The red leaves look like balls of fire on the tips of trees. Even in death they are radiant, shining as if they stole the sun. They have come to their end and have decided to exit in full glory. They will hold on until a strong wind comes and force them to take their final bow. The curtain will close in order to change the scene, but will the memories hold? Will the mind be able to rewind back to the time when the air was warm and sweet and this foliage provided comfort? Will the mind remember the red bird when these tips are covered with snow? Or will the fallen leaves be reminiscent of un-swept tears?

Weeping cleanses the soul but pride won't permit them to fall. The soul needs a release from bottled up anguish. The dissatisfaction of not celebrating the freedom it once knew. It's now confounded by laws. Precepts that dictate what is considered deviant and what is permissible.

Some infirmities of the soul are self inflicted wounds, but nevertheless they are just as hard to heal. The inner desires are even harder to ignore. Their intensity increases daily. The tangible presence of the denied is nauseating. Understanding self discipline is acceptable but flaunting the object of obsession is all together different.

When fatigue wins acceptance of the inevitable is not far behind. One could fight but the defeat would be too embarassing and the rejection would take years to recover from.

The air is wet reminiscent of the days she spent in England. She remembers the world being covered in fog and the black dirt looked as if it was from another planet. The days were long and lonely in a place so unfamiliar and so distant from anything she had experienced before. The bungalow was sweet but life was bitter. A way of escape was a daily prayer.

The seer didn't tell of this time and space. Although he alluded to it in a coy sort of way as to give her time to agree to the circumstances before hand. Predestination she has always thought to be hard to comprehend. Acceptance takes time and an inner yielding will.

The sky is no different than the one she viewed from the bungalow's window. There is also a sudden urge to drive on the wrong side of the road. Somehow today it seems right.

Weather

The wind has changed direction. The sun no longer rises in the east.
Ordinary days cease to exist. When lemonade was sweet and there was always cake.
The old ladies smelled like powder and old men wore fedoras.
And the Christmas air was scented with oranges and peppermint.

Do l'il girls still play hopscotch and jacks?
Today I looked in the mirror and wondered where time had gone.
I hurried and put on my jacket so I wouldn't be late.

It's amazing how the heart can make room to love another and at the same time wants to be the only occupant of another. The mind rationalizes but the heart can't comprehend the ideology of the common. A complex entity, it only deals with the exuberant and the elaborate--anything short of that goes flat. Like the souffle that failed after much thoughtful preparation and somehow something came along and knocked the bottom out of your evenings plans. Their eye has caught another form to admire and the familiar smile is just that--too familiar.

The shallow pool of affections shouldn't be vigorously pursued; nevertheless, the act of rejection brings out primal instincts that have been embedded in man since they guarded the precious garden. The need to no longer loose territory automatically activates at the very thought of being erased out of the place where you first came alive.

Center of the creation
Origin of all nations
Girth as the earth
Long as the river Nile
Standing firmly like Baal
Commanding to be worshipped

a word for mom

peace is coming after while

thanks brittney

The moon was only half exposed tonight as if it was afraid to be naked. Adam hid from his creator, ashamed of how his body responded when the blinds were lifted from his eyes. Since then man has only allowed others to see what they are willing to be questioned about.

Vulnerability is not without cost. It's not easy to stand waiting to be embraced or pushed away. Unless you take a chance and see if there's some truth in the myth that the moon follows you around.

Something that makes you want to find a medium on Main Street. One living in some sort of shanty playing with marked cards and old tea leaves. Maybe she can tell you if you've made a dent in his gourd and will you ever taste the sweetness of his loin.

Maybe the moon and the witch are myths, but it doesn't matter to you as long as one of them helps him find his way into your bed. And unklike Adam you won't be ashamed.

Blown Glass

The fanned open colorful skirt tail inviting one in to see the swirling rainbow at the bottom of its bowl. Revealing the beauty of earth, the glory of woman.

the paper tells
what the tongue keeps

the ink spills the secrets
the fibers drink the life

words asleep until awakened
oh, the tales that they tell

A Word in the Wind

Silence is a sound louder than Thunder. It has a pulsating rhythm blocking out the Wind.

Fears have chased me into this cave. Afraid to come out, afraid to seek your face. Once the fires came down from heaven and consumed my sacrifice saturated with tears. Now my lips won't part to call your name.

The red bird stopped coming by to feed my soul. Have you left me? Turned your back in shame. Now I can't find your shadow to hide in. I'll lie by the cave's door and wait to hear a word.

Prince Charming is Not in the Building

Twenty years is a long time to be asleep and I'm not referring to Sleeping Beauty. The ignorantly induced slumber in which you hallucinate of halos hoovering over the tops of people heads. And when you finally wake up they have turned out to be horns.

