The Road


A great whoosh of the air
she’d been holding inside.
The strong glow up ahead,
a blinding, gold light.

Forward, the way
not the left, not the right.
The past, it’s left behind,
with all of it’s fright.

Breathe in the new scents,
the new tastes, hear the sound
of the woman’s voice clear, and loud,
and no longer bound.

She speaks with great thought, never rash,
always bold.
For other’s will listen,
and hear what has been told.

Keep to your own way
and never lose sight.
Don’t forget the good that you do,
the lives that you touch, the hearts that you light!

For those in your company are well known
to be blessed by your vision, your wisdom,
your comfort,
your soul.


Weakened sunlight through the cloudy dawn
gives minimal light to a long, long night
and breaks into my mind,
a landscape hazy, but showing promise.

A seahorse cloud, a darker grey,
moves gracefully across the bed of
cream  colored fluff that is its ocean
and is viewed by my tired soul through a window.

A gliding, flowing seahorse cloud,
sent for me, special, that morning,
to float my heart and bring
the lost smile back to my tired, pale face.

It slides and moves just like real,
and stays in my vision, a lifting tribute
to possible, wondrous dreams,
not yet even imagined.




Ants and Wedding Dresses

What was that?
early morning waking and
spine still creeping
with crawling ants and a nice policeman
at the thickly padded door.

Waking and wondering at the man
inside her kitchen, doing dishes, who was he?
this blend of old and new,
she’d thought more of old until
that odd door swung open.

A clean house revealed, and
a beautiful red haired daughter
bounding down her stairs, this could
only be new, the trash and filth was behind
the old doors with her old men.

Clean now, but still the ants swarmed,
the policeman helpful as he pointed them out,
turning the south side of her house and fencing
into a river of bodies, compromising her thickly padded
and protecting front door.

Here, I’ll seal it for you, he said,
until you can get someone out here to
rid you of them, and he placed his policeman’s
tape around and across, bracing and barring
that old, odd, spaceship-like door.

She’d woken, shamed at the dirt that no longer existed,
somehow believing the policeman could see it still,
despite her new man helping wash it away, and she
was still mixing up old with new and learning a red haired
daughter was happier now that the door was taped.

Still, she woke confused, with ants still crawling,
who was the man, was he her new?

Woke thinking of an earlier wedding dress conversation,
and his astonishment that she’d never worn one, despite
two marriages, despite two new doors.

She woke wondering if it were time for a third.

And Death Spoke

The big grey building changes the landscape as I look
across the horizon toward the north.
In the sky the clouds appear as a fuzzy
blanket of dark moving toward the west.
Supposedly it rains, for I can see drops
in the puddles, though feel nothing hitting my face.

The air is a chilly soul today, or so it feels to me.
I’m shivery and shaky, and appear the only one affected.
The figures around walk leisurely and seem in no hurry
to escape the elements as I am. But then I always hurry.
The others content themselves with life and enjoy it
while I am always running after it-after something to enjoy.

This flash of self-awareness reveals itself while the wind
blows across the parking lot in front of the big grey building.
While the raindrops are splashing up the puddles, and not landing on
me and the cold air is chilling only me-I have these thoughts-that
maybe Death was right and I should take heed.

And slow the hell down.

I cross to the door, seeking the warmth promised by the yellow
lights. But the feeling that I could have stood in that parking
lot-smack in the middle of it, breathing the fibers of that dark
blanket sky-that I could remain there until dark fell, and not be
harmed by passing cars and wandering people-left me colder
even than that rain I could not feel.

Maybe to me slow means invisible.
If I am not in a hurry, what am I?
Death is not always right.

I turn and run-away from that big grey building where
the drops of rain that I can’t feel bounce in the puddles-away
and through the air’s chilly soul, surrounded by the sky’s fuzzy
dark blanket-I run.

And I am hurry, hurry, hurrying once more-after life,
after something to enjoy and I wonder to myself as I wrap
my arms about me for warmth-I wonder if I find it, will
I be too hurried to notice?

And so I wait for Death to speak again.

And hope I can hear over the pounding of my feet on asphalt-
through the knee-knocking and teeth chattering cold-blanket sky.