Persistence

 


Behind her the past rolled gently,
a landscape of green swells and sunlight
calling her sweetly,
reminding her she was just a breath away
from safety and security,
close enough to reach back for a touch of reassurance.
Nevertheless, she fought through gray uncertainty,
pushing beyond doubt, trusting herself.

She felt trapped in a spiral of time,
vines of the past ensnaring her feet and ankles
even as her arms stretched upwards,
fingers aching to grasp dreams glimpsed through broken skies.
Tearing away, stumbling forward step by step,
she approached her destiny, the holy grail for all who search
despite closed doors and ideas set in stone,
seeking paths only they can discern and follow.

The wind rose up, tugging her hair, whispering regrets,
lamenting low and deep of failure and sorrow
but it wasn’t her song.
Her melody sang lightly in her soul,
notes shimmering like beacons in the night.

Once again, she resisted the darkness
intended to turn her aside

She held the flame of her spirit cupped between her hands,
cherishing it, protecting it from careless thoughts and words;
a candle to guide her way.

Fatigue laid its hand on her shoulder,
offering comfort, rest and delay.
Once again she persisted, stubbornness lending strength.
Perseverance became her calling, her identity and name
as she journeyed to fulfillment,
her restless nature finding each achievement a paving stone,
creating the mosaic of her life.

In the beginning of her womanhood,
she had known few certainties,
a loving heart and curious mind
did not clearly direct her course or career.
She found herself along the way, closing the circle within
by completing herself, true to herself.
She became the woman she was always called to be,
finding voice for word and song unleashed in beauty and creativity.

Persistence and Perseverance, qualities of weeds and determined women
continually spring forth where least expected,
defiantly thriving despite the world they live in.

Nevertheless, wondrously persisting!

Stillness vs. Speaking

There is a time for reflection,
for the silence of inner searching,
praying for guidance before action
but certain truths shine brightly,
beacons in the night.
Evil succeeds
when good people do nothing.
Therefore, I speak.
Therefore I share
because I care
about my fellow man,
my country,
civil liberties and freedoms
extended to all,
never tools for evil and hatred.

I hear your discomfort
with my stand,
but comfort and quiet are sometimes
tools of inertia,
used to disadvantage others.

I cannot be still,
will not be still.
Choose your own path
as you will,
but freedom requires vigilance,
not isolation
on a far away hill.

I yearn for peace,
for love offered hand to hand,
not a hand out, but a hand up
to stand side by side.

While I dream, I stand.
I speak because I can
because I must,
a voice
for those who can’t or won’t,
following my heart, my guide
to do and be my best.
Like it or not,
it’s still my right.

What he or she wanted. 8-3-17

He wanted heaven on earth
but was satisfied with bits and pieces
gleaned from the world he lived in.
Riding away from toil and trouble
with the thrum of his Harley between his legs,
his lady snug behind.
No agenda ahead, no time clock,
just the sweet curve of pavement
hiding adventure just ahead,
adrenaline pumping his veins
and all the time he never had,
waiting round the bend.

She wanted it all,
it was part of her name, her personality
to forever quest for the shine and glitter
of the next best thing,
be it a grandbaby’s hug,
a vase of Queen Anne’s lace
or a walk along a moonlit beach.
Once in a while, prayers are actually answered,
she knew, and there was no point
in trying to hide from the creator
whose design she was.
Thus, she found her everything
like Dorothy of Oz, right in her own backyard
with the boy next door-well close enough!
She was content, living the adventure
unveiling itself a little each day.

The fingertip moon strummed its song on the lake

beneath a starry sky, a puffy, fluffy cloudy sky
misting the earth in droplets of fog.
Waves of shadow edged in froth
whispered their refrain,
rhythm and rhyme in a timeless race
up and down the beach.

The silver cusp cut tension’s thread,
the water rippling relaxed the mind
wiping it clean like tomorrow’s shores
yesterday erased as though
it never was.

Heart beats slow,
breathing too, as soul deep peace
blankets another weary child.
The crescent moon croons its lullaby,
melody playing in the waves,
serenading, consoling, comforting.
Blessing.

Up until now, the wind had been silent,
supporting without voice, watchful.
Restless movements disrupted sleep
as colors of lavender, pine green and blue
displayed under still closed lids.
This was when the wind sent her gift:
cedar carried lightly thru the air,
a smudge softly wafting in curls of scent
restoring peace
once more.
Blessing.

She’d been singing for months,

sending her siren’s call over beaches and pines,
following Canadian winds to hearts
that lay south.

Sometimes her song echoed,
sifting softly through
long green spruce needles,
caressing my dreams and soothing my soul,
all the while feeding my need
to return.

When at last I can wait no longer,
when my toes burn in summer heat
and I yearn for cold, deep waters,
thoughts begin to coalesce,
shaping desires into plans.

Not really believing,
even as items are checked from mental lists
and preparations are begun,
we pack our bags under cover of darkness,
in hopes of hiding our escape
from prying eyes.

I hear her singing
in tires upon the highway
insistently pulling us north,
a pilgrimage shared with strangers
moving quietly through dawn
masked with filmy grey clouds of rain
but nothing can dampen
my joy and excitement.