Older women say, "girl your eyes are coming open". My question to them is, "why didn't you pry them open a long time ago?" There should be a new coalition started. A mission to warn all young women of the evils of believing hopelessly in love. The problem is, is it's a part of the American Dream. The man comes with the two point five children, the house with the flower garden and the two car garage.

Is it fantasy? I don't know. All I know is I missed the boat on the undying love. I missed the call when they called for those looking for a friend, companion and a lover. Seems to me I was in the wrong line.

I'm envious of it when I see it. I imagine it to feel like the sun on a spring morning. There are days that I wonder will it ever come to me. And there are days when I don't believe that it will and I'm tired of wishing.

Praying all of my days since I was old enough to understand the unction to knell. Yes, I still believe in the power of prayer. But I think now I'll change the words that I say. I'll stop looking at what is in my view. I'll just close my eyes and wait for the answer to come to my ear.

the tears waited until your shoulder was there to lean on--my friend.

Sour Apple Martini

The spirits felt good going down. Sweet rebellion!

Preying Words

Conversations throughout the day, sometimes meaningless, sometimes with intent. Intentions to use language to unravel someone like a ball of yarn. To undo the effects of previous words that planted seeds of resilience.

Jealousy or just plain hatred must be the catalyst for such actions. The serial need to destroy and cankerously dissolve another. Preying on the lame, searching them out, sniffing their blood drippings.

Maybe recognizing the scars that still won't heal, and the effects that show up in ignorance--the unlearned. The hue of the skin, the accent placed on words and geographic location are flags assigned to faces. The faces viewed as the sum of the whole and not just a part.
Faces that grimace when they are introduced to hatred. Faces that cover the offended heart. Yet, still serially pursued hunted down by the scent of fear.

Pride is a shield from the intellectually snobbish. From the ones that hide behind their minds. The minds that allowed them to escape the same pitiful hole that the ones they snoot their nose at are still in. They must reside there in order not to be reminded from whence they came.

The door is visible, not open--but no longer locked. Previously un-awaringly existing with a chest full of tomorrows waiting to be spent with a new name attached to another soul filled with new laughter.

The kind that makes the hollow full and the naked clothed. The kind hoped for when tears are locked up refusing to be released for fear a resolution would have to be made.

Or has the resolve already invisibly taken place and now just waits for the manifestation of the final scene?

The orange hazy glow of the sun like a ball bounced into its place descending as the faint moon is called in. It's waiting ready for duty across the sky. The time nestled in between, nameless--as if the earth again stood still.

Reality can be just one dream away or it could seem as though the date on the calendar never changes. Whichever the case you still secretly check the horoscope hoping for a sign. Some prophetic word from a far away galaxy speaking to you. If only you had faith enough to believe in the God sent prophet. One who hadn't sold out to notoriety and fortune. But one who traveled around like a salesman setting up tents like a circus.

The lady on the front row playing the timbrel has an unction to speak, but laws permit her from being able to. The music is loud but the message is clear. Hold it tight like the four leafed clover hunted for in the grass and folded prayfully placed in the book of Psalms on the nightstand.

time for CHANGE

the light's dim time to change the bulb!

Weighed Down

Scales not always kind. Weighing, measuring a woman. Measuring her by her curves that are sometimes in the wrong place. Measuring her against a standard set by God's first creation. Since then man has been flawed. The original can not be duplicated. The secret was lost in the garden. Nevertheless, I am weighed down looking for it.

Rivers of living water bottled.
The glass must be broken.
The odor of your anointing.

Word Games

Words used to subtly slander and critique. Weapons used by snobbish people thinking one too niggardly to know the difference.

Sincerity rides out on words and a sharpen tongue slices thinner than any two edged sword.

Words sounded from the pulpits of men, clothed in theological concepts cloaked underneath their garments, were once taken by me as unquestionable truths. Words sent by God through messengers hired to speak on His behalf. Did they retreat to the mountain like Moses? Were these words inscribed on Holy tables?

I'll seek for myself, truth, truth that will make me free. For words, whispers in my ear upon the clefted rock where He'll pass by me in His Glory.

The moss laced path stained with remnants of melancholy. Trees dressed in ivy line the way leaning each in their own direction. The seasons of time have battered their trunks, but the veins that run up to their spine extend deep.

Carved symbols of love tatooed in the Willow tree act as a memorial. For lovers that abided in this secret place in the shadow of these wings. Shielded from the Eastern sun and the from the Northern wind protected by the Universe.

The hands of the Universe are not always visible they disappear like leaves reappearing over night. Not the old ones that have fallen to the ground , blown away, but a new birth needing to be swaddled. Clothed in the linen threaded with gold.

