He washed his hands.
Of her and us.
And we were sluiced into the Irish Sea.
On a rough tide.
Whilst the gentleness of the Yorkshire Dales embraced him.
Again.
Clinging to each other and the flotsam of the incoming tide we were swept back to shore, blistered, weathered, but together.
A successful navigation to land, prevailing with fortune and fortitude.
Onshore our journeys continued but in differing directions, scarred by the experience, new land to explore.
New lives.
Ever changed we reunite to recount, reminisce, a newness added on each telling.
The scarring still exists the flesh tears, the salt burns, but every now and then the flag is hauled,
the sail thrown open to the wind and we sail, the waters stiller, navigable.
Harbours now, each open to protect from choppy oceans.
A safe mooring.
Date: 04.08.2026
A tree once was I...
Let me tell you why
you'll remember me
till eternity...
I once was so strong
To this earth, belonged
Cherished and rooted
Old and reputed
Then came a day blue
I was cut in two
They clamped me harshly
Made me smooth, bark-free
I was at a loss
Turned into a Cross
He carried me slow
We became a show
Then Simon was called
Me, he slowly hauled
Up Golgotha Mount
A harsh, rough surmount
Jesus, Son of God
Behind me did plod
Me, planted again
But He bore all pain
Cross of Calvary
Christ was hung on me
I never did think
I'd have a God-link
This is my story
Used for God's glory
I'll be remembered
For I surrendered.
{This Week's Poetry Challenge: Tree's Perspective}
The greeness of grasses
is from dew and rain
Apollo waters fall
and sanguine sun shines at dawn
Timid stems are now firm
with fat vessels anchored in earth
Magnificent
Sprouts are breaking forest floors
born out of winter-lock
Men have no part in it,
life paints the art with no mortal hand
we watch and ponder to admit, candid
Aurora spring
life Is in the dark amidst light
The hidden that slept now sprint
hauled colors assemble on this Soil
The night sky is groomed
flowers are fully bloomed
tonight sorrow Seldom gloomed
For years I carried you
like a carriage, coupled to me.
I mistook attachment
for a steadying hand,
for a ballast weight guiding me,
keeping me on the rails.
A burden I willingly hauled
convinced we shared,
a common purpose,
a common destination.
I called it devotion,
called it a partnership,
never noticing the strain
and wear in the coupling,
the groan of steel and wheels
longing to run free.
Then came the quiet siding,
where the tracks forked and parted.
A pin was withdrawn.
A clasp was undone.
So softly, no one noticed.
As I slowed down
and we coasted.
As I passed the junction,
I pulled the points lever over.
The rails shifted silently between us.
You drifted off, along the branch line.
I carried on, uncoupled and unsure.
For miles I still expected
the familiar tug behind.
The ballast and counterweight
that had become
the measure of my heart.
Yet the further I traveled,
the lighter the regret became;
and when I glanced back,
you raised your hand,
waved, then smiled,
Content upon your own track.
Happy to share
the quite grace of uncoupling,
singing our swan song
and carrying on.
Mama, I’ve finally met an honest man
He says he’s full of faults
He admits no way he can
NOT keep his lusting eyes off my body, and
figures I can’t possibly be interested in him…
And mama, he works two jobs while
taking care of his invalid parents
when they sleep, he runs errands
O, mama, I’ve fallen in love so madly
I want to give myself to him so badly
Don’t be fooled, dear. You’re just glad he
kind of reminds you of your last daddy
who, you may remember
~ they hauled away in a paddy*
______________________
*as in 'paddy-wagon'
Knock, knock.
I ran to the door and flung it open. Marcus stood there, holding my sister by a heavy chain. I looked at her, blind in one eye, a thumb missing, and felt nothing.
“I’ve come to beg forgiveness,” she rasped.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice cold. “I know about the occult. I know you opened the Golden Door and murdered for what was behind it. Now the door won't close, and you’re looking for someone to pay the bill.”
She lunged at me, looking more like an evil spirit than my kin, but Marcus jerked the chain.
“You bargained for gold,” I continued. “But you never asked where the demon would find it. He showed you my life points in coin and you took them. You had everything, yet you wanted my life too. I won't pay your debt. I have no interest in your soul or your portal.”
Behind them, a black carriage waited in the shadows. After thirty years of running from her, the end had finally arrived. Marcus hauled on the chain, dragging her toward the horses.
“Your time is up,” he growled. The door of the carriage slammed shut.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The windmill groaned before the dawn,
her hands already chapped with dawn-tasks,
his fingers practicing Braille lessons on the kitchen table~
both stiff-backed and deliberate,
both heavy with the weight of wheat and words.
Fifteen names,
each one dug into the earth like fence posts:
Clarabell, Dulce, John, Stanley,
each syllable hauled up from the well
with aching shoulders.
The schoolhouse smelt of ink and sweat,
of small hands learning Braille and
the shape of silence,
while their own children ran wild
between rows of corn,
half-feral, half-holy.
