Tuesday, June 19, 2018

note to self...

my lesson for these last few weeks has been about living.
right now living.
right now giving.
and ultimately, right now thriving.
i find that much of my life has been spent living friday to friday, or with an attitude of " i'll be happy when..."
even in my faith, my youth was spent looking for Jesus rising with the sun, to take us all out of here.
'here' being the crux the crust the must of it all.
writing is a most wonderful thing, because no matter what your circumstances, you can or may, put them into a proper or even improper perspective.
but the gist of it all or the jest if you will, is that you can capture your moments, meditate, think, create, complain, give thanks about your here and your now.
'someday' is not here.
or now.
someday, when i lose weight, someday when we have money, someday when we move over the mountains, someday when we are too old to take care of ourselves and on and on.
like the prayer of brother Francis, essentially, help me Lord, to be here now.
enjoying you Father and glorifying you in my home,
my family,
my town,
 my skin!
sure; sad past, uncertain future.
Let it go. Be here now. With all your heart and soul and mind and strength.
It doesn't come naturally. Adam and Eve proved that.
But fight the good fight with love, joy, peace,patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self control
and do everything with prayer and thanksgiving
because someday, we'll be in heaven

Saturday, June 2, 2018

A new day

how can i express the joy in my heart
and the gratitude of my soul
for the energy and clarity
that comes after the storm
and how could you know this
without the raging darkness
thundering through your bones
relentless in its purpose
cleansing and purifying;
the love of chastisement
shining light on bitter truth
He took me there i know He did
to remind me of His love
an old woman's tears of her youth's sorrows
turn to tears of joy for bright tomorrows

Wednesday, April 6, 2016


home is where the heart is

when time flies like a bananna and  he's become an old fart
in sickness and in health till death do us part

home is where the heart is

come hell or high water and pie in the sky
when hell freezes over when pigs can fly

home is where the heart is

when the glass is half empty the glass is half full
when push comes to shove and you push on the  pull

home is where the heart is

when grass is greener on the other side
 when life is a bitch and then you die
when dreams come true and your head's in the sand
when apples and oranges are a bird in the hand

home is where the heart is

ive never seen anything truer than true than a sky that is clearer and bluer than blue
and beyond that true blue there's a truer true blue
and a pink and an orange and a redness of hue
with gold streets and rubies and agates and pearls
and brighter than sunshine, pure light that unfurls
the banners of joy within us each one
as we see Him in glory our Father's own son

home is where the heart is

Tuesday, February 2, 2016



sew prayers of kindness while you're sewing your corn

sew stitches of blindness to weather all scorn

sew tares of truth into hate and deceit 

sew joy and good courage in fields of defeat

sew with your hands and your feet and your tongue

sew passion and strength and desire when you're young

sew many         sew few 
sew tired           sew you

sew when you're old and forever

grow new

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

a correspondence of beans

a banality of dry white beans
sit quietly in a dusty jar.
an onion arguing with extinction
airs it's affliction in the bin.
a wodge of summer tomatoes solid in the freeze is neighbor to 
a chronicle of ham, still fastened 
to it's homeliness 
of bone.

my pot heats as i pour 
the correspondence of beans, 
ham bone, onion and tomatoes into it's gape.
with a bang of the lid
i walk away.

6 hrs. pass as the interplay between these 
four attitudes 
mix and mingle into one autonomous 
in the meantime i have sifted and stirred and paddled and beat
an episode of flours, egg, milk and honey
into an inclination of 

spooning the lusty gruel into my bowl
my senses receive a donation of joy and
a larceny of languor that gives my tummy

what was old is new!
what was dead is stew!
long live bean soup!
we sing and toot and toot and sing
long live bean soup! 
it's a midwest thing.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

last night (mootz called)

we met when we were 14
or was it 15?
was it at a birthday party
or had i run away from home
we both smoked cigarettes.
we walked out of the light
into the night
talking nonstop.
we sat on a curb under a tree
she told me her story
i told her mine.
we cried.
we were misfits.
our childhoods were over
but we were still children.
we faced the pain of dealing with
the mistakes our parents had made,
the crimes they committed and
the devastation of being victims.
we didn't know then
how long and arduous the journey would be
but for the Grace of God.

she called last night and said my name, then said hers.
i gasped.
we talked for an hour interrupting each other
with too many questions and so much to say.
her voice and laugh were the same as i had remembered
and i missed her like i missed running in the night.
i missed her like rhine wine and steppenwolf.
i missed her like walking down the railroad tracks
45 years slipped away, disappeared, invisible to the eye
but the depths and breadth of the love in my heart for her
were tangible.
it was a night to remember.