Underneath the moss a hidden treasure comparable only to that Who was hung on a tree. It takes faith to hunt it down. To secure it in the bottles of the soul.

Cloudy Day

The clouds cover the sky to deny the fullness of light.
The wind habitually stirs the leaves on the tree in the window.
Today time seems unimportant, the clock's moving at an unnoticeable pace.
Inside turmoil is boiling, the tea kettle is about to blow.
Like the bell at the end of a working day.
Letting you know you have had enough.

Happy Birthday!!!

The sun anxiously appeared from his hiding place pulling back the blackened screen sprinkled in glitter to reveal freshly prepared manna.

Daddy

The shadows from the tree can't hide the tole of the years
Still his cataract eyes catches the brightness of the sun
The youth of a boy and the strength of a man

No longer measured by his strong hands and arms
That lifted me from off the ground
But rather numbered by his dignity

In the face of death
Lurking daily to descend
Like a black cloud hovering

His off balanced stand against the darkness
He weeps and cries for mercy
I stand watching him breathe

I rub his sore neck and shoulders
He smiles, his skin's soft, almost fragile
His hair fine like an infant

His voice no longer strong
His roaring laughter faint, but sweet
His steps no longer sound

Selfishly I want him to stay
Forever, never growing old
But he's tired

Tired of the machine
In place of his kidneys
Tired of his tattered body

The mind still works
His body won't obey
The agony of the mutiny

The shade can block the sun
But it can't block disease
That has come to seize him

Daily I must let him go
To the earth from which he came
To the God that gave him breath

Until then I'll sit and watch my daddy
Breathe his last days with dignity
Underneath the shade tree

My New Friend

When they brought her home, I hated her. I held the most prominent position in the Reed house. For years we fought for the attention. Sometimes the battles were physical. Today she's my friend, we have prayed, cried and laughed--we have fought for this friendship.

Happy Birthday to me!!

On the 5th I'll turn 38, time keeps on slipping, but I think I'll stop right here!

A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before. Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone. Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade left by those living there day to day by faith. Faith that could be heard on every corner from the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed. These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind by those who left their mark through garden statues only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons. The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town. Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity. Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.

Coldly coiled, until petted, he bites like a viper. Then his venom slowly renders you submissively deceived.

measuring the wind

from north to south
from east to west

Blowing, Moving

intangible, but touches
invisible, but sees

Moving, Blowing

tasteless, but sweet
boundless, but fills

Blowing, Moving

weightless, but omni
immeasurable, but alpha

Moving, Blowing

from north to south
from east to west

Blowing, Moving

Clandestine Love

Life dividing like Pyramus and Thisbe
Ghosts randomly appearing
Their intangible perceptible presence
Their lingering aroma like incense
From sweet breath, their whispers in night air
But now no promises of an encounter
Just the shadow of you standing
Underneath the mulberry tree

A Word From Mom

Today you said I was beautiful
Words I've never heard before
Until now--when they came from you.

Sometimes getting it together requires spring cleaning. The cob webs had clouded so long until they became apart of the decor. Reality is hardest when realized. After the low blows of rejection, it is time to pick the heart up from off the floor and put it back into place. The hard part is wondering if it will beat the same way again after the wind has been knocked out of it. Hope is inflated, but when disappointed it burst like a balloon at a thirty-eighth birthday party. The maturation process is painful, but necessary if the days of sitting on the porch sipping lemonade are to come.

The Embrace

Past the skin you touched my soul
Awakened slumbered passions,
Unknown cravings
Even now my soul is still searching,
My flesh aches
Waitng for the return of your embrace

The pinnacle of the mountain is the fortieth step
The view is not as amusing as before
The ascension has given strength
Two more miles to the top

The imagination can run wild, untameable like the wind.
No lid strong or wide enough to confind it.
It has life, even more than you can imagine.

Tell me a truth
Even if it looks, sounds, feels, smells and taste like a lie
Tell me a lie, and make me believe it's a truth

the color gray

the printless tracks left in the sand might be a clue.
an indication of an overly exaggerated magic trick.
even the water evaporated from the glass,
it's molecular nature scattered

the volume that no longer works on the dial.
and the picture that has suddenly become distorted.
but not pretty like a water painting,
or even abstract.

like days forgotten with the evening sun.
and the nights that have been slept away,
while waiting for the color to change.

Ain't yo' maid, ain't yo' mammy!
Ain't yo' slave, ain't yo' cook!
Dem days is ovah!

Queens! Not whores or bitches.
Beauty beyond butts, breast and lips.
The soul of the nations.

Stop killing her! Adore her, esteem her.
Stop disgracing her with your words.
Disrespecting her with your images.

Polluted from the blood of her people.
Left in the fields to die.
Her and our un-swaddled future.