The long anticipated reunion of lovers
is poignantly classic,
running to the water,
greeting the wind and foamy waves
in a natural completion.

Think of me till we meet again!

I remember or I can’t remember. 7-20-17

I can’t remember the desperation that led a farm girl in France
to travel the ocean in search of a husband and home
far, far away in the wilds of Canada.

I can’t recall the poverty that led a woodsman
from Ontario to lumbering in northern Michigan,
to dance lithe and limber upon rolling logs
jammed in rolling waters.

Great grandfather’s ledger speaks of opportunity and risk,
a willingness to take a leap of faith when there’s no way back
and a glimmer of light ahead.

The voice of the past, written clearly and concisely
tells of debt and hard work, the first cabin and farm.
With humor it remembers great grandma too sick to go milk,
her husband kindly bringing the cow to the door
to ease her day.

Births and christenings, deaths and burials,
marriages and new beginnings,
acquisitions in columns measured
against income that was never enough,
reminding me I have a legacy of tenacity
running deep in my bones,
corded with sinews of faith and optimism.

I remember my parents, formed by the roaring twenties
and fired in the depression of the thirties,
surviving the 2nd world war and beginning anew
a life of their own,
more roots on the family tree,
more fruits the labor of their love.

Death continues to prune, allowing for fresh growth,
my story continuing in rings upon finger
and wrinkles around my eyes,
clear sighted vision of French blue,
watching today’s horizon for opportunity
as I see the next generation reach for the stars.

Saved Photo

Deb’s Morning Glory

Slow to grow,
the young vine sunk roots,
counterbalance to its upward climb.
Sky seeking, warmth loving,
determinedly tweeking,
new forms to entwine.
Base thickening as buds grow,
leaves waving to and fro
barometer for changing weather,
bursting into bloom
with a blessing of brilliant blue!
My windowsill greets me
with Morning’s Glory
and my heart is full of joy!
Thank you, Deb!

Summer Gathering 7-9-17

Summer is the time of ripening,
recognizing the growth of vine and root,
delicate flower and delightful fruit
while watchful of rain,
conscious of needy crops;
a hit or miss sprinkle not near enough,
a frog drowner too heavy for tender plants.
We enjoy summer breezes,
yet are wary of wild winds
flattening trees before harvest.
toppling trees and dropping power lines,
Hear the groans of generations
contemplating the loss of power, cable and wifi.
Oh, my! How the years have changed us!

We have reached the middling years,
past our blooming times,
the birthing of our children
and the raising that never
outdistances love and caring.
Still lucky enough to be mostly healthy,
most lucky enough to be retired,
the rest approaching rapidly
as the years fly by.

We gather in the summer,
to celebrate and reflect
at the annual cousin’s reunion,
passing stories around from table to table
while plates are filled and whistles wet,
desserts calling our names
and identifying each sweet tooth.

Matriarch Aunt Marilyn
holds court at the head of the picnic table,
graciously gifting us with smiles and memories.
No one leaves without a kiss and hug goodbye,
sharing the treasure of her company,
tales revived, relived today
all while children’s voices ring in play.

Another crop of young ones,
their legs long and spindly, race down park paths
to avoid being last, growing so fast,
running headfirst from present to future.
Youth, beautiful and handsome,
gifted with promise still unfolding,
graying their parents with prerequisite foolhardiness.
Who will survive whom, the eternal question?

We have stepped out of time,
relaxing with family in familiar ways,
recognizing time’s passing
but admiring the roses while we may,
since the gift of scent fades
more and more each day.

We sigh, and cry
“Till next year! Take care!”

Ideally 6-15-17

Ideally,
there should be no pain,
no crushing heartache
or tear-stained faces,
no war, no sin, no sickness,
but that’s not the world
we live in.

Dreaming of peaceful idylls,
bliss approaching rapture
and spiritual rewards,
we seek respite from our daily life
fraught with stress and strife.

It seems that knowledge,
Eden’s alluring Apple,
was a fraud,
stealing our innocence,
by playing upon our curiosity
like a toy dangled and dancing
to tease a kitten’s playful paws.

No matter our striving to level the path
for the next to travel by,
it seems lessons learned are rarely passed on,
Instead, the young must learn by trial and error,
skinning knees and abrading palms,
balancing life, independence and risk painfully.

The legend of shame haunts us,
a spirit of failure and regret
sometimes tolerable but never desirable!
No wonder we so often seek the sun,
banishing shadows with brightness.

Prudence whispers the wisdom
of retiring excess burdens too heavy to carry,
releasing cares within balloons of hope,
lifting serenely skywards
through endless veils of blue.

Instinctively,
young ones know when to hang on tight
and the moment it’s right to let go.
Awake, they grasp with tiny, perfect hands,
asleep, they relax and let go
in contented, smiling sleep,
snuggled close to the heart.
The wisdom of babies lost in translation,
reclaimed in old age as life’s last laugh,
chuckling at man’s efforts to acquire
reduced to letting go
while night follows day in rhythms,
as comforting as waves upon the beach,
bathed in moonlight,
patterns within circles and cycles of time.

What’s that line from the song,
All my life’s a circle, now,
sunrise to sunset?
I’ve forgotten how it goes.
Don’t worry, just wait a bit-
it’ll circle round again, promise.