Friday, September 29, 2017

do you see me

When we kiss
My heart explodes
Do you see me

When you smile
I smile
 Do you see me

When you weep
I hold you close
Do you feel me

In anger
We part
Do you miss me

When I don’t call
Do you
Wonder why

Do you think of me at all
The way I think of you
Or see me

Do you see me
Do you see me
At all

Thursday, September 28, 2017

with these wings

With these wings embrace
Look upon the fallen
Hold close to breast
Giving due grace

With these tears weep
Mourn this loss
Soothe the wounded
Let the petty sleep

With this voice
Fight for her
Rally her strength
Be her only choice

With this heart soar
See her truth
Free her soul
Silent no more

Tuesday, September 26, 2017


When I look at you
See your smile
Hear your laugh

I see beyond your charm
Tally your faults
Wish for change

You try and try
And yet you fail
Still I pick you

We start again
Wanting more
Empty promises

Hidden tears
Excuses tired
Do I move on?

Kiss me
Hold me
Until I forget

I am sorry
I am sorry
It is much too late

Monday, September 25, 2017

feather of heart

This is all I have
What you see
I am not her
She's not me

On bended knee
I pray
If only
I wonder whether
You see me today

Taking a chance
Wanting to be
Somewhat happy
Somewhat free

On bended knee
I pray
If only
I wonder whether
You see me today

Hold her tight
She slips away
Into your past
Ghost she will stay

On bended knee
I pray
If only
I wonder whether
You see me today

Sunday, September 24, 2017


Let the weary rest
Hear her humbled cry
Cherish her forlorn heart
Can you hear her sigh?

Touch her tender soul
Upon a dampened cheek
Who is this girl?
The mighty versus weak

Climb atop a mountain
Swell the darkness nigh
Awake the morning glory
To the victor goes I


As I lay
Your heart beats
Strong beneath
My fingers
With every breath
I ache
I feel your smile
Upon my cheek
Gentle you lay
In dreams
We slumber
In silence
We speak
Souls entwined
Our lips meet

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Going Home

At my very core I am a story teller. Tiny bits of my life gathered splayed vividly wondrously in great detail retelling the important moments of my childhood.  A simple grain of truth sparking an entire recollection bringing to life the colors and smells of my young life. Home loosely defined for this girl given we had moved several times was one place in particular.  Our first home in a small Presbyterian rural community I was in awe of the grand new home development nestled snugly in an otherwise aging neighborhood.

Slate gray rock broken and scattered in the drive and freshly laid sod on the front and back lawns immense and seemingly endless to this young city girl.  Flying across the tepid roadway the wind beneath my bottom as I raised to my full stance soaring atop my shiny blue bicycle.  This was home.

Our cousins moved in next door and Dad had built a wooden arced bridge spanning the gully from our new house to my cousins that lived next door.  Chocolate brown in color it was home plate for many of our childhood outdoor adventures.  Our back lot was lined entirely in pine trees lending to the homestead label of ‘Lonesome Pine’ that would adorn any outgoing correspondence.

A few blocks every morning my sisters and I would meander our way to school.  A century old home centered in the middle of town surrounded by a vast field to the right.  The school was a massive three storey masterpiece with high windows and beautiful gingerbread trim.  A big cement stoop served as the main entranceway with two double oak doors guarding access.  Smallish rooms with front galleys lined with wooden benches and coat hooks for the milling students to deposit their belongings. Each morning at the main central landing we would gather sitting alongside each other to say the Lord’s Prayer and sing O’ Canada.

And every Friday after school I headed the opposite direction from home a few miles from the school to the local medical center for my allergy needle. My sisters ensconced safely at home while I walked briskly home to beat the nightfall.  I remember Peggy my dad’s mother living with us smoking fiendishly and whisking us off to Sunday school each weekend.  Tobogganing in the fresh winter snow high atop Zach’s hill narrowly escaping the cow patch at the foothold.  Stuffing our vinyl green furry winter jackets into the hedge at the old woman’s house just around the corner from school saving ourselves from certain ridicule given sleeveless puffy vests were all the rage.

This fresh onslaught of memories so endearing as I reminisce my youth. Feeling melancholic I journeyed to this place wanting I suppose to feel once more the magic and exuberance of yesterday. To know again the giddy freedom from burden and responsibility. The satisfaction and comfort in this place whose mainstay was my only sense of permanence in an otherwise nomadic life. The heart of my childhood.

It was a beautiful sunny late September day. I was anxious with anticipation wanting my children to see what I had lovingly remembered and portrayed in my stories.  I wanted this place to be just as I left it, unmarred in time.  The crescent hill seemed so small. The expansive gully and bridge were no longer. Did I imagine the beautifully crafted bridge? Our childhood home was barely recognizable with several additions and a paved drive.  Homes so close together that a walkway bridge made no sense. The lawns sullied with plastic ornaments and painted garishly.