She seems lost now.
Who is she?
And who is she trying to be?
The images of her are not true.
The shades, shapes--she's more than the casing.
She once carried the future.
Now, the future painted for her is not so bright.
Her strength appears to be weakened.
Her lover has abandoned her and their young.
The wind once could not break her pace.
The rhythm of her own beat guided her direction.
She must reach back now to impart the spirit of her former self for her tomorrows.

Count Down
by: S. Cone

Tic..........Tic........
A blink faster than the speed of light
For sometimes it seems like
I can't even tie my shoe
No time to breathe
Or even to see if the sky is still blue.

So, I stop....
To think things through,
But I still don't have a clue
What am I to do?

Time has run out!

What is One to Do?

by: S. Cone (my son)

Crazy.........Wild.........Out of control

As it breathes endlessly, what is one to do?

Enlightening us....we....I......

Trying to find the way, black mist eludes us.

For we have no life, but yet we stand here.

How?

The time still ticks on .....

For what is one to do.....

Dusk is soon approaching. The evening sun not as hopeful as the morning dew. There is a calmness, stillness on the earth. The crimson sky stained with the events of the day. The sun looking as if it's turning it's back on the world. Digressing momentarily to another space and returning with a new perspective. Time's illusional and deceitful. Un-guardable, the night season emerges. The moon itself has a seductive quality. It's hard to see for the unknown, but the intensity is swollen. The summer's night air is tepid and moist, sweet to the lips, a reprieve from the bitterness of winter. The days won't cease moving in one direction, it forces action--to taste this moment. Submerging in today, covered with enough love to satisfy, enough strength to hold, enough joy to be full and enough courage to wait--until tomorrow.

Treasure

someone to love you

the way you desire to be loved

loving them the way

they desire to be loved

hidden, until you

reach to find it

Hammy Down Love

Hammy down shoes
Hammy down clothes
Hammy down dolls, a
Hammy down bike, even a
Hammy down bed

Not the oldest
Not the baby
Not even in the middle
Not the only boy
Not the only girl
Not the tallest
Not the fairest
Not the cutest
Not the brightest

Hammy down time
Hammy down space
Hammy down love

I'll buy my own,
New shoes
New clothes
New toys
New cars

I'll adorn,
My short legs
My small feet
My brown skin and
My mind

Born out of season
I'll make my own space in time
Search for my own love

Words, faithful
Cleft for me
Words, tapestry
Cover me
Words, symbolic
Shield me
Words, unchanging
Speak to me
Words
A refuge
Words
Strength

Miles of terrain stand between today and tomorrow.
The internal compass is broken.
Soulish pride won't permit an enquiry
Of the Urim and Thummim.

The soles of the feet ache from previous conquest.
The body's tattered, worn from the load of the sun.
Although the clouds appear supernatural
There is no shadow in sight.

There is a breeze stirring.
Enough to acknowledge the Spirit's presence.
But nothing to testify about.

Hush! Listen for
A going in the top of the mulberry trees.

uncovered exposed

hidden exploited protected

NAKED CLOTHED bare

cold WARM FRIGHTENED

BOLD lonely comforted

broken WHOLE afraid

FEARLESS HUNGRY satisfied

Negative thoughts flood invading the mind working consistently building a kingdom out of the fibers that bind the psyche. They work meticulously like wasp. Their lines fuse together not to divulge their origin. The damage is unnoticeable, hidden, until it visibly spews out on the breath. Dis-confirmation creeps in at dark through the back door and in the morning displays the prey caught in the intricate net of deceit. Ignoring the devourers trap is costly. The zombied look in the eyes and dribbling lips mark the level of deterioration. Then comes the hysteria followed by the hallucinations told on stammering lips.

Masquerade Ball

A carnival intended for the fortunate. All other attendees merely spectators or servants. The lady in the feathered hat makes a grand entrance. Pretending to desire to be left unnoticed, please!, that hat could stand on its own. The orchestra plays familiar tunes, as with all of these events it's about making the privileged comfortable. The choice of costume speaks a lot about a person. The inner self has a way of always slipping through the cracks. Tonight is her night to shine. To come behind the shadows and live like the little girl playing dress up in her mother's clothes, finding the old costume jewelry in the attic and the boa in the trunk. Until the clock strikes twelve and her carriage turns back into a pumpkin, but not before she meets her Prince Charming. And in the morning light after they have fallen in love with the evenings mask they discover that they are only truly exposed when covered.

