She brings joy and delight with her infectious grace.
She’s our dream come true, with such a pretty face.
With her gorgeous smile she lights up the place.
She is always hurrying all over the place.
She giggles as she dances with such grace.
The sun shines brighter as I look at her sweet face.
So full of life, so spirited, with her happy little face.
Dress up clothes are strewn all over the place.
Amazing and vivacious that's our little girl Grace.
When born, all in the place admired baby Grace. Such a lovely face.
.
I was hurrying by the spooky house when the door creaked open.
Hopin' it was just my imagination, I hesitated a moment too long
for suddenly a creepy voice from inside beckoned me to enter...
I froze when a waft of cold air hit me and I heard words of a song...
Come inside, and we'll have a bit of lunch and a nice spot of tea
I shook my head in total disbelief and told my feet to move along
but they seemed to have a will of their own and didn't listen to me
What am I to do to escape the siren's call? To her I don't belong.
Just then it was I heard a murder of crows, flying low overhead
Another omen that I never should have chosen to walk this way
But then one flew close enough to me, and this is what it said,
"Leave your shoes behind and run...You'll be dead if you stay,"
I gulped and gasped and managed to get my feet to obey
I could feel the pulse of heart beating double time in my chest
The crows kept circling above while darkness was filling the day
I'll not become the victim of the house and be laid to rest!
It happens
as if stirred by some
deep prompting rising up
out of a common soul,
a voice in search of a language
to write its existence
across the pages
of a passing mind.
The soft morning light
pooling beneath hurrying feet,
the cypress trees
along the foreshore time frozen
in their wind bent posture,
the motion of waves
withering into a slow soak
up the beach -
all seem to have something
to say.
I have felt a pen press
upon my mind, struggle
to find a space free
from the cramp of my own self
on which to record
the shape and sounds
of a joy or give form
to a longing freed
from the grip of shadow.
I have felt the cry
of things trapped
in the hollows of words
like empty sea shells held
to the ear and tried faithfully
to transcribe what was said.
In my solitude I have
called out hoping
for a reply only to hear
the sound of my own pulse
punctuate a terrible silence
A coyote howls amidst the blackscreen
of the woods as unknown silhouettes
crawl on earth's crust ,
rainstorm ramming on muddy soil.
The cry of doom threatens each being
when the monstrous hour screeches
to gather a crew of newborns
and within every vomitting breath ,
weak infants tumble over an abyss
of carnage... without resistance.
Mothers wail, yet sharp hands
blackened by thorny nails
grip the fresh bellv of kohl twilight --
Nearer and nearer
hooded spirits so humongous descend ...
their green eyes breaking the window chain,
moving closer for a more macabre feast
while babes wiggle like worms :
I turn the screen off in a dark, dark foyer
my heart throbbing in throes of angst,
hurrying to view if my young son
lays on his crib... dreamily asleep;
my mind wrapped in thrall... where is he?
For the nearest five minutes
I am here just to please you
For another thousand seconds
I’ll be there in the queue
Here, there and nowhere
I just wait for you to beckon
I’ll be hurrying up the stairs
I’ll be looking down you reckon
Looking down and all over
Distant hills and fields of grass
At the meadows of wild clover
At forget-me-nots in dust..
The air clings to vintage cherry wood, scalloped & ruffled as it curves, standing on robust intricately carved lions feet, crafted well over 100 yrs ago, living many years in one of Chicago's many stately red-brick row houses, now watching over me in my small condominium in the heart of Minneapolis where Grandpa helped my parents establish a life that would include room for Grandma & Grandpa to age close to their grandchildren & Mom & Dad, Sadly, Grandpa fell with a heart attack hurrying to find his neighbor in a bar downtown Chicago so he could attend his son's highschool graduation, Grandma lived a very short time here with us, but was encouraged to fly (her first nerve-wracked time) back to Chicago for her 50th. high school reunion, where she too, fell and died from a heart attack, anyway, these hardwood family pieces keep me rooted with memories of all the precious loved ones they served and hope for the future.
4/12/26
The grey light of dawn spread softly over the hill,
In the Blue Ridge, fog covered Ashville.
No birds dared fly high above the dark clouds,
The wind blew, and thunder rumbled like shrouds.
Time passed by slowly, the wind felt low.
Only one star twinkled, its lonely foe.
A whisper of grey could not be deprived
Until the soft sun rays lit the sky and light arrived.
The hour held a promise of persistent rain
Until the sky cleared and all was gain.
The listless world woke for its usual chores
And all went hurrying to their overstuffed stores.
when spring has announced
itself ahead of time
and the birds are excited
to be heard and mate.
