the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
Polarity showed up tonight in the small white pill resting in my palm—assurance and biological impedance within the same small shape. My endocrinologist believes taking it will rebuild my bone's density, coaxing my body to better use protein, collagen, and various minerals in places where time and age have thinned my bone's structure. But the pill brings its own polarity: it promises stronger bones even as a wave of morning-sickness nausea steals my comfort. Still, I take it, gratitude and resentment settling side by side in my heart. I’ve come to realize that sometimes polarity isn’t abstract. It’s real as real can be with me coping with two opposing truths coexisting.
white stone of healing~
a tide pulls both ways inside,
moor and undertow
You arrived the way breath arrives
without announcement,
without asking,
and made yourself essential.
White as the silence between lockdowns,
you crossed the threshold the way light crosses a room:
not invited,
not refused, simply, completely present.
Cloud-pawed, pink-nosed sovereign,
you chose Chaky's lap the way a river chooses its course,
not by permission but by the quiet insistence of gravity,
of going where the warmth was.
You sat in the window's crosshatched light
and watched the world contract to our four walls as if you had foreseen it,
as if a small white planet had already mapped this orbit,
had always known this was the house it would fall into and call home.
Between lockdown and lockdown,
you were the open door.
Meowlu: small declaration,
the way a candle declares itself not by shouting but by burning
I live here.
I matter.
I stayed.
And so,
because of you,
because even the smallest warmth holds something larger in its light,
so did Chaky.
A large mass of pelicans
grace the waters
of fort loramie lake
in mid-march
a sign of springs coming
large orange beaks hang
off small white
stubby necks
as they parade across
calm waters
gliding graciously
in unison
In the beautiful morning sunlight of May
A sacrificed lamb lays on his death bed
His life and limbs are in utter decay
In a few hours or days he’ll be dead
Outside the pink blossoms of the crabapple
Are softly blowing in the springtime breeze
They frame an outline of a small white chapel
Where his soon to be widow drops to her knees
There is a peaceful feeling in the air
The lovely scent of flowers brings serenity
A tranquil quiet fit for a lonely prayer
Because for him there is no remedy
When he awakens from his soothing slumber
His gaze wanders outside to see a lady in white
He muses that he has met his number
And this angel will take him through the light
She’s posing beneath the pastel trees
Her tripod is poised to capture the scene
A moment of beauty obtained to please
In a landscape curated for calm and serene
She is not an angel but she fits the vision
She seeks this image against the clear blue sky
The time has come for him to leave this prison
For it’s such a beautiful day to die
White Flower
——————-
Simple, exquisite, beautiful
this small white flower had panache,
dancing gently down from its perch
until it arrived near my feet.
Many others had traveled prior
but this one, oh this precious one
found me within the aubade woods.
It’s delicate petals shown white
with accents of orange and purple
the peak of color and brilliance
and yet today, no, why just now,
did it end?
———————-
buttery morning
light
licks
there are daintily cupped blooms
small white weeds
that no one can name
the sun has spread its table
green rippled gardens
garner
flecks of gold
an old groundhog
a basket of hedgerow twigs
baby footed clouds
blue dingle
between eggshell
vales
run along
all those that can leap a fence
or skitter under it
go
for the light is everywhere
new arriving
let the rooted behold
even if this domain
stops its clement rolling
even so
Quite by chance
I saw a single, small, white wildflower
amid a crush of grass and weeds
along the roadside, its presence crowded out
by seed heads and space hungry leaves
of species honed for survival.
This wildflower occupied an area
no larger than my little finger
and even then was bumped and bullied
by weedy neighbors. It fed
on the leftover light filtered down
through the tall grass.
I would like to think that in this sometimes
bleak universe there is a caring
and benevolent force that tries to preserve
such fragile beauty from the rampant
excesses of survival and greed, nudges
the odds to favor such a humble flower,
nurtures its seed.
An old stone cottage stands on the seafront
Abandoned and alone
Windows covered in sea salt and cobwebs
Its history and story unknown
A small white cottage with good bones
That has weathered many a storm
Now unloved and neglected
Still stands steadfast ,proud, yet sadly forlorn
A large stone fireplace graces the front room
Blackened by the years that have withstood the test of time
Giving warmth and comfort to many a soul
Comfort so sublime
I wonder who resided here
Was it a happy home
Was it alive , full of love and laughter
Or harbouring sadness and secrets unknown
I would love to sit inside this cottage
Light the fire and share a cup of tea
So the cottage could tell me its story
Of life as it used to be
A story perhaps of long lost secrets
One of intrigue and mystery
Or maybe just a simple tale
Of a loving family
In appreciation and gratitude for story told
A cuddle it would be
I would visit time and again for the warmth of its fire
And to share another cup of tea!
Seldom does the morning wake me now
Too long has there been a dream of green
Foggy with the mist of the sea bay
Filled with those small white boats
slowly bobbing about here and there
Tethered to the waters and our desires
The sun through the glass panes comes
Amorphous as thoughts touching everywhere
Castings shadows defining the darkness
Spreading the light vigorously as a summer storm
Where just outside the bedroom window sill
Hangs an aging flower box peeling off its blue paint
It has no flowers or dirt, the bottom is long gone
A reminder to another time, another grace
A traveler from the past in torn britches
And broken straw hats popping their lids
You can watch the blue paint chips drop down
To a weedy grass like petals of forget me nots
Today was another day of green dreams.
white balloon of pulse beats
its sluggish hops on March land
matted with half melted snow
freed from a nearby high rise balcony
cut from its red and blue compatriots
still hooked onto the railing
a matter of strings becoming frayed
small white blimp
reacting to a wind that means much less to others
unsettling to think it can't find its mooring
its bustable skin
flimsy
like the shallow breath of an aged sleeper
how long before it flees to some kind of shelter
small white balloon
soon to be picked up as litter
bouncing in its frailty
blow by blow
a swivel from side to side
and always
its sense of being under seige
Alone and floppy with nothing to wear
Silently, I left you there
But I wish I never had
The marks of lifesaving staining your skin
I couldn’t dress you one last time
But I wish that I had
I saw you again, just once more
In your birthday dress
That you were too young to wear
I left you there
In that cold white room, then in that small white box
But I wish I never had
The winter storm began with a few scattered flakes,
but soon the snow was falling, swirling and twirling;
white covered the city, streets, paths, forests and lakes,
I loved watching the snowflakes dancing and whirling.
It was wild with trees swaying back and forth in wind,
beauty was happening beyond my windowpane;
oh, I was in a winter magic state of mind,
each perfect small white snowflake like a song refrain.
When the snow ended I beheld a wonderland,
I went outside in the crisp air to breathe the cold;
all around the landscape was majestic and grand,
I returned from my snowy walk with feet ice-cold.
Small white buds like stars,
Twinkling in the dark garden,
Day comes, they open.
Yucca moth small white
Feeds upon yucca
Quite unique sight
Could say pure pukka.
'Pon tea, did alight.
Right in my cuppa
Quite a unique sight
Sails of felucca
A moth so white bright
But blends with yucca
Quite a unique sight
Blended in plica
A form called Yodel.
Pukka meaning excellent or high class
Felucca a sailing ship
Plica folds of a plant
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