New Sky

New Sky

Today the clouds are rolling quickly
As if they are in a hurry
Maybe they have a place in another sky
Appointed to cover another sun
If I could leap and grab hold of one
Maybe they would take me too

Time has a way of taking care of things, even desires. The body must exhaust itself and then the soul gives up, unwillingly, but nevertheless accepts defeat. She considers herself cured. She lectures herself like a Sunday school teacher. She makes herself busy during the day and at night she waits until she is utterly without strength hoping she will be too tired to dream. Trying to control a mind that has run a way like a highjacked train is almost impossible. She must beat it! The soul is a different story it's faculties run deep. It must be convinced it's behavior is foolish in order for pride to take control. And of course the flesh will become humbled from denial.

According to the experts dreams are the creation of our subconscious. Whenever this body of flesh rest, the mind continues to work. If this is true, then the mind, a faculty of the soul, stores and records all of life's events and the emotions that come along with them. It is in the sleep that they are revisited and put on display like the unlocked trunks from the attic spread out on the front lawn for a yard sale. The soul is trying to rid itself, but sometimes it's hard for the mind to let go of it's memorabilia.

Trumpet Vine

Life can travel in all directions intertwining the past with the present. Things happen in seasons. There's a time to bloom and a time to be pruned. No one likes the pruning stage. Standing there butchered like a chicken with a bad haircut for all to see and mock as if their time isn 't coming. Judgement is not without consequences. Afterwhile the vine overtakes the ground and the picket fence; yet without any evidence of flowering. Then the hummingbirds come to blow the sounds of nectar.

Child's Play

Run, skip, play
Leap, jump, fly
Live, love, laugh
Wish, hope, dream

Child's play

Clown Tears

I laughed until I cried

It wasn't as if somebody died

Just my heart broke into

Didn't know what else to do

I smiled and walked away

Couldn't have been love anyway

Secretly I would like to try

Maybe it's not for me, why?

Merry-go Round

Round and round

Days passing by

Quick, stop can I exit here?

Too fast--sometimes too slow

The merry-go round goes round and round

Two Opinions

The see saw goes up and down
Up, you look down at the world
Down, the world's looking up at you

Down, you can touch the clouds
Up, they are still just a view
The see saw goes up and down

Tired Eyes

My mind & body's tired

They have yielded to getting older

I can't say they didn't warn me
I just didn't consent

Photography by: L. Reynolds - Pfotogenic.blogspot.com

“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained:”

Jehovah Shammah

Still waters underneath the streaked crimson sky
Stained as if the sun wept because it had to leave
The moon will soon take its place
A black quilt of stars will be the earth’s cover
The ripples a reminder of your voice trembling upon the waters
The water mirrors the splendor of the heavens
The wind whispers softly echoing the accounts
The leaves whistling your praise
The mountains stand watch over the valley lows
The earth’s floor groans underneath the stillness
Man and nature in your presence—waiting

Mara

A time is coming when men will weep openly in the streets. Houses will no longer be able to shelter from the storms. The earth’s floor is shaking—the ground is no longer stable--swallowed the house of Korah whole. Once the moon refused to shine on an earth absent of grace--brackish waters troubled all around, like those of Mara. Come make the bitter waters sweet!

Body, Soul & Spirit

Run Freely
Against the Wind
Rise

Leap Up
Ungravitated
Rise

Laugh Loudly
Smile Within
Rise

Weep Bitterly
On your Knees
Rise

Repent Openly
Plead for Mercy
Rise

Listen Quietly
Ever Learning
Rise

Live Fearlessly
No Regrets
Rise

Love Genuinely
A Pure Heart
Rise

Fly Away
In the Morning
Rise

Die Gently
Breathe Sweetly
Rise

Manna

The sun seems hotter
The days shorter
The night season longer
But joy comes on the morning dew--Manna

Slave Pens—The Houses that Hatred Built

I tried to brace myself as I entered into the wooden oversized coffin that held at any given time seventy-five devalued souls. But I couldn’t prevent the tears; I couldn’t deny the voices that still screamed from those walls. Whose feet had touched those cold floors, whose sweat and tears had stained those benches? I sat there and I wept--I wept for their souls long since gone. I wept for myself for sometimes I’m not mindful. I mourned those who had been stripped from their country to die daily in a strange land only to have no final resting place, no sacred burial ground.

Haunted, their ghosts still roam. I heard the cries of mothers for their children. I saw men crowded laying on the beams above and across from them the name of the demonic soul who had enslaved them there, Anderson. I wanted to hate him! And I wanted to hate my white brother whom I love. Somehow sitting in that house that was built from hatred love still reigned in mine. I believe it came from the strength of those souls who left their broken hearts on the floor of this slave pen.