The old school now an apartment building adding on to the old century home. The field where we held track and field meets a small fenced in square lot littered with scrap metal and boulders. It was difficult to picture my sister reaching her stride to cross the finish line earning her first place red ribbon.  My Aunt cheering us on from the sidelines.

We drove next to the arena where I starred as a lovely butterfly on ice and where we skated every Sunday throughout winter.  The original building stood tall next to the legion. The park sat silent alongside the gentle stream running through it.

I wanted to go home. I was filled with an unprecedented excitement. My dad leaving our family a few years prior I suppose heightened my desire for roots and stability in the availing upheaval. I wanted so badly to relive and believe in everything I imagined my life with my dad prior to be. But life moved on.

I am saddened to wonder whether the bridge existed at all in any pretense as I imagined or whether it was a glorified pine plank strewn across a narrow gap in adjoining lawns. Did we leap from the flat topped railing pretending we could fly? Did the bad Wolf come to frighten our children enticing them from the coop; was this home base for Capture the Flag and Tag?

The romance and magic of my childhood lives strong in my mind. I long to keep these memories burning bright sorrowful at this interruption of reality. I am entitled to create, building my own version of reality from what I see, hear, touch and feel to be so much more than what it ever could be. Children are amazing creatures, resilient in body and mind. Much of my past life with my father, the good – relies on how I remember. I want to keep alive my own version of my life a little while longer.  Choosing to forget going home.

Thursday, September 21, 2017


She hides
Giving only
what is asked

She shouts
out loud
someone to hear

She sighs
For your hand
in hers

With her last
She hurts
no more

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Divorcing your Parent

Emancipation does not apply as I have been fully immersed into adulthood for most of my forty+ years. I strive to consciously uncouple from my co-creator having been extremely dissatisfied with his performance in the dad category in the last half-decade.  This is about my personal struggle to define a new normal for myself and my family when our father left. This is me choosing to heal.

Dethroning the King was integral to my journey. Unveiling the human behind the superhero cape seeing ego and character and frailties that otherwise we are oblivious to perhaps even protected from as children. I had to take the harsh truths I discovered once he left and make sense of them all.  I had to separate the King from the man and discover what was real and recognize him for who he truly was.

I had to find it in my heart to forgive him. Acknowledge the dad from my happy and normal childhood and isolate him from the person he revealed himself to be. Forgiving him lets me keep the happy bits inside without the anger and hurt to color it or steal those memories from me. Keeping my childhood intact selfishly for me. Forgiving who he has become allows me to move forward free from guilt and to find peace in my new normal. It lets me be me again. 

It was time to plant new roots. For several years I felt uprooted and untethered, afloat without support. What if I fail who is there to protect me? Who will pick me up if I fall?  Every tree starts as a seed and I had to become that seedling – be my own tree.  Young but healthy and strong and beautiful. Know that I am my own safety-net and I can use my own strength to carry me.

Always love yourself first. It was easy to believe him when he told me I was worthless and less than my two siblings. He used his throne to manipulate me for his gain. I worshiped at his alter and his unkind words were gospel. Work hard at self-love and being kind to yourself every day to rebuild who you are. I had to redefine who I was outside of his shadow.

Everything I do is a choice. I own the decision, the steps, the effort and the consequences of all that I do. I own the decision to put an unhealthy relationship behind me. I choose to forgive and own the decision to keep him out of my life. I pass no judgement on my sister for choosing a relationship – she is master of her universe. I accept no judgement passed on my choices. For once in a very long while I am choosing me.

I channeled my grief and my anger into my passion for writing. My story was told in my words, my voice and through my art. Relevant is creating an outlet letting you mourn what was familiar and what was lost.  Expressing what was in my heart and my crazy mind helped me to see my path forward. Putting pen to paper was my healing hand.

I proclaim no expertise rather serve only to share what I have learned and what has worked for me. Laughter and light, joy and family breathe life in my new normal.

Monday, September 18, 2017

the Funeral

A cherry wood casket adorned in blooming dahlias and baby’s breath. The sober dark shine of the wood echoed the dull amber lighting.  From the door I was oblivious to the milling crowd unsure of what may have been familiar peering out at me. It felt a distance as I took my first cautious step forward toward him.

A head full of silver white. Eyes closed. In this five years he had remained true to the picture I keep in my heart.  A few more lines around his blue eyes hidden in slumber. Slight shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. I reach out to caress his cheek rather letting my hand fall to my side. He was forever lost to me.

Her small hand eased into mine as I stood deep in memory. I glance down at her. Through her I could see him teaching me how to ride my shiny new bicycle. Buying me my first cassette player and giving me my first book. She was so young but she remembered.

Sitting forlornly in the heavy pew on bended knee we sat aside her. Taking her blond head upon my shoulder cooing softly giving her all the strength that I had.  In her we could hear the rich timbre of his voice in song and the joy felt in our heart when he bought us our first guitar.  His stern reminders and barrel laugh that rumbled deep within his chest.
She was beautiful in her long flowing gown of white, a veil shielding her eyes. Standing quietly in the corner a stark contrast in a sea of black. With her we reminisced the gentle steps holding his arm proudly towards her future. Their first dance and misty-eyed kiss when she said goodbye.  A young woman.

