sea dreams

bob boat 3 2016

The breeze, cool and fresh, rises from the cove
spilling across the summer meadow
bringing with it the fragrance
of sweet peas and wild roses.

The morning clouds break opening
to the soon to be sweltering sky-
I watch sunlight sparkle on the placid cove
and dream of the sounds of the ocean.

Even this mornings poem
in my inbox
speaks of the splashing foam and
the sound of crashing waves
white sails in the wind
and salt spray against the skin.

So I dress in the colors of sea and sand,
sparkling gulf stream blue, sail white,
glittering gold, pale seaglass green,
and take my dreams along the Ozark ridge
as I walk the small dog
by the placid waters of the cove
under the soon to be sweltering sky.

Sixteen miles from the Arkansas line

Golden moonlight  Jan 2014

Sixteen miles from the Arkansas line,
Following the roads through hills and hollows
In the Missouri moonshine,
We are riding tonight on our dreams
And the sound of rivers rushing,
Wind rushing,
Thru the thick Ozark night.

The stars dance in their own constellations-
Brightwater and Big Sugar Creek
Spin with the Seven Sisters
And Orion as he makes his tracks
Across the thick starry Ozark night.

Mists rise from the deep hollows
Mixing with melody and woodsmoke
As the miles harmonize
Across spring creeks and ancient stone,
We sing of the thick Ozark night
Under the misty Missouri moonshine.

Sixteen miles more, we are flying low and fast.
Ridge running high and bright,
Down to deep hollows low and dark,
Chasing our dreams across the thick Ozark night
Under the rising Missouri moonshine.

The Choice

The Choice

Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when  our days  became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of  middle years
leaves  satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And  my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.

— This always seems to be a poem people come back to from time to time. And Valentine’s Day would seem to be a good time to re-post.

Altar of Lost Things

Keys that unlock
long left locks and the wooden button
from my winter coat,
motherhood and children,
and one brown sock,
a friendship untended,
luggage loaned,
a father, a home,
an umbrella left on the train,
my grandmother’s brooch,
a favorite book, a tree covered lane.

Growing longer each year,
words and regrets,
lists of things lost,
unrecoverable, irretrievable,
bound vellum sets in
ink stained chains of script
words written between the lines
and around the margins
erased, glued, sewn,
thin and tattered,
so as not to forget.

I leave the long list upon the altar,
and lighting the candle,
the scent of rue and asphodel fill the air.