Soul for Sale--Slave Auction

Lonely
Cold
Chained
Confused
Captured

Beaten
Devalued
Dehumanized
Exploited
Captured

Disgraced
Disrespected
Degraded
Used
Captured

Auctioned
Sold
Bought
Marked
Captured

Enslaved

African Beauty Queen

Beautiful, but there’s more to see—a hidden treasure
Apart of me I hope to be

You’re a mystery—not fully uncovered
Even though you stand naked for all to admire

Your breast so full—nurturer of the nations
Bold, proud and glorious

You know who you are—where you belong
Still I stumble—praying not to fall
Fall prey to what others say I should be

Reaching for who you are
Run, I hear you say in my ear

Run like the antelope,
Stand proud like the giraffe,

Run wild like the zebra
Prance like the lioness
Run until you own the horizon

Reflections & Shadows

Sometimes the image is distorted. But the looking glass doesn't lie. Although the story it tells--a half truth-- is missing the inner theme the books covering is all that it can reflect. You would have to read between the lines and explore beyond the type and cover in order to know what took place before and after.

The shadows come to protect--some say hide--but when you need one it can be kind. A protective shield from whoever is trying to figure out why page 42 has been highlighted. What transpired is only for those who shared that moment in time. It’s like asking someone about their most private thoughts, the ones they can't wait to go to sleep at night to re-visit alone. The chapters in which they can make fiction reality and reality fiction.

You would have to look in the mirror and search far behind the eyes to uncover the whole story--it’s in the reflection protected behind the shadows covering. Captured momentarily--once removed, it’s forgotten, but the tale has been recorded.

Dusk

The day ends as quietly as it began
The nights covering hiding the earth’s secrets
The sun takes his rest
As the moon prepares to take his place

Stillness silence the calamities of the day
There’s a settling of the mind
Peacefulness as the stars play in space

The clouds like small children called in from a day of play
Is this there end or will they have a time to shine tomorrow?
Maybe in another sky

**************************************************

A place dared to be explored
One seemingly bottomless, endless--the way out a mystery
Not a maze—an un-navigated wilderness

Curiosity and desire draws to this place without an exodus
The aroma of ecstasy and the allure of passion
And temptation sweet like the night air--arouse the senses
Surrendering would be a certain lively death

Lost on the path of emotions
So tangibly real—living in a dream
Escaping to hide within the cleft
A world unknown to the common
Where the stars dance

**************************************************
There’s warmth in the air in spite of what’s going on in the visible view. The reality lies in the invisible realm. Tent dwellers—only passing through—but living as if this is the final show. All working towards that grand finale. Sometimes we play the main character. Sometimes we play the supporting cast. If Shakespeare is right—if life is just a stage there must be more after the final curtain call. Until then, take a bow and wait for the applause.

****************************************************

This day is ending--time soon forgotten only the faces seen in passing play on the minds screen. The evening sun will soon be sinking –sinking into its hiding place for a moments rest. Anxiety rolls in as the clouds roll away. No more time for play--only eternity is infinite and sure. The mood’s changing you can feel it in the wind. Time to set another stage the atmosphere must follow the course. Trying to hold the day’s moments is like trying to keep lighting bugs alive in a mason jar on a summer’s night.

The memories keep re-arranging finding there hierarchy among the days and times of forgotten scenes. Lessons as subliminal as background music constantly attempting to lead in a certain direction. We inevitably miss the cue until the crescendo is so obtrusively loud and we no longer can ignore the cymbals banging in the background. As the sun dial acts as the gauge even Kali’s dance can not arouse and cause it to stand erect and still.

Behind Unopened Doors

No need to check the lunch box for the remnants of the crusted tuna fish sandwich or the couch cushions for the expired bag of M & M’s. Today’s a new day—full of possibilities. Maybe the mailman will come early or an old friend will stop by to reminisce about old times. Or just maybe you’ll stumble upon the future and discover why you’re here. Predestination is hard to appreciate.

The unfinished projects in the basement are a constant reminder of your incurable habit of procrastinating. If you complete them, then what is left to contemplate? If left to fend for themselves the possibility of another tomorrow opens.

Knock--or continue in the cystoids puddle of ponder.

In the Hazy Rain

The rain pours unceasingly as if it is trying to rid the earth of a bloody scene. The ground’s soil’s thirsty, open mouthed it welcomes the moisture like a suckling being nourished. The hazy streamline water is visible only when it makes connection with the skin, while puddles render hypnotizing melodies creating a foggy envelope and sealing you into another element and time.

The rain seductively chilling induces the spontaneous search for comfort. Comfort in the natural and proverbial spaces where Inanna style overtures won’t be rejected because all perspective suddenly is distorted. They are succumbed to, but later forgotten, as the hypnotic submissive potion wanes.

Fill the water pots and pour over the cracked places within--after the rain the fragrance comes--the odor of cleansing.

Passing Milieus

Passengers shuffling through the lines of the train terminal like people who saunter in and out of one another lives. Some we take time to meet and some we ignore as if they were invisible.