Friday, November 21, 2014


i have challenged myself to find the beauty in a day like today.

the hills are invisible, encased in a hoary batting,
nearer trees silhouetted in it's gloomy gauze.
branches blurred and skeletal, shiver in the icy rain.
muddy white snow lingers and pools,
flooding between rows.

the creek swells and surges in solitude;
no crane no owl no frog or thrush
to join it's monochromatic dirge.

but what if i were blind?

o how i'd long to see this day i hear and dread
and hide from.

inside by the fire, dog at my feet, lamps burning
cozy warm
i find gratitude for both the ins and outs of this,
 fine day.


Wednesday, May 21, 2014

top priority

the sky is blue and the sun is out
the garden is calling i see
but the dust and the dirt in the sunshine they flirt
with the obsessive compulsive in me
i take to the puter to ignore my clean suiters
and look at the art others paint
the longing within, much to my deep chagrin
is brought low by the duty i taint
with importance and need  can i ever be freed
from this bondage of vacuum and mop?
when will i write my own chore list at hand
with painting right there on the top!

Friday, March 7, 2014

in loving memory of a maple tree

(writing assignment-memories, tree, love)
 my aunt carol's laugh
was like a muted tenor saxophone,
low notes and high notes
 musically interwoven with
familiar nasal midwestern blares,
hers being the loudest as
the rest of the orchestra,
joined in.
cigarette between red lacquered fingers with glittery rings
and long dyed red hair, up in a dated do,
she'd sip her gin and tonic on ice
with clinks of relief,
as she muttered another one liner or a jab
at her grinning husband-
through a cloud of smoke-
and with another blare of her sax-
 the rest of the orchestra joined in.
stomping clapping and knee slapping
kept the beat and the roll of her wit and ire.
us kids hiding in corners,
silently mimicking,
silently joining,
silently recording,
this harvest gold and avocado green scene of life
dreaming of the day we,
would play our own compositions.
the maple trees stood standing in the cool clean air outside,
along the sidewalk,
ever so slowly pushing up the slabs of ground granite
just for me to roller skate up and over.
skate key on a string round my neck,
cool and steel in my mouth,
the orchestra played on in the hot smoky house
as I now sat on the front steps
tightening the skates upon my red ball jets.
I loved the sound of the steel wheels on the concrete,
drowning out the muffled blares from within.
I knew every crack and ant hill and root and marble pot
along that shady sidewalk
as I coasted back and forth on my forever block.
I thought aunt carol would be forever.
I thought the maple trees would be forever.
I thought the sidewalk would be forever.
but they're all gone now
only existing fondly in these memories of love.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

being 5:45

Like a lot of us, I'm heading toward the '6:00' mark
and wondering how long
into the night I will exist
here on this old world.

Having the benefit of living this long
and facing this hour of my life,
I've been compelled to raise
many self-examining questions.
The most important one being;
'Is my lamp lit and do I have enough oil
to get through the night,
while I wait for the groom to arrive?'

I've had an anxiety in my stomach for a few weeks now,
as I turn back the pages of this little book of mine.
But here's the comfort.
I'm not the author, nor am I the finisher.
It is not my pen or my creation.

There are choices I've made in every chapter, that have brought me sorrow and pain,
but each one of those, because of the author's hand,
has brought me closer to Him,
and to the knowledge of my utter dependence upon His hand.

While some would say that we are the masters of our fate,
I would argue (and draw comfort from) the fact that
I believe
in a magnificent creator, with a plan from start to finish.
He uses our sin and weaknesses to enable us to see
how loving and merciful and holy He truly is.

When we try to be perfect on our own strength, we worship and depend upon our own image.

I am not capable to attain even my own standard, much less the standard which has been set
 before the beginning of time.

I am a sinner.
meaning, I can never attain the mark.
No matter what I do for others, or try to accomplish in my life, it always comes back to me.
My pride, my envy, my jealousies, my insecurities and fears.
BUT when I go to God and say
"I am unable", He replies immediately,
"I am able".