Drought years gnawed at the ledger,
but the well never ran dry~
only deeper,
only darker.
At dusk, they counted heads by lamplight,
his thumb brushing her cracked knuckles,
her voice a rasp of hymns and harvest.
They buried two.
Thirteen grew tall as sunflowers.
The Kansas prairie took what it was owed~
calluses, sweat, sleep~
but left them standing,
left them leaning into each other
like split-rail fences
in a wind that never stills.
I hauled my seven book up to the treehouse in the morning
these library books were about E.S.P., runes, and tarot cards
I live in an Iowa small town, where everybody knows everybody
The neighbors are out hanging clothes on their clotheslines
They wave to each other and chatter as they pin
I watch them for a tiny bit, hearing every word
mainly boring stuff, like what they are fixing for dinner
One of them is a terrific pie baker, I try to hear her words
Just laughter from her today; laughing while pinning?
It seems strange to eleven-year-old me.
I am camouflaged in my treehouse wedged in cottonwood trees.
Their silver green pointed leaves hide me from view.
I have a pillow up here, which I lean on, as I read.
Movement catches my eye. A large black ant.
I follow his progress up the tree trunk. He is frantic.
I wish the librarian would let me get more than seven books.
I have to go back every day for my next seven.
Every day I do this for the entire summer.
This is the summer that I read – mysteries, autobiographies and fiction.
Reading takes me to other places than small town Iowa.
Brooding River
This winter saw a lot of rain in the river
Near the houses, it is still running clear and lucid
giving its soul to the ocean
On the old Roman Bridge, I asked the river to stop wasting
It's precious sweet water to the salty sea,
One cannot let thirsty horses drink brackish liquid
after having hauled a cart full of dead sheep
up to a mountain top,
offerings to a god that only exists in the mind of an
idiot savant.
The river hears me not; its job is to run dry during
the summer and when fall arrives, be reborn.
But beware of a river that has no fish
Those who haughtily laugh will be turned into frogs,
The banks are full of them.
Only a princess can make them into humans again.
But they will still have frog souls.
Alas, due to a hard time, the princess is a dancer in
A Spanish nightclub knows nothing about emails
And she is not on Facebook.
“Ran to the Sky”
By Positive Mark
They say my God hauled a**, and ran to the sky.
In my search, I gave birth to an all seeing eye.
I hardened my skin with a roll in the gravel.
I carried a cross as I traveled.
Traversing the earth, and all of its girth,
big belly black skins call Amen in church,
yet still don’t know their own worth.
They don’t even know who they are speaking to, when they say
“Amen.”
So I sought out the council of Haida Shamans.
They offered their help to me gladly.
They said “Shoot those below who treat each other badly.”
They said I live in the land of plagues,
and half of my people still want to be slaves.
So I hauled a**,
and ran to the sky.We
Oh, sweet September, I greet you with mirth,
As it’s the month of my dear mom’s birth.
Something balmy is in late September’s chill,
Hauled in through the breeze from the hill.
As the cool wind whiffs past me, defiant and free,
Mom, I feel your gentle and caring arm around me.
I love you…
not in the noise of blossoms
screaming their radiance into spring
but in the way roots strip themselves into
world's silence, quiet, hidden
yet steadfast in every tempest
I love you…
in the silence that follows laughter
when memory brushes gentle against my chest
and I know that even years cannot erase
the warmth sent in your name.
I love you…
like the coastline greets the tide
forever restoring
even when the waters are hauled away
by the pull of far-off moons.
I love you…
not because love is endless,
but because even in endings
you are the place
I begin.
A Mystery of Love
Who can understand. Why would a person
sacrifice himself in such a way. Spat on,
slapped, falsely accused, deprived of sleep,
given no food, unquenched thirst. Hauled
before Pilate the Roman governor. No guilt found
but crowd cried for Barabbas, a murderer and rebel, to
be freed. No guilt could Pilate find, but the throng
called for His crucifixion. Scourged by Roman whips,
hunks of flesh torn and blood flowing in rivulets.
Crown of thorn smashed down on His head, blood
streaming into His eyes. Purple robes of a false king
draped around His shoulders. Forced to carry the cross
beam of His cross until He collapsed. Hand forged spikes
driven into His wrists and ankles. Stripped naked and His
clothes gambled away. Hanging in the hot dry sun his parched
lips cooled by vinegar wine. He cried it is finished and gave up
the ghost. His side pierced by a Roman spear to make sure.
A mystery to me why anyone would allow this to happen.
The only answer has to be love. God loved us so much He gave His
only son to die for us. Only He would consent to this and His ways
are beyond our understanding. His life for ours.
It’s been a while when I felt frozen on the ground
Hotchpotches of skills around, I touched them one by one
With overwhelming joy, l took them in one luggage
I hauled and under a stagnant lake, my inertia has engaged.
When a spark of discernment meddled right on time
I focused on one…so light, I float and I climb
I gained, grew and flourished smoothly in each priority
I ascent, pulling others li'l by li'l on a way across…flying freely.
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