The expectation of the rides scenery flashing by—places appearing as if non-existent until our eyes view them. It is as though they were invented at that exact moment. The images leaving a relief pattern on the mind stored away only to be recalled when the memory begins to fail.

Who has seen these same milieus before?-- and undoubtedly they saw the pictorial differently. It’s hard to believe that these images stay untouched and intact after you’re gone.

Every once and awhile you must stop--unload and refresh. The people’s faces look like puzzles or walking episodes. Each person appointed to be in the same place at the same time.

Strangers until we collide together seemingly with no control of our own. It is when one tries to orchestrate these meetings that the design is ruined. We spend our adult lives under the assumption that we are living according to our own will. Oh, what fools we are.

Who has known the mind of God and who has been His council? He is the Designer (as one of my friends so eloquently wrote); our lives are His intricate design.

Somehow the fellow unknown passengers on the train have a part in the finished product. Unexplainable scenes from the past that won’t erase. Some so ugly you question the judgment of the Designer—what principles and elements are rendered.

If expunged will they still be true, yes, why, you ask; because they are etched into the landscape.

Bruised Wings

Discovering that the love that you have is no longer kind is a hurtful truth. Admittance is the door to a resolution. But who wants to admit that they are no longer loved and that they no longer are in love. That the existence of a union is merely habitual at best and worse (and more honestly) cowardly.

You shall know truth and truth shall make you free. Then what? Liberation??

Freedom must birth courage. Someone said it has teeth. Without courage to act upon what will set us free makes us like a trapped bird. Having wings but without the ability to fly we are left with just the unction to flap them and to hit them insanely on the invisible bars that imprison. And the dung that we leave behind on old newspaper that speaks of events in far away exotic places—like the Mediterranean perhaps, are all taking place while we dine insidiously on bird seed.

Within the Shell

Occupying space like an oyster in a shell
The exquisiteness held within, hidden--it must be extracted
The facets so dimensionally deep, developed one layer at a time
It would take a lifetime of excavating to uncover its sincerity
Priceless it has no measure until depravity creeps in
Pirating the shell of its innermost value
Disposing of it after it has robbed it of its chastity
Treasures within sought after for admiration or mere possession
The rarest stone requires a trained eye to see past its façade
Until then it’s locked inside its shell lying on the ocean’s floor--waiting

Me, Myself & I

Who I am is not all who I want to be
Who I want to be a part of me dare not try to be
Who I should be I search for the courage to be
Who I used to be wouldn’t recognize who I’ve come to be
Who I shall become I can’t wait to be

If I Had Wings

When warmth seems to be absent from the earth
And my mouth dare not utter what my heart feels

The cues ambiguous as an unknown language,
Didn’t get a burning bush

The soul records the moments, the flesh marks the scars
While the inner self struggles to forgive

Anointed to be someone greater
Images I see when permitted
I must admit I know of her
How to become her I know not

The adversary is the father of lies
Believe him and fail
But sometimes the arrows come from a friend

Oh, If I had wings!

Awake to Promises

Time’s moving quickly
Won’t stand still now
The evening sun is sinking fast

At a different place
Everything seems to have changed

Dawn chases away night
The terrors have dissipated
The new sun offers promise

At a different place
Everything seems to have changed

Each hour brings its own circumstances
May pass through the valley of Baca
Don’t worry about the sun dial
Dwell in the secret place

At a different place
Everything seems to have changed
But morning will be gracious again—awake to the promise

Calliope --the 'beautiful of speech' Chief of the muses and muse of epic or heroic poetry


Mused

Living in the days of perilous times. Looking out at the world for an answer only to find the world looking back. Wishing for the visual aid of a child’s eyes. Eyes full of foolish anticipation that the dim eyed now have become oblivious to. Beaten down until the elliptical feeling is no longer tangible.

Once reminiscent of little boys with visions of flying and little girls that climbed mountains in their sleep. Every spectra of color flashing with each screen rendering a surprise edition. It must be that a child is lower to the earth so it’s easier for them to look up and see the sky’s view.

There is nothing from the past holding back--haunting at night. Nothing preventing a time for dreams to play out and provide a Muse. Muses that in the morning light manifest themselves taking shape and form becoming flesh to live among us.

I haven’t lived in this town long, but long enough to truly miss the one I left. The friends I left behind—familiar places and friendlier faces. The boss that was more like a friend, my co-workers more like sisters and the town folk that waved at the stop light and chatted at the Wal-Mart. I can’t forget the patients who thought I was special and that put a smile on my face. Yes, I miss Oklahoma!

