found hidden treasure
dad's handwritten diary
flooded memories
To weave a word, a fabric of thought,
Each stroke on dreary image caught :
Pale tinge of citrusy note, half drawn
Written in bleak ,yellowing song--
Old letters soar now in ashen white,
Where muted language of angst
takes flight.
She who appreciates the little things
The effortless gifts that life can bring
She who sees beauty in a stranger’s smile
A hand written letter
a fresh hair style
Her dreams of travelling
still just desires
Through her journey of life she has done what’s required
She who deserves a whole lot more
Could loose hours in an old book store
But there never seems time to just be her
Each whirlwind day passes as a blur
Yet she still takes delight in sand between toes
A Green light at crossings
Fresh Footprints on snow
has no idea of the lives she has touched
To many she has been a crutch
She who has wished a thousand wishes
But finds gratitude from her grandchild’s kisses
Inside I’m aware she’s fighting her tears
Saved up from many lonely years
Thinking nobody really sees her at all
“ Have I ever been free ?” She cannot recall
But I can hear her silent sorrow
And vow to brighten her tomorrows
Because I can see there’s so much more
Locked behind her guarded door
To weave a word, a fabric of thought,
Each glimpse of bluish image caught.
Sweet tinge of orange scent, half gone
Delicately knitted in flowing, yellowing song.
Old letters laced now in sepia and white,
Each silent sound, grayness of dusk takes flight.
Brian Strand Contest B
but she was handwritten in a digital world
her eye fixed on jacob's sweaty ladder
because always gotta climb over the corpse of yesterday
she had the worldly sense about her
the grand sweeping gesture
to encompass all seen and all implied
to show your heart is in it for the long haul
he watched her struggle so strong
his long eyes from the fortress of his face
such iron willed bravery
she pours out the litany of reasons
like pouring out a delicate wine
threadbare clothes speak of a life of labors
the field of her heart once tilled with bountiful crop
once filled with the joyous sounds of laughter at harvest
so much ventured to come to such an end
his blackened heart has time for tales of the sun
her dreams sweep you up in their turbulent elegance
where all else that transpires is illusion
while for that brief flicker of time
you learned what it means to really live
for the first time
what its like to have your soul long for
Handwrite me a letter.
All the pages fill
With your elegant script
By ink and quill.
Take pleasure in the quiet.
Loosen your tie, but do not forget
Cross every tittle
Dot every "i".
Relax by the fire,
And take your time.
Tickle my ear
With your sweet rhyme.
Let the words flow
From a deeper place.
All that's hidden there,
Leave not a trace.
Mind not the cold
Nor the frosted window rime,
But write to me of flowers,
And the warmth of summertime.
Indulge me a little longer.
I've awaited your reply
With bated breath,
And a greatly heaved sigh.
Your letter's here at last.
All the pages are filled
With your love handwritten,
And with wax sealed.
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