I want to join in the party
with turquoise beads
for necklaces
and purposeful living.
My porch is speckled
with the petals
of a dogwood tree.
It is bleeding petals of beauty
for no one but me and the bees
who are hurrying
to appreciate and see.
Robert Plant is singing
out there,
somewhere
'Ship of Fools'
I gathered petals
in plastic bags
after my run and before
a storm that might happen
because it all is borrowed
time.
Passing the joint like a question,
No hurrying in the asking.
The Buddha giggles with no sound.
A coil of cloud curls on his lip.
Embers fall, like minutes
No one is really counting.
The joint is getting shorter and shorter,
Preaching impermanence like scripture.
Breathe.
Let the world unfasten.
Breathe again.
Even desire arches.
He tells me, nothing.
That is everything.
His silence thick like resin,
Rolls from our lungs.
The smoke ascends, not looking for anything.
It drifts.
It just is.
This is the ending without an end.
The flame goes out.
Enlightenment remains.
I loved you then,
I love you now
and I'll always love you, dear.
Yet I cannot turn back the clock,
From yesteryears to the time
When madness gripped my soul.
For on that day at the meadow,
A stupid argument developed,
Escalated ridiculously to the point of no return.
My heart filled with despair and longing,
As dread and fear and envy
Took over my black heart.
Can I forget my stupidity?
Your gentle appeal, my crude abruptness?
The hurt in your dovelike eyes?
Giving up, I still can hear the echoes
Of hurrying footsteps clopping over the wooden bridge
As you left me forever!
She spreads the butter
on a square of toast
with scratching impatience,
smearing and slapping
the hardened bread
with a dainty butter knife.
She uses a fork like a harrow
in the jelly jar,
leaving lines across the top
where she dragged it across,
then glops it on
unevenly.
She uses a fork.
because she likes to lick the bits
between the tines,
and feel the hard metal
with jelly in her mouth.
Scrape, scrape, scrape
with the butter knife again.
I love her hurrying hand
that orchestrates
this action every morning.
The cinnamon toast
is slightly burnt,
and her sleeve is damp
from the coffee spill
on the linoleum table.
A crumb clings to her jawline.
She takes a guzzle, not a sip
from her cup that says:
“The Queen of Everything”
and smiles at me, knowingly.
In the backyard, the goldfinches
returned to our feeders.
A small female
turns her beady eye
toward us
with shared understanding.
Living on the street is dying on the street,
Slowly burning out, no grave, no last goodbye.
It is learning cold by its real first name,
The one that bites the bones and speaks to the seasons.
It is counting hours in crushed cigarette butts,
Reading the future in shuttered shop windows,
Sleeping with fear as your only blanket,
And mistaking dawn for an open wound.
Night whispers there, but strikes very hard,
Stealing dreams and putting makeup on death.
Hurrying footsteps turn into silences,
Eyes slide away, avoiding existence.
You become scenery, an authorized shadow,
A body tolerated in the corner of the sidewalk.
The world goes by, untouched, clean, prosperous,
And you remain there, fading into black.
Living on the street is dying without witnesses,
With hope punctured between two mornings.
It is surviving on your feet while the soul sits down,
And learning that dignity must be improvised.
But sometimes, deep in a fractured breath,
A spark insists on not letting go.
It still cries out, fragile and stubborn:
As long as I breathe, I am not entirely lost.
Amber ribbons in her hair
Unique scent her skin shares
Turquoise sky eyes of brown
Umbrella time rain falls down
Making meals of pinto beans
Not choosing to eat animal meat
Squirrel scurrying with his nuts
Burying hurrying hiding from us
Regal man’s thick mustache talks
Every day he rushes as he walks
Autumn’s breath in the blue breeze
The crunching leaves under his feet
He smokes a pipe between his teeth
Soft satin like violet voice
Speaking psalms of my heart
You must be an angel of course
For your words light the dark
Your presence is encouraging
Your smile is wide and warm
My ears listen no hurrying
You are charming doing no harm
I know I can not be you
So I consume you in my way
If I can just learn your truth
It’d lift my life in a day
You move like a holy wind
When you sit you still float
You keep me away from sin
And invite the Holy Ghost
You are a unique unicorn soul
Meek yet firm and strong
The goodness in your eyes glow
Inspiring a beautiful song
One day I hope to be like you
It may take a life time or two
the night lay draped in foggy mist
ships were blurry over the coast
as sun showed up in the East,
fog shivered in deadly fright.
hurrying to hide somewhere,
fled away in haste.
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