Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Transforming the Dawn

Dancing in the predawn grays
eastern sky awakened
in a blaze of pinks and purples
after a night of rain

As if she herself
was calling the dawn
by her dancing;
everything melted away

There was only
this moment,
only these seconds
before dawn burst forth

Feet moved lightly
leaving glistening footprints
in dew covered grass

Fingertips stretched upwards
against the sky  
for a brief pause

Before the dance brought
feather-light hands
arcing slowly downward
momentum carrying her forward

Pinks and purples faded
as shades of orange hues
streaked unhindered
across the heavens

Moved by Divine grace
dark faded to light
and a brilliant orb
crested the horizon

She continued to dance
to a tune only she could hear
floating across the meadow
as if on the clouds themselves

A last twirl, movement ceased
in stillness, she waited
face raised to the dawning
silence engulfed her

A cresting of the horizon
and wave upon wave
of wondrous, glorious brilliance
filled her soul.

Thursday, October 17, 2019


In gradual slowness
pale grayness crept in
silencing the sun
its steady movement
sometimes silhouetted
by darker steel gray

Wind strengthened
acorns slammed
on the roof, deck, ground
making me jump
setting my heart
to pounding

Rain sat in the heaviness …
waiting … waiting …
waiting for the right moment,
for the right darkness
before releasing its weight
to pummel anything below.

Friday, April 12, 2019

They Will Never Write Songs About Me

Summer River, pastel painting

I call this poem below my signature poem. I wrote it back in 1994, and I still can't read or recite it without tears. I remember as a teenager being at a concert with friends and right up at the stage, and the lead singer dedicated a song to my friend. I knew then, I would never be the kind of person people wrote (or sang) songs about. 

Years later, this poem emerged after a three-month depression after an intense three-week teacher-training workshop. And while the poem has sadness and a bit of despair, it's also a freeing moment of accepting who I AM!

They Will Never Write Songs About Me

Sometimes I feel so insignificant
so useless, so unimportant.
I am certainly nobody’s hero,
never one to be looked up to
never to stand out in a crowd.
I will never BE somebody.
I am destined to stand in periphery
and they will never ever write songs about me.

Sometimes I get a glimpse beyond;
a glimpse, a fragile glimpse
of parted curtain, thinning veil.
What is it I see beyond the beyond?
clouded view of what could be,
cannot tell if it’s really me;
fear pulls the shade, no longer free,
and they will never ever write songs about me.

At times I am uncomfortable
when I look upon myself.
Who do I think I am
to dream I can be different?
So I continue to live in shadow
hovering between fear and wanna be.
I know that no one will ever see,
know too, they will never write songs about me.

But, to know I have a purpose
in the Greater Scheme of Life,
to dare to make my stand,
to know I have a choice.
I am One who lives in both worlds,
I guess it’s my destiny
Living in the periphery
is why they will never write songs about me.                       

Out of the well of darkness
of heartache and despair,
comes words to release the pain, the grief
and it’s these I wish to share:
Fame and Fortune care not for me.
Open heart, open hand for all to see.
Letting everyone know it’s okay with me
that they will never ever write songs about me.

Friday, March 29, 2019

Lightning Strike

Writing the morning pages was put on hold as I typed up the poem I’d written after meditating last night. “Lightning Strike.” I’m always amazed at how the words come through me and up out of me. It IS just like a lightning strike! There’s a kind of coming down or into me and also a coming up and out of me – just like lightning when the electrical charges in the earth rise up to meet the lightning strike coming down.

Lightning Strike

The air shimmers,
tension builds
It boils … It simmers …

It flashes down
before I can blink and
arcs through me
striking the ground
in a glorious array
of unseen color

I can’t breathe

Reverberations echo
through my body
trapping me
in mind-numbing shock

Glued to this spot
I can’t move
my body tingles wildly
in the exploding power
vibrating in silence
around me

I can’t breathe

In this microsecond
of time
I’m too paralyzed
to even think, and

as I struggle to comprehend
what just happened,
the earth erupts
with a soundless deafening roar
blasting through me
once again

I breathe in

I can do nothing
but wait for release
as the residual energy
rains down on me

wrapping its charged essence
over me as if draping me
in a new warm cloak
then dissipating
into the dust
at my feet

I breathe out

With the charred smell
lingering in the air
and fingers still tingling,
I slowly pick up my pen

A poem falls onto the page.

And so, my morning took a detour, as it does so often. It never ceases to amaze me that my first thoughts of what the day will bring seldom stays true to the original plans. At the end of the day, though, I am satisfied with what I accomplished, and I don’t regret what I didn’t get done. I guess my days are not about staying on a straight, paved sidewalk, but they meander wooded trails over rocky and bumpy terrain. It makes life interesting, that’s for sure!

I love that I don’t have an adrenaline-pumping need. I love that I find excitement in the seemingly simple things. I love that I see beauty everywhere.

“Interesting” is my favorite word and “journey” is another. Life is an interesting journey if we allow ourselves to see it as such. Even a simple life isn’t really so simple when you’re living it, and what we allow ourselves to experience and acknowledge open our eyes to the beauty of life. And practicing living wholeheartedly makes life special and soul-rewarding.

Friday, March 8, 2019

The Muse Demands Attention

The Muse comes in
fills my senses
takes over
my entire being
‘til I can’t think
of anything else
but doing my art

Paintings call me
words tumble
out of me
I’m torn between
following the demands
or doing mundane chores
which need to be done

"Rose of Sharon" work in progress

A quick trip
to the studio
has me on my feet
over an hour

Every time I try to walk away
She pulls me back
more … more
fix this … touch that up

Even after I return
to the table
She’s still there
poking, prodding
pushing to keep
the creative fire
burning brightly

It’s hard to ignore
but I have other work to do.

Wednesday, March 6, 2019


Little brain chitter
like bird twitter
taps on the edges
of my mind

But the words
roll off my skull
and fall into the ethers
before I can hear them

Nothing feels important
I’m in limbo
until I can get home
where the muse

Patiently, or maybe
impatiently, waits.
She wasn’t done with me
when I left.

Friday, February 8, 2019

Creative Muses

The Poetry Muse
strikes with no notice
words pouring out
like beer from an open tap

The words
in its frothy head
slowly sink
into the dark brew

With each sip
of the creamy, bitter stout
they slide down my throat
then slip out onto the page

The Painting Muse
hovers on the sideline
silently prodding
my consciousness

“Paint,” she pleads, “Paint!”
as she fills my mind
with visions of beautiful
landscapes and flowers

Pink Phlox Purple Post

She pulls me
to the easel
shows me scenes
full of pastel brightness

Soft colors over dark
blended edges of vibrant shades
I feel my hand lift to the paper
give over to the passion

Until the Writing Muse
demands attention
and words vie with color
overflowing my mind

Write, paint, write, paint
becomes the daily struggle
with both muses screaming
to be heard

Wisps of color
swirl in a sea of words
and I give in
to whatever is strongest

leaving the other
to pace the misty shorelines
awaiting her chance
to jump in.