulation of others’
knowledge in books

during the course of another day
bright sun rays dancing
off concrete and asphalt
dust devils creating havoc
in the schoolyard

the joy on my face evident
upon seeing the Spinet
a large red bow dressing
its’ glossy maple surface
waiting for me
beckoning me

playing the white and black keys
that struck the harp within
a euphoria like no other
healing hidden pain

she had no idea of what time spent
scrimping pennies had done
to raise hopes in a world
changed forever
the year I was ten

the station wagon had lingered
a massive tangled wreck
on the cement driveway
a constant reminder
that a body cannot
always be fixed

I played the Spinet as though
my life depended on it
the music resonating
louder than my heart

the gift arrived in my twelfth year
cradling my hands
as though warm loving arms
helping me to breathe
to lift a wounded spirit
giving space to heal

This has been posted first on Jamie Dede’s site The Bezine at https://thebezine.com/project-type/the-bezine-vol-3-issue-3-december-15-2016. Please do visit and read more posts on this issue’s topic “The Healing Power of The Arts”.

Image Take From Morgue File & Digitized by Myself

peace-of-music

August 10, 2016

WATCHING WITH HOPE

The powers that be say some
something more than say others
free will a gift?
to what cost

the expense of war
the ravages of war
death for following
death for an ideal

The powers that be say some
something more than say others
free will a gift?
to what cost

the rape of women
the death of girls
not a choice
not part of freedom

The powers that be say some
something more than say others
free will a gift?
to what cost

children starving
disease going unchecked
trapped in poverty
knowledge for the few

The powers that be say some
something more than say others
watching with hope
to what cost

This is for Wednesday’s Prompt from Jamie Dedes at https://musingbymoonlight.com
Who really is to blame for all the ills of the world…or is it really something more.

Image Taken From Morgue File & Digitized by Myself

Hope More Than

July 18, 2013July 18, 2013

Sparks to Create & Transform

Google Image

the blacksmith forges
on the anvil
metal striking hot
with the hammer
producing sparks to
create & transform

as so does my spirit
transform my soul
when my muse eases
my gift to create
& the wordsmith
garners words once more

http://dversepoets.com/category/openlinknight/

January 21, 2012January 21, 2012

Freedom’s Muse

She remembers freedom
like a forest trail
following her
beckoning

tree branches tender
caressing
showing her
heart’s desire as
budding leaves
green but
not with envy

her muse following
not as a shadow
but as one
privy to life’s
secrets

wound ’round about
as vines clinging
to tree trunks
laden but with
no regrets

dancing on fallen
leaves
a gift of her
imagination

January 8, 2012January 8, 2012

Small Stone: Captured

The mighty sound of the ocean
may be captured by the conch
shell or perhaps the previous
resident left a gift for the
recipient to listen in wonder

This is my submission for January 8, 2012 Small Stones on Writing Our Way Home at http://writingourwayhome.ning.com

July 31, 2011July 31, 2011

Illumination

The artist in you illuminates life
colors the canvas of whatever kind
chosen with images that swirl from
pen, pencil or brush filled with
passion and creativity a gift no
one can take because it is your own