Simple Times--Altus

A time and place when everything seemed simple
Places to go fewI once lived in a place
Where time seemed to stand still---everyday a parade
Everyone seemed to know your name
Took the time to ask about you
Bored when I lived there
Couldn’t wait to leave
Now I miss it—long for those slow days
To see a familiar face
Craving human contact
Nostalgic it now seems
A place so small caused me to grow
Named for its high altitude
Gave me memories that reach so deep
The lessons learned I hold tight
Friends I write notes of well wishes
Will I ever have another time like this?
Can’t tell—but this I do know
It felt good to live in a simple time in a simple place

Fly Away Like the Butterfly

Healed by the wounds from His side. A child jubilant in the spring, make me light so I can fly away like the butterfly. A lifetime believing in parables wanting faith in what they said. From what place did this anguish appear? Exchange it now for unpolluted mercy--then will my soul exhale. Soon I will be content--let it overflow. Euphoria surpassing natural comprehension. Almost shaken from grace--drifting into the mercury deep. The night knew no boundaries. Humbled to my knees, surrendering prostrate. Chasing the terrors away the morning tears dress the earth’s covering. The ambiance sweetened with nectar. The red bird comes again to sing—must be a sign.

My Portion

I came to the table
My soul was hungry
Hollowed like a drum
Needing to be fed

I came to the table
My soul was thirsty
Parched like the ground
Needing to be watered

The server asked
What would you like?
I answered--rest in my mind
Lightness in my heart
Acceptance--even when I am wrong

He began to pour out my portion
And fed me ‘til I wanted no more

Willow

Long limbs draped down low
Let me lie down underneath you
Enjoy a cool evening’s breeze
Down on the grassy earth beneath you in the shade
Listen to you chime as the wind whips through
Making music from your bodies leaves and
Rhythm from the heart of your trunk
A secret place where I can escape within your shadows
Then slip into a deep aromatic slumber.

I hesitated to post this next poem because for fear it sounded to "sentimentalish", but I think about my brother all of the time.

For my major I am forced to stretch out and learn how to do things I thought were beyond me. Mainly I am speaking of drawing. The drawing element in this field of study is extensive; however, my abilities are not. So, I think about William a lot, and I ask for guidance and direction. He was very talented and mostly self taught. Sometimes I can sense him when I am working and stuck or frustrated and sometimes when I have success. William, I miss you! I hope you are proud, your sis Pam.


My Brother

Did I tell you?
My brother William died
Did you read his obituary?
They had a picture of him in there too

A picture he took before alcohol claimed his body
His eyes were big and bright
His hair curly

The telephone rang with the news
Williams is on life support what shall we do?
I calmly speak, oh momma I’m sorry to hear
Give it forty-eight hours
Let’s wait and see
Let’s pray seek the Father
He’ll tell us what to do

Forty-eight hours pass
He passed away almost to the minute
Tears I can’t find- no not right away
But I can sense his presence coming into the room
I say, William I know you’re gone, for now, let’s all get some sleep

The next morning I rise still no tears
My heart is full of worry
Worry for my mom and dad

As I hurry to pack my clothes
In the suitcase I find the tears
Tears to help me grieve
They come with a wail
And then a holler

Yes, I cried that afternoon
William’s gone I said
I can’t believe it’s true
I tell him I’m mad at him
He left us here alone

He was so young
In the prime of his life
His talents—gifts form God
They all died too

See William could draw, cook and think
He knew things that wondered around in his head
He didn’t care about houses and cars
Just give him a can of beer—maybe his only friend

The law he had little regard—he broke a time or two
He gambled and ran scams
A con man he was indeed
Jailed so many times we all lost count
He would talk his way through

He’s dead—the nurse she told me
When I called on the phone
It’s hard to believe
He almost died at least a dozen times before
But this time it’s true—my brother is gone

The life he lived
No, I didn’t agree
I wanted him to be normal
If anyone knows what that means
I would fuss and preach
He would shrug and try to prove his point

Yes William died—I planned his funeral
A pretty black and white suit
One like from his picture
A white casket dressed his lifeless body

They sang songs and read scriptures
We all said words
His art work I put on display
More than just a drunk
I wanted everyone to know

Yes, William is dead I say as they lowered
Him into the ground
Dead is dead—I began to realize
(Maybe that’s why I started living)

He was just about to make it
His dreams about to unfold
He lost his sight—blind all of a sudden
Maybe that is what really killed him
Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol like we all did think

All he had left was to sketch and to draw
What’s the use of living?
If I can’t do what I love
His talents they were many
Poems too he did pen
Are they dead and buried?

No, I don’t think
Too many nieces and nephews to live them through
Science, math and art--He could even fix a car too.

My brother died
My father hollered
My mother prayed
I wrote a poem he gave me early one morning

He came to see me every night for a week
At first I was afraid
But he wouldn’t leave
Now I look for him
He comes from time to time
I’ll say hello and ask him a question
Then he’ll depart
I miss my brother
The one I told you that died