flora

plants of words are tiny sprouts

often crushed under the boot of

dullness and criticism

but through belief

my pen to paper act of creating

they may bloom

like a cactus flower

under the scorching sun

or a lotus blossom

rooted in watery depths

in a turquoise pond of dreams.

Poem of the Week at New Horizons

July 4-8, 2008

*End of Illusion

I embarked upon a vision quest

in the boldness of  my youth;

I came to you for answers

because I thought you knew the truth;

I based my life on your words,

my reality wasn’t mine but yours,

I believed you without a doubt

I gave more and more.

I’m into love you said but you were no guru

your words didn’t  match your actions,

you weren’t living what was true.

A  recognition dawned

as  you gained more and more control

I’d have to claim my own and separate,

to heal, in order to be whole.

Revenge is not my style you see

you will get just what you gave

without any help from me.

*Nominated for poem of the week at Flowing Quills

Mistress Winter

Winter is without light,

She clutches me with icy fingers,

Her bones are shards, she has no heart

and regards me with the disdain

mastered with such precision.

I feel weak and tired ,defenseless against her.

Must I accept this cruel mistress

and weep my days away?

Rather I will sleep and dream and heal

warmed by the fire of my beloved

until Sister Spring dawns

and breaks the spell.

I will take refuge in my books

the friends that are my passport

to worlds of excitement and passion,

I will admire works of art

and listen to music and poetry

for these are my religion and my soul.

Thank you Winter for your gift,

for without your darkness

I would have no light.

Nominated for Poem of the Week at Golden Quills

Pick of the Week

COURTSHIP

Words used to come so easily;

Now they hide in the shadows

and I tempt them to come out,

I bide my time, wait for the right moment

but that perfect time

has turned days into weeks and months and years

and suddenly I realize my darling muse

is disappearing and I must not let her go

or give up this  task of poetry

this calling, this making sense

of reality not just mine

but the universal truths and lies

because we are one and the same

yet uniquely imperfectly divine

in our humanness

and this sweet courtship

of the muse remains

my sanctuary of purpose.

*awarded pick of the week/Trails of Verse/at New Horizons

*nominated for pick of the week at Flowing Quills

Ordinary Days, As Usual

The world is busy in its ways,

as usual;

Daily life no simple task

in this time of war;

These ordinary days

I find home very best place of all

but tending the hearth

with my children grown and gone

is like sewing without a needle and thread.

Writing these words is like weaving with air;

nothing and everything all at once;

this mingling of heart and mind

this being

this fullness of gratitude,

this meaning

and the world busy in its ways

as usual.