I step outside as the day thins beyond the balcony,
noticing how the wind nudges the empty ,chairs,
and how the last warmth fades from our cups.
A sparrow startles somewhere beyond the balcony,
its small flutter drifting between the chairs,
as if it, too, recalled the hands that once lifted these cups.
I breathe in that faint sweetness hovering near the balcony,
thinking of the conversations that lived inside these chairs,
the way morning warmth once rose from our cups.
Evening drifts onto the balcony, touching the stillness of the chairs and glancing off the cups.
wind rises behind me,
a gentle insistence
against my spine~
not a command,
but a direction.
it threads through the grass,
touches my shoulders,
and nudges me toward
whatever waits
beyond the next bend.
no map.
no promise~
only the soft certainty
that some paths
are chosen
by the wind itself.
Conceived from the first ray of light
The infant dawn opens its eyes
Too soon the sun bows to the night
Reluctant to say its goodbyes
The dusk knows the night's just begun
The moon knows it's just the night's pawn
The morning star nudges the sun
To once more awaken the dawn
A beetle begins its shift
where the day left off~
at the edge of a stone
it has moved before.
It tests the surface first,
tapping once with an antenna,
then proceeds,
lifting each leg deliberately
as though the ground requires
confirmation.
A pebble blocks its path.
It pauses,
gives a soft scrape,
nudges it half an inch
then continues,
the adjustment noted
only by the beetle itself.
On bark,
its carapace catches
the a pale pull of light~
a thin, ancestral shimmer
that recalls the long night
its kind has always known.
It inspects a fallen leaf,
turning it slightly
to read the underside~
a task completed nightly,
never hurried,
never skipped.
By dawn,
nothing looks changed,
though the beetle has worked
every inch
of its small world.
And yet the dark feels steadier
even in our quiet daily labors~
minute corrections
that keep the hours aligned,
and meaningful
until the first pale light
lifts the edges of the day
and carries work
forward.
when I was but a little girl we had a hammock
in our backyard between the trees
it was lovely to crawl in and let the wind caress me
back and forth
I would gather my doll close to my heart
and quietly spend hours swaying, dreaming
oh, so exquisite the wind- like a soft breath
a soft murmur in the trees
I loved the whooshing, hissing, and whispering
and the delicate sound of birds tweeting
I felt tranquility, serenity and calmness
and I could dream of beautiful places and things
as I lay floating in the wind
smelling the aroma of mothers flower garden
oh, the wind nudges me from my dream
with a pleasant poetic breeze
like a ripple on the water
and peace has wrapped me in her arms
Life is all about leverage
both overt and implied
To move the world ever forward
and sail the highest tide
Subtle it nudges intention
exerted our missteps reclaimed
It magnifies every action
— restoking fortuity’s flame
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Freeing The Verse
To have a poem
but not the words
To bring the message
home
Intention firm
and feelings clear
But silence
sits the throne
Awaiting vowels and consonants
regifted from a sage
A marble block of verbiage
to sculpt upon the page
And once each phrase has taken form
it’s wed to feelings true
To free the verse that faithful waits
— unheard inside of you
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Roasted pig ear treats
the favorite of Cosmo to eat
He chews and chews diligently
savoring the taste thoroughly
But Sassy hers she ignores
pig ears for her a bore
Cosmo finished and he spies
Sassy pig ear by her side
He nudges closer a slow crawl
his nose sniffs what his eyes saw
Sassy knows what Cosmo up to
so the pig ear she begins to chew
Cosmos dismayed and whines
whimpers loud for pig ear to dine
Sassy growls and grips it tight
teasing Cosmo enjoying his plight
He stares and stares and stares
Sassy chews it as if a dare
Suddenly Sassy lets it go
Cosmo steals it by a nose
Sassy seems to not care
Cosmo chews her pig ear
Cozzymo happy boy
two pig ears tummy joy
He licks his lips and looks at me
begging for pig ear number three.
As night softly nudges dusk aside
and birds return to their nests to hide
I look skyward in hopes of a chance
to see you among their nightly dance
The stars are magic, but I need you
the way you once were: a dream come true
I hear wind singing our lonesome song
And wonder again how things go wrong
If I could hold you just one more day
dance with the clouds our magical way
But, our days have become lost in time
and, only in dreams will you be mine
The stars sense dawn is now drawing nigh
they persuade wind to lighten the sky
Then Breeze, that often tells silken lies,
Will tell our secrets to lilac skies
The day calls to me,
he asks if I know the night...
full of desire!
