STILLBORN
So like a tree
Inside a storm
Weeps her leaves
To save herself
So too you weep
A womb, your keep
Lonliness
You are inborn
Your tangled hair
In tortoise shell
Combs that hold
The shadows there
A heart in need
Allegro beat
A blackened well
Once wishes fell
With furrowed brow
The winds that howl
Beyond the walls
Are muffled now
The barren lea
But she is free
To fast and feast
The carnival
Inside the gloam
So one forlorn
A eulogy
For one, stillborn
roc
Gloam - The time of day immediately following sunset.
One winter I stood at the base of a very old, very tall tree. Her trunk of bark with it's deep groves and ridges reminded me of a well travelled road to a horizon where the branches canopied chaotic to infinite possible futures never chosen.
Anticipation
Promise made prior
No more worries
Shredding tears no more
Painless vibes
Rejoice being delivered
Actual guarantee
Far Beyond Earth
Naked human eyes can’t see
Ridges of my heart
Blessing deep down in my soul
Cries making it all possible
Meeting Christ face to face
Created me from beginning in his trace
His image and my perfection
Feeling of belonging
Preparation from birth
The day, hour and moment
Journey to everlasting
Home away from home
Heaven’s shelter
Peaceful and caring roam
My home sweet home.
Floating across the ridges, gentle leaf
Soaring to new heights, despite the grief
Still, soft joy providing soul’s relief
Music in all its grace, autumn’s relief
Song as bright as sunshine in each leaf
This is the moment, pouring out its grief
Across the ridges, soundless edge of grief
Quiet prayers, in His presence is relief
Trees and hills, bound by each vibrant leaf
Every leaf, despite its grief, finds relief in Fall
Biblical promise from the beginning
Preparation well kept
Heaven’s arrival
Meeting all the Disciples, Moses, Joshua, Abraham and many others
Far beyond the ridges of Earth
Eyes have not seen
Seeing my friends who passed before me
The place of sweet and spiritual vibes
Walking around Heaven Day and Night
Golden prayers
Calm, Secrete and Pure
No worries nor pain
Uplift into a new tomorrow
Songs of Glorified
Hallelujah praise
Appreciation being on the highest
Angels fly
Kingdom of Thy
Talking personally to everyone including the Lord face to face
Living on Earth was a waste
Spiritual rise
Heaven’s Revelation energize.
The Tracks of Forlorn
The gravel is new, freshly laid,
The boundaries bordered by fences we've made,
Walking along in my tarseled feet,
In the dark of the night and midsummer's heat,
I look at the tracks and feel the horn,
The world at my back and all of their scorn.
The train passes by on ridges of steel,
Shaking the ground and all I feel.
It rolls along as the ground surely shakes,
The peace is shattered as my mind itself quakes.
Stress of the mind feels like torrents of sin,
As the wind rushes by pushed from the lead engine.
Memories flash by as trains eat up steel,
Running through mind like an old movie reel.
I've lived and I've loved, but memories are torn,
Like the train of my mind on tracks of forlorn.
I've stood and I've felt,
Pondering now the cards I'd been dealt,
In the dead of the night and train's aftermath,
The silence is deaf'ning on the cold gravel path.
-Debra
From far away the mountains rise,
blue-silver shapes in morning’s glow.
Their ridges catch the sun’s first throw,
a shimmer brushed across the skies.
Warm wind carries the meadow’s sighs,
wildflowers breathing soft below.
From far away the mountains rise,
blue-silver shapes in morning’s glow.
And though I watch with open eyes,
the peaks stay wrapped in distant snow~
a pale, bright hush I long to know.
From far away the mountains rise.
Just around the corner,
Laughing leaves and colors
Crimson, boldest orange
Golden joys, whimsical
Songs in breathless notes
Praises from the heart…
Who hears the flow of rain
Falling against the eaves,
Delicate melody of grace
Expressing what it means…
To feel the comfort of knowing
Autumn’s still voice
Is rising on the hills, coloring
The whole world in joy
Felt by those who know Him,
The One who wrote the story
Leafy notes of praise…
Rise from the spirit who grows
Quiet and reflective,
Sensing the wonder stirred
By the wistful leaves, the mist
Beyond the streams, the ridges
Blessings in notes of hope…
Found by those who hear
His still, small voice
In the hesitant prayers
Of a hesitant owl, a deer
A bouncing squirrel, preparing
For winter’s bitter frost…
And the night remembers
What it means to breathe in
The softest wind, the praise
Sounding like moon’s light, vibrating
Pouring out faith with each note,
From the feelings brought to life
By hearts who feel Autumn inside.