From each of them she held onto the good, filling what had lain so achingly empty with warmth and with light.  In this she could finally forgive.  In eyes wide open she awakens bringing to light the lessons of regret. For still he lives and walks and breathes this earth. Should he wonder who mourns him.

Sunday, September 17, 2017


Trapped from forward
Afraid to see
Eyes wide open
Choose for me

Loosened soil
Planted seed
Tangled roots
Bury me

Unscripted song
This voice free
Shout out loud
Sing to me

Thursday, September 14, 2017


In my mind
I see you
A vision of who
I need to be

Let me forget
Yesterday and live
For tomorrow
My mind can see

Who I can be
Forget who I was
Holding me
Loving me

For who I am
Finally free

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Now I Lay Me

You write we are extinct. That floods are a lesson from Him. We tender no mercies. We lie. Cheat. Doing what is easiest forgoing the consequence. We are always wanting. Blame the establishment. The government. The people.

Who has seen the wind? I lived on street lamp time. We played make believe in the gully alongside our side yard. Made mud pies and built bridges using old planks taken from the wood pile outside the shed.  We packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and shiny red apples in a paper sac to last the entire day as we foraged through the wood high atop the hillside.
We sat cross-legged at the bench pressing our pencil lead crisply into the salmon notebook.  Carefully and with precision writing in cursive – practicing our letters.  We made our beds each morning and brushed our hair until it was shiny and golden before making our way to breakfast.  We washed our dishes by hand and played word games with dad after the dishes were done.

I carpooled to catechism with my sisters. Attended a Protestant Sunday school tucking our quarters neatly into closed fists paying for our souls to be free.  Confession was inconsequential given our strict upbringing.  Sunday afternoons we attended a public skate or swim at the community center.

I believed in my dad. I followed his rules. A sheep to his pulpit. I excelled in school and was well versed in sports and enjoyed a handful of faithful friends. My life was straightforward and I supposed simplistic in nature. I was taught to protect myself and to work hard.  We walked everywhere. Rode our bikes hard. Skipped rocks and kicked at crumpled cans that littered the ditches.

When did I lose my way? Astray from my father’s flock my faith in my God and in humanity began to crumble. Wearing thin an armor no longer fit to bear arms.  Lost is the innocence of youth. The blessings and life lessons that were mine are extinct to this generation. This world I hold out to them in open palm is complicated. Over-processed. We see too much. Know too much.  Seeking solace freedom from the chaos of a world overloaded I demand simplicity. I am frightened. Sickened. This reality I cannot escape. The atheist claiming no God. The religious fanatic killing for what he has been instructed to do in his code living in his world. Our dollars feeding the hungry, propelling the movements and fighting the diseases. Too many are the self-serving and too few the compassionate. The corrupt leading the blind the indifferent.

I want to return to the softness of the soil. A barn dance. A sleepover.  Summer camp. Where we are led by nature. Let our children simply be. Let them laugh. Pick teams. Explore. Sleep in and dream big.  Too soon all that we know will be a weight on their soul and in their hearts.  Whatever happened to tag and red rover or capture the flag? To believe in what is good. To teach and understand kindness. To know there is hope and choice. Hopscotch and double-dutch.  Joy in the unknown. Peace from the onslaught of a social media warfare. To be an uncomplicated fifteen year old.  Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

Sunday, September 3, 2017


A man stands alone. High upon a hilltop. A rocky cliff bed his pulpit. His story to tell.

A man sits blanketed asleep across a grated steam hole. His cardboard sign lay dormant on the concrete slab where he lay his head. Will work for food. His story to tell.

The old man sits quietly by the window. Peering out dreaming of when he was a young man. Seeing pictures of her flutter against his eyelids. His mouth lifts in memory. Stories alive in his heart.

Eyes unseeing. Dark grey suit arms crossed in prayer clasping silver plastic rosary beads. Forever silent his voice. His legend. His stories sleep with him.

A crowded business center. Hungry young men seeking enlightenment. Knowledge. From a cherry wood lectern beneath bright lights he dazzles. He delivers rapture. He sings righteousness and freedom. His real voice hidden beneath the falsehood of who he pretends to be.

A little boy. Filled with mischief. Wonder. With eyes wide he sees a world majestic. His voice unending. Imagination borne of his innocence. Do we hear his voice?

This life. A kaleidoscope perspective. Teaching. Discovery. A thousand voices give flight to our souls. Hearts open filled. We listen. This voice matters. Something to say. Unyielding thirsty. Do we hear? 

Friday, September 1, 2017


Who is this girl?
Who does she see
in the mirror
Her eyes hold secrets
locked inside
She is smiling
I reach out to touch her
Her hands so cold
She is familiar
Lost I wonder
Her tears tell her story
from green eyes they fall
Who is this girl?