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!

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,

family,

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.

 

meanwhile,

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.

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.

lullaby

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

moan

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.

s p r i n g

12:34am

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

fast

asleep

intermission

if we have the privilege of seeing

life as a play

in a grand theater of the universes;

if we see God as the producer

and we surrender to Him as the director,

the script will be carried out with a purpose and forethought,

with beautiful nuance and character,

ever orchestrated and choreographed,

with all things connecting and moving

as dancing to one beautiful refrain.

His love.


then,

even in death,

our intermission,

we hold our breath,

waiting for the last and final act

with a climax of glory

that will never again see

the curtain fall.

a n t i c i p a t e

lightbulbs
chicken
potatoes
eggs
tomato juice
blueberry juice
yogurt
pistachios
bagels
the boys are  coming
i'm a little nervous
i'm boring
will there be enough food
i've aged a lot in 2 years
joe is so happy
beer

 m o r n i n g  s t a r


i toss and turn from a fitful sleep
and snores coming from the other side of the bed

i lay thinking of dreams and sleep and things i need to do
and haven't done.

things i've said and didn't say and things i should've said
and things i regret i said.
and did.

regret is what causes gnashing of teeth.
anxiety and sorrow and guilt all rolled into one,

whether it be eating a sweet that will make your tummy ache
or something worse like-
an attitude that makes your heart bitter
or worse;
your pathetic apathy that comes into full view in the night, 
like marley's ghost.

i was going to pray today.
i was going to study today.
i was going to call today.
i was going to stop that today.

the anguish, like a laurel wreath, surrounds my mind
my chest, my hands and feet,
tightening with the ever present grip of the days' deceiving pride.

i attempt in this dark smothering solitude,
     between the sounds of the old refrigerator humming
     and the human steamship next to me,
                              
to repent.

a song comes into my mind over and over and over again. . .
is it jumping jack flash?!

i can't take it anymore!
i groan and throw back the covers of safety and warmth
that tangle me,
and i look out into the cold. black. sky.

and  there  you  are.

in all your innocence and purity,
shining with hope
and mercy for
a brand new day-

and another try.

passage

youth's precocious spontaneity

rushes with fearless joy into

adult severity.

rivalries become serious

speculations produce suspicion

skeptical of sincerity

trudging into middleage desperation

facing weariness of effort

 until at last

 we give up to age.

 and there in lies 

 rest

 hope

 humor

 and a quiet grace

 waiting with open arms to comfort the young.

twitch

soft velour couch faces north

direct view of  the

screen door, porch, petunias,

tomato plant, fence, field

forest, mountain, sky

there's a numbness in my jaw

and my pants are too tight.

my shoes are half on as if i'm going to

go

morning chill is still clinging to my arms

while the sun pours golden through the coleus on the sill.

little rainbows dance on the floor

to a scented breeze

moves the prism in the window.

what is that smell?

grass and roses, flox and marigolds

lavender and beebalm

mingling with the chattering of sparrows.

love is a high. love is a blanket.

love is a knife. love is death.

love is light. love is long dark nights

waiting waiting waiting.

what cannot be shaken?

who's who?

i saw a vulture in the field today.
he walked with a limp.
i could hear him thinking
'i'm a loner and i get all this bovine afterbirth for myself'

my friend came over today.
her sister took all her mother's antiques
and kept them for herself.
her sister must walk with a limp.

the Mercy Seat

i real-ized something this morning!

when i pray, i say 'Lord, your will be done" but
without knowing it, i'm trying to come up with an answer for the person i'm praying for.

unintentionally, i try to assess their situation and when i can't come up with an answer,
i 'give it to the Lord.'

meanwhile, back at the ranch,
i'm still judging who i'm praying for!

i am nOt coming in all humility.

i look at their sins and see what they should and shouldn't
be doing
or saying
or how they are living.

i'm not laying my life down.

now, i don't verbalize all of this while i pray.
i've not even been conscious of it,
until this morning.

the Lord lives in me.
He dwells on the mercy seat of my heart.
but do i acknowledge Him there?

 i seem to be able to stay outside the Holy of Holies,
avoiding the fear and trembling and humility,
by leaning on my own understanding and experience.

i grieve, i cry, i beg for mercy for those i love,
but am i dying for them?

'no greater gift , than that we lay our life down for a friend'

can i get myself out of the way long enough to truly
bring them to the feet of Christ in all humility?

can i,
will i ,
do i ,
say "Lord, but for your grace O God, go i ?"

the truth is,
i am nO better off than aNyone.
the LORD is my righteousness,
but how easily i  fall into my own
web of pride and self righteousness and self-deception.

please,
forgive me.

            james 2:13 ~ Mercy Triumphs  Over Judgement !

happy birthday cindy belle

colorful orbs dance along the ceiling

above streams of salty crepe.

wraps and greetings a-glitter

confettii

crystal pond of fruity sweetness

icy fish and flowers swim

cups and chairs and dolls with lacy

undergarments

shiny shoes, curled hair

coloring books and crayons

blowing bubbles and

paper tubes that go

weeeeeeeeee

soft white cake

buttery pink frosting

tiny flame tipped candles

ribbons of smoke disappearing like

the years

my favorite pet

i was raised and lived

in the midwest

as a child

the nights were hot and sticky

my little sisters and i

stayed out late

past the mosquitos

when the cool came into

the backyard

and the lightning bugs would lift

from their underground dens

magically throbbing

yellow glows of love

all through the night air.

with a peanut butter jar we'd run

and jump and catch them

in our pudgy bare feet

we pulled fragrant grass with our little fists

for our new found pets

to make them feel at home

in their  glass houses.

when we caught 4 or 5 or 6 of them

we would sit

on  warm concrete steps

of the stoop

and watch

as they filled the jar with light

and crawled desperately

over the grass

and each other

their wee red heads and

gray striped wings whirring

their little legs trying

to climb the slippery glass

our cold sweaty hands

held over the top

feeling the tickle of their

great attempts to escape

with a piece of granite and a nail

holes would be punched into

the jar's lid

and screwed on tight

for the night

time for bed

in the morning

they were dead

the first time

i cried

but then

 i got used to it.