fine patterns of ridges on the skin are my subdermatoglyphic
the underlying dermal matrix performs this amazing trick
Digital High Definition
Electronic chips
Evolution that revolves
Cyber elevation
Apple revolution
Sophisticated and Simplified
Technological breakthroughs
IMAC unit
Impact sensation
Through the wide screen providing loads of information
Wireless detail into the generation of tomorrow that is here today
Navigation Frontier
What the IMAC can create from the mind behind the imagination Theory
Testing computing
Old phase no more
Those days of Dinosaur computer ventures became historical to new
Advances
Thirst for technological approaches into ridges of tomorrow
Days of Star Trek
Going beyond where man has never gone before
Determination put into action
Essence golden
Beyond the Limitations
Liftoff into new journeys not seen
IMAC on track
No explanation needed
Pure fact.
old winds wander slow
through hollowed mountain paths,
carrying the murmured lore
of waters born before memory;
stone-faces lean inward, listening,
their ridges etched by centuries
of patient, moon-pale flow—
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
i
n
g
down the elder cliffs,
where every drop recalls
a vow whispered in the first dawn;
the pool below waits open,
its surface stirring like prophecy,
gathering each falling thread
into a circle older than names,
as if the earth itself remembers
how light once learned to move
Some nights I wonder
if planets think~
not in words,
but in long, slow pulses
of orbit and heat.
If their crusts remember
the pressure of forming,
the way bones remember
the weight of childhood.
Perhaps their mountains
are thoughts that rose too quickly,
cooling into ridges
before they could finish
their sentences.
Perhaps their oceans
are moods~
vast, tidal contemplations
that shift with the pull
of distant companions.
I imagine Jupiter brooding
in its storm-lit spirals,
a philosopher of gases
turning over questions
older than light.
And Earth~
our quiet, breathing sphere
might be dreaming through us,
thinking in forests,
solving in rivers,
wondering in whale song,
asking itself
what it means
to be alive.
If planets think,
their thoughts must be slow,
patient as gravity,
ancient as dust~
a kind of cosmic meditation
we only hear
when we finally
become still.
Traveling for miles
Blowing through sand,making ridges
Cools climate behind
Sounds of spoken silence, a slight bit slippery,
Comfortable claims that ease and sing perfect songs,
Rescuing eruptive ridges embroidered in effervescent languages,
Oh, the uncomplex nature of your predictable valiance,
I’ve watched plenty of promises pretend to prosper,
While pouring perishing peace into pieces of me.
If to love you, sunken scars must bleed not bruise,
If to move you, soul must listen not speak
If we must live, what parts of us would die?
For I ache to pierce through materials manufactured by misled manipulators,
So, Before the instrument full of stain begins its calligraphy,
Mark me with the winter that hold your heart,
Tell the frost, how your limbs draw out my gravest parts,
It is your festering flaw, your voice that still anguishes me,
A sickness , for a figure driven by shame.
South of Cape Girardeau,
the Ozarks Mountains rise~
blue-green and breathing,
their gentle ridges holding summer’s heat
the way old places keep stories.
Below them, the Mississippi moves
with that slow, unhurried power,
a wide silver muscle
sliding past the bluffs
as if time itself were drifting downstream.
And I remember standing there~
a girl on the edge of two immensities,
the mountains behind me,
the river before me,
learning how a place can shape
the way a heart grows up.
This poem is the introductory poem to a chapter (Summer in Missouri) in my book of memoirs (Shoebox Chronicles)
At the edge of the Thar desert’s sandy festoon,
the train of the ancient Aravalli hills cascades
with the undulating landscape of antique dunes,
cradles joyous Jaipur, the pink city of Rajasthan.
On carved hill-top mighty forts’ stone walls splay,
wrap the pictorial city portrait with history drape.
Aligned through the sculpted ornate gateways
the orthogonal roads symbolize cubic cityscape .
The archaic forts on the chiseled hill crest
stand like the regiment of outdated sentinels
on the ramparts of the glorious olden times,
embedded in the wind-scraped craggy ridges.
The tinsels of drizzling moonbeam in satin nights
paint murals with stardust on concrete canvas,
framed as silhouette on the smoky desert sky.
I’m charmed by the charisma of this colorful city.
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