Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte

On the Occasion of James’ Fourteenth Birthday

Here’s to my dear grandson James
Who likes to cook over the flames
For his birthday the trick
Is to fix eggs Benedict
Then we will play some card games.


In Memorium

My heart a river
Slow and deep remembers source
From whence I came.

Drawing near to sea
River’s end in sight heart asks
Who remembers me?


Weather Signs

Faint pink lines at dawn
Followed by low swollen clouds
Rain on my parade.

Pink streaks stretch afar
Promise me a sky of blue
Sun oh glory sun.


Daily Prompt: Emancipation

Pictures dot by dot
Coloring within the lines
This is not my lot.

Life inside a box
Not for me. I’ll take a pen
Draw door, my way out.


Haiku – Seasoning My Day

Cup of coffee – Yes!
Buttered toast, salt on my egg
Mellow start to day.

Seed’licious bread
Jalepeno mustard’s zing
Spice up simple lunch.

Dinner music, wine
Candles quiet ambiance
Transform Lean Cuisine.


Haiku – Seeing in a Grain of Sand

I think my past is
Much too vast to contemplate
Digest all at once.

Vignettes suit my taste
Single egg with golden yoke
Rich enough for me.


Clipped Wings

Bright hopes tarnished unfulfilled
Time for letting go of vows
Moving on from being two
Decided then to live as one.
I prayed only to be free.

Made new home to start again
City of my children’s birth
Loving space for family
My grandchildren came to play.
I sighed and breathed in peace.

Still I traveled heart’s desire
Fired with energy explored
Tried on other ways of life
Filled to brim cup overflowed.
My heart filled with gratitude.

Three short years passed
My wings are clipped
Spirit strong, body weak
Old dreams drained.
What now?

Morning dawns and I awake
Day offers me an empty slate
To fill with possibility
Surprises fresh abound for me.
And so I pray for joy.


A Confession

Today is one of those changeable days. It has been warm, sunny and quite windy with rain showers predicted this evening. I prayed for joy on Saturday and had a lovely surprise on Sunday. My son dropped off groceries while I was away from home and left a note wishing me Happy Sunday. He signed it with a whimsical name he created as an undercover follower of my blog. I could feel the love.

I awoke this morning feeling like “God’s in the heavens All’s right with the world”. In that spirit I wrote my poem “Clipped Wings”. Now for a confession. When I was in Junior High friends said I believed we live in the “best of all possible worlds”, like Candide. Or that I was a “cock-eyed optimist” like Nurse Nellie Forbush in the musical South Pacific. Truly, I am in mourning as Autumn moves toward Winter. It mirrors my letting go of my wanderlust and settling for home fires. I believe that serendipitous joy awaits me in months and years ahead. For the present wishful words will have to lead the way.


Limerick: Changing My Tune

To me writing poetry is glorious
Sometimes possibly meritorious.
Venturing from my zone
A new skill to hone
I fear I won’t be victorious.

Written in response to The Seeker’s Dungeon Prompt –¬†Stepping Out of Our Comfort Zone


An Unpicturesque American Childhood

When I think of my childhood I remember words and objects in the house that was home to me for my first ten years. I remember the word “Taylor Tot” though I no longer know what it refers to. I Googled the word and sure enough my stroller was a Taylor Tot. I think it is amazing that the word has remained lodged in my mind all these years. My mother wrote in the Baby Book she kept to chart my growth that one of my first spoken words was “book”. My attachment to words began at an early age. I remember the bookcase at the end of the hall that contained my comic book collection (called funny books in those days). I had three years worth of “Loony Tunes and Merry Melodies” which I eventually sold to a boy across the street for $3, a small fortune to me. I remember my copy of Kipling’s Just So Stories my dad gave me when I was three. I remember the old radio that sat on a low shelf by a window in the living room. I listened to “The Lone Ranger” around supper time every night and to “Let’s Pretend” on Saturday mornings.

I remember the ironing board in the kitchen. It was stored in a closet of its own and was pulled down like a folding bed when my mother wanted to iron. I remember the round washing machine, a tub on wheels, that connected by hose to the hot and cold water faucets of the kitchen sink. I think the brand was ABC but didn’t Google that. There was another round tub with a wringer to squeeze the clothes as dry as possible before they were hung on the clothesline in the backyard. I remember the box of Milk Bone Dog Biscuits in the kitchen pantry closet on a shelf I could reach if I stood on a little step stool. I often sneaked one for a snack. I Googled “Milk Bone” and the brand is still in existence. When my siblings and I gathered six decades later to find our old house it was still there. The funny ironing board was just the same, as were other things we collectively remembered. Coming home to 1933 Lexington Avenue was a magical moment.

The scent I remember most from my childhood was the strong, head-clearing smell of Vicks Vaporub. I had serious asthma attacks years before there were inhalers. My mother rubbed my chest with Vicks and hung a flannel square from a ribbon around my neck that covered my chest to prolong the effects of the Vicks. She melted Vicks in a metal measuring cup for me to sniff the fumes. Both were intended to break up congestion. I reeked of Vicks Vaporub but remember the smell with thanksgiving because of the relief it brought me.

My favorite food memory was eating watermelon. My mother put me, along with my sisters, in the bathtub wearing only my underpants so the juices could dribble off my chin without getting on my pinafore. I also remember my mother’s sewing machine and watching her make wonderful dresses for my sisters and me. When she died my sisters said I should have the sewing machine since they both had one. I liked the idea of sewing but gave my mother’s old Singer sewing machine to my son who enjoyed sewing billowy pants like those worn by men in Middle Eastern countries.