The night nudges me,
she asks what does the day want...
as if she knew not!
The sky's wondering,
if they'll make pledges of love...
with rings made of stars!
Tiny, my precious one-eyed ball of fluff --
with oh so sharp teeth and claws --
is disarmingly warm and cuddly but
often still quite skittish,
and stand-offish.
She purrs non-stop, contented,
when safely protected, on my lap
while being stroked. Her food and her water
bowls are clean and full
and her litter box is mostly promptly
emptied, refilled, odorless
and sanitized.
So what if she nips playfully
at my aged paper-thin skin?
Also she may snag my dressy
seldom-donned attire with those
sharp claws. But
she over-pays her board, her daily care,
with fond head nudges, and with her
unabashed preference for me
above all others, even now,
when I may no longer be,
to others, what I was.
To her, still, this outer shell
is precious, is safe,
Is reciprocated love,
is home,
is everything.
My son eats
ice cream
in front of a heater
in January.
He asked me
if that made sense,
so, I told him:
“It does for you,
Ben.”
,
As a mother
to a middle-schooler
I have become
the one-and-only
unappreciated
chauffeur,
the thesaurus
that he doesn’t
trust,
the center
of all things
wrong
and embarrassing.
Meanwhile,
I continue
to be proud
of the man
he is becoming
and my little hand
that nudges him
along,
however
embarrassingly,
and sometimes
I catch him
smiling back.
Time is not merely measured by the ticking of clocks or the turning of calendars. It is felt in the spaces between breaths, in the quiet pauses that carry our memories, our joys, and our sorrows. The past is a living archive, a treasure chest of moments that shaped who we are. The present is a fleeting but luminous gift, demanding attention, gratitude, and care. The future waits patiently not as a threat, but as a canvas upon which we may paint our choices.
We often rush, thinking time is against us, yet the truth is that time is patient. It witnesses our struggles, celebrates our triumphs, and gently nudges us toward wisdom. To honor time is to honor ourselves: to remember, to act, and to hope. Every instant we live is a brushstroke on the grand canvas of our existence, and every heartbeat a note in the eternal melody of life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four furry silhouettes, whiskers twitching, huddle around a cardboard grid~
Four acorn tokens clatter on the board.
Dew-damp grass stains the Baltic Avenue deed.
A whiskered snout nudges Community Chest~
Winter stores secured beneath oak bark.
Four paws grip the dice cup tight and shake.
Electric Avenue mortgaged for one nut.
Tail-flicks trace railroads, Park Place dreams
Shatter as a crow steals the top hat piece.
Four bushy strategists stare at Free Parking.
Rain begins its raid on Marvin Gardens.
The dice roll forgotten, they scatter skyward~
Squirrelopoly unfinished beneath gathering clouds.
A child as grows enjoys rainbow of joys,
Many a marvel in a wondrous world,
Joys mingling with toys getting bouncy buoys,
A world of birds and butterflies unfurled.
As comes his youth that changes only toys,
Rewards of life so naïve staying no more--
Boys chasing girls, and girls giggly at boys,
And soon mid-age knocks at a blissful door,
Clay pots as if in kiln get to ripen,
Realities reel out nigh hard and keen,
The joys of old times no more enliven,
Time knocks, nudges him to kneel, look within,
In hope he grows old, fulfilled life to find,
But grows blasé, bliss of ere left way behind.
___________________________
Sonnet | 08.09.2014 | life, reflection, childhood, youth, joys, old age
Note: As one grows old he tends to reflect on his past
God works in whispers and slight nudges
Some choose to blast the music of the world
They drown Him out and claim He isn't there
They run away from Him tapping softly for attention
He follows
But not with screams and shouts and shoves
He doesn't work like that
If only we can learn to quiet our minds and lives to hear
His words of love and nudges reminding us of our path
He knocks on the door of our hearts
All we need to do is let Him in
Words, nudges, and knocks to remind us of our true home
Home with Him in eternal happiness
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