What love! What amazing love!
 and if we do anything without love, His love,
it is like clanging cymbals or sounding brass.
I am nothing.

His love is my life, my light, my strength, my righteousness.
Without it, I am nothing.
But in the beginning, even 'nothing' obeyed God and became something.

The day is winding down, but my hope is that my lamp will be ever filled with the oil of salvation,
His love.
Father in heaven, make it so.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014


o nighty night
my baby bright
may Jesus bless 
your dreams tonight
with His love that fills
the hills with gold
the sky with blue
and the snow with cold
that fills a song
with music sweet
and heaven with
His humble sheep
that fills the trees
with wind and bird
that  fills the heart
with His Holy Word
o nighty night
my baby bright
may Jesus bless
your dreams tonight

Thursday, February 6, 2014

to be

to be
a bird
at home
so high
in snow
to drift
on wing
to fly
and view
the world
so cold
gone white
to sing
in sway
with stars
a flight
the air
so still
yet full
of move
the bird
to be
must live
to love

Monday, January 13, 2014

l i s t e n

refrigerator whispers
as I draw tiny lines on smooth stones
rose thorns scratch at the window
chimes cry, bangling one against the other
wind lows through minute cracks in the pane
I turn off the light above me with a click
and hear the light bulb cool with high pitched chinks
finches converse outside at the feeder
and I swear I can hear the sun warm the grass on the hills

Monday, October 28, 2013

this has been quite a year

new diet
new hair
new body
new teeth
new clothes
new shoes
new glasses
new daughter in law
a daughter in law.
a wedding.

i'm so happy
but i know
i'll cry

so dance me to the moon
& the stars will be my tears
     dance me back again
        to wish them golden years

Saturday, September 14, 2013

life boat

on my journey
I jumped ship,
the world cruise.

now it's just the sky

and sea
and fish
and me

floating on faith
that I didn't make

following a shining star
of mercy

bow set toward
 an endless horizon
of hope.

thy will.
be done.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

pink and blue

pink with sketchy ballerinas
not quite like this but close enough
the wall paper
I remember 2 windows with blinds
and swiss dot Pricilla curtains?
two beds and dressers
and hardwood floors.
I never spent much time in there.
this was my sisters' room.
they fought and whispered and shared
and dreamed and read in their room
together for years.
one was sloppy and one was neat.
they had boundary wars and traded clothes
I had my own room.
blue roses covered the walls that were around the seven windows.
I had to go through my little brothers' room to get in or out of it.
he would sing me to sleep at night sometimes.
whenever I approached the pink room
there were screams from within to GET OUT!
if I tried to borrow clothes, I heard,
you're too fat! you'll stretch them out! go away! Mom!
funny the things we remember.
they are still close today in their fifties.
even though one lives in france.
they have a history together that binds them.
I was told I was almost a twin, but the other sack was empty.
I think I've been lonely ever since.

Saturday, May 4, 2013


the wind is moaning through the crack in the window
the wind wants to push in
it sounds mad.
i'm 2 days away from being half way there.
I wake up in the morning now,
anticipating the battle i'll have with my tongue.
that ornery little bugger pretends like
it has everything to do with my wellbeing.
God gave us a tongue to taste and to give thanks
but mine wants more always wants more.
it's wearing me out
all this discipline.
I paint.
my paint brush is like my tongue.
i'm trying to keep it in the lines.
i'm trying to make it do things I tell it to do.
but it wants to go somewhere else.
never satisfied. always comparing.
i'd rather be painting this, it says.
I wish I could paint that it says.
sometimes I just have to walk away.
I just want to be myself.
and i'm tired of the world telling me I need to be afraid.
afraid to eat
afraid to paint
afraid of muslims
afraid of guns
afraid of religion
afraid of homosexuals
afraid of republicans
afraid of taxes
afraid of each other
the wind moans with me.
it sounds mad,
but actually
it's just the world turning really fast.

Friday, April 26, 2013

s p r i n g

in the pasture behind our house
in the bright light of a full pink moon
coyote sits and barks with authority
barks like a dog with a bass note
coming from his belly
climbing to a soprano note
as it reaches for the stars
and then
as in an aria
the voice in chilling refrain
hits the high notes of a
trilling ululation
like worship in the night
like mourning for the life it's taken
like joy for the grass and dew
like breathing ancient rhythms
like a moment standing still
the cool spring evening air
sweetens the night theater as i fall