Brushstrokes

Skillfully painted
Across the sky
Filling time
And space
One after another
Some clearly
Defined
Like the bright
Blue of a happy
Childhood day
Others, fuzzy
Around the edges
Like the moody purple
Of teenage angst
With every color
And shade
In between
Defined or blurred
Each opens a door
To recollections
Of the past
Or dreams
For the future
Joy and sorrow
Love and loss
Life and death
Each painting
Their own part
In the big picture

A Perfect Day

Clean haircut
Refreshing
Especially after
More than a week
Of laying in
A hospital bed
Pleasant drive
Past the lake
And back
Sweetheart
By his side
Drive-thru
Grilled
Chicken
Salad
Unsweet tea
Sweetly
Predictable
Quiet evening
At home
Thankful
To be there
Watching
Grand Ole Opry
On the T.V.
One of his
Favorites
Stayed awake
Past ten o’clock
Sweetly
Unusual
A perfect
Last day
This side
Of heaven
For a quiet
Man of faith
Who could not
Possibly know
The far reaches
Of his influence

I thought I heard his voice yesterday. Keep waiting for him to walk down the hallway or see him standing in the kitchen. Wishing he was sitting in his chair instead of me. I know he’s no longer here, but my heart won’t let me stop looking.

My dad worked hard his whole life. His rough hands offered proof. Health issues these past few years forced him to slow down. No more hammers, nails, lumber, or ladders. I know it was hard for him at times. But he rarely complained. Even when reminded to use his cane for balance, to wear his hearing aids, or asked where his glasses were.

There is so much to remember. So much to share. But today, I am thinking about the last day. It was a good one. ❤️

A Gift of Music

The music store was one of my favorite places to visit as a little girl. I was so excited to browse the new piano sheet music and beg my mom for a new song. Are there any bad words? She would always ask if it was a pop song. No! I would reassure her.

I was recently gifted a stack of piano music. Thumbing through the pages took me right back to those childhood days. And each piece, familiar and unfamiliar, reminded me that music truly is a precious gift.

I recorded a couple of the songs. Enjoy! ❤️

Raindrops Keep Falling On My head

Lara’s Theme from Doctor Zhivago

Until Next Year

Little birds
And bows
Snowflakes
And icicles
Packed away
Carefully
Until next year…
Next year
I’m still
Thinking about
This year
At least for
One more day
Well, actually
Longer than that
I would imagine-
People, places
And things
Sprinkled thru
The days, weeks
And months
Mostly the people
And their impact
On my life-
Memories
Unlike the
Little birds
And bows
Snowflakes
And icicles
Have no need
Of being
Carefully
Packed away

Simply Sunday

Ready to Fly

Beautifully bare
Impressions
From life’s
Encounters
Left behind as
History lessons
For anyone
Willing to give
A little time-
See the hawk
Proudly perched
On a branch
Looking back
One more time
At the empty nest
That not long ago
Held its young
Once again
Ready to fly
The past
Held close
To her heart
A catalyst
For change
A sanctuary
For reminiscing

Collage

What makes a year?
Logic says
Seconds, minutes, hours
Days, weeks, months
Equally spaced
To help us keep track-
Of what, I’m not sure
Oh, there’s no denying
The answer when
My birth year
Is subtracted
From the current year
But the larger
That number grows
The less it represents
Anything equally spaced
What makes a year?
My heart says
The love of others
The beauty of nature
Grief, heartache, and loss
Faith, hope, and love
None of which
Fit into any calendar
All of which
Even the torn edges
Can be transformed
Into a much-cherished
Collage of memories

Simply Sunday

The Quiet

It’s too quiet
Something my mom
Used to say after
Our holiday visits
Well, actually
After any visit
Once their nest
Was empty
And although
Our nest is
Not quite empty
I’m beginning
To understand
The sentiment
A flurry of activity
The aroma of food
Being prepared
But mostly, the voices-
Once they return
To their own homes
The quiet leaves space
For melancholy
And missing
But mostly, the quiet
Leaves space
For memories
And a grateful heart

Simply Sunday

Little Hands

My job was to stir
Sounds simple
A wooden spoon
Round and round
But I remember
Heat rising from
The slow-to-boil
Sweetness
My dad was always
Nearby, of course
In case little hands
Became tired
It only took
Helping one time
For the tasty
Result to be
Permanently
Etched in my soul-
How is it that
Precious details
Are so easily
Forgotten-

Eating the remaining
Warm chocolaty filling
Out of tiny glass bowls
Once my dad filled
His homemade pie crusts-
May my memory
Of a yesterday
Erase any complaints
From today

Missing the Quiet

Morning whispers
From a cool
Breeze as it
Wakens the trees
Mid-day melodies
Sweetly strung
Across the sky
Celebrating blue
Evening laughter
From familiar voices
Around the table
Listening…no need to speak
Middle-of-the-night
Soft breaths
From the rise
And fall of
A newborn’s chest
Resting against mine
As we gently rock-
I can still hear them
As I crawl back into bed
Place my hand on your chest
And wait for sleep to come

In the Dirt

Hard to believe
I ever spent time
Digging
In the dirt
But I remember…
So much fun
Imaginations
Running wild
In the dirt
Seems silly now
The things once
Thought possible
In a little girl’s plans…
Sometimes the dirt
Was not forgiving
Washing it away
Required extra
Scrubbing-But, oh
The sweet smell
Of playing
In the dirt
Right before
The rain
Perhaps, it is time
To get my hands dirty
Do a little more
Digging
Wake that old
Imagination
From its dirt-free
Slumber and not
Worry so much
About looking clean

I continue to be amazed and grateful for the connections created through poetry circles facilitated by Ali Grimshaw. ❤️ https://flashlightbatteries.blog/