RAIN
The storm has come
The long grass sway
In panic throws
Their blades give way
But she has come
To rapture those
Their wrists
Their throats
Like beating drums
Her throne is there
Above the hills
Her loosened hair
Like blood, she spills
Upon the sills
Upon the stairs
Upon the roads
Her mist like Mare
Crescents carved
In clay, by hoof
Those too slow
Lay underfoot
A tangled mane
Her fingers strain
She runs and rides
Across the roofs
She calls the lakes
The river's wake
To drown the plain
To flood the wood
She has come
The long grass sway
She has come
So has the rain
A scavenger was invited to
The land of preservation
The breath of life
Gave him shelter and food.
Alongside his peers,
The fortress of beasts
Shielded him from the elements—
Stepping outside to
Repay their benevolence.
This scavenger returns,
Looking for an answer...
To the grass trampled underfoot,
Leaves plucked without thought,
Fruits are severed from branches.
How is it possible that
Those who came to this world first—
Let us,
The ones who only take
Still upright among them?
The serenity that comes,
As if spread over eternity—
Is all I need to hear...
A blessing for us is
A price they've paid to stay.
Though I am but an ember in the wind,
my life so fleeting - to the Lord Most High.
He still sees me, He surely is El Roi,
and grants me both his mercy and reprieve.
Though Alpha and Omega, Jehovah,
my sins, He bore, upon a rugged Cross.
For His Son, Christ Jesus, paid price in full,
and trampled grave and serpent underfoot.
So may I never boast in naught but Christ,
or folly, or groan, with God's living breath.
No! Let the Prince of Peace, good Shepherd me,
for all that I am, is through Christ alone.
So temper now my head to a new song,
where you're e'er with me, and e'er will belong.
Poem of the day
05/16/2026.
'Blessed be the Name of the Lord'
Fridged, bleached tiles underfoot,
icicles wicking warmth.
A shiver quivers,
spine stiffens--
Bellows bound,
cracked mirror,
s a e
h k s
Yellowed walls listen,
boards beneath
breathe cre--ek...
Thunderous footsteps
fall, echoed hallways
r v r e a e-
e e b r t
doorframe quakes,
breaks underweight.
You, the great blasphemer, did snort
“I will be Christ. I will be the Most High
Above the fifty stars and courts
Above every deity of the sky”
Worshiping the idol of forts
With gold and silver, but with no ally
O orange morning star… O Don
You will be brought down alive
By Life, the daughter of Wisdom
To where no rose can grow and strive
With no oak tree to rest upon
With no eagle to arrive
Trampling you underfoot
Generations will think
“Is this that man who put
The whole earth on the brink
Turned his kingdom to soot
Killed liberty in a blink”
(Influenced by Isaiah 14:12-17)
lose mind in the scuff that is underfoot
trust soot can be outrun
in dreams' cascade, burdens shun -
the art of wild abandon
The lure of the chase
crisp fresh autumnal morn
Ah, for a hunt like this man was born
Dogs point their ears
bugles’ blares cut through the air
Leaves crackle underfoot
the prey in their scents, almost there
The first volley of gunpowder’s heard
From the front issue forth triumphant words
midst swirls and eddies of blood ~ a life not spared
The autumn wind betrays the green facade,
sweeping crisp brown leaves through the air.
They swirl and scatter to fall beneath the feet
of a secret yearning, an iron tree.
Who's trunk is dotted with splashes of rust,
littered with clumps of grime and dust;
its gelid branches devoid of life
like parched scepters.
Nothing lives in the clearing beside.
There is no birdsong nor telltale sound
of leaves crunching underfoot,
only the rustling of distant bushes and trees,
a trail of fading footsteps and a shadow
who lies, sheltering and huddling
at the metallic base. The rain, wind and leaves
may batter it day on day
but it will wait till the iron tree blossoms
then dissolve to join the silhouette of flowering love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The envelope’s edges are crinkled and battered,
like a leaf forgotten underfoot~
its seal remains tight, unbroken.
Inside, the ink bleeds into hesitant rivers,
words dissolving into what might have been
I miss you or come home.
The postmark? Just a blur now~
could’ve been spring,
could’ve been some random Tuesday.
That’s when it slipped out of sight,
getting tangled up in someone else’s story.
Now it hides in a drawer
tucked away with other unused things:
a ticket stub to nowhere,
a key that fits no lock,
and the quiet weight
of all the words
that never left one's throat.
What is a letter
but a breath trapped in paper?
What is silence
but the echo of a name
no longer said aloud.
The envelope waits.
The words wait.
And the hand that might have opened it
is dust.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Winter’s bite clings to the air,
each footfall breaking the thin ice of morning.
My breath unravels in ragged ghosts,
disappearing into the gray dawn.
Spring arrives—moist ground, and
mud splattering on my calves.
The ache in my lungs is suddenly green,
filled with pollen and carefree birdsong.
Summer sears the asphalt,
melting the soles of my shoes.
Rivers of sweat run down my spine.
I spring through the fevered world,
chasing the horizon and blue sky.
Autumn arrives quietly;
leaves are brittle underfoot.
The wind tugs at my clothes
like a lover who knows I’m leaving.
I slow down, not because I'm tired
but because the light is disappearing.
Even the longest roads
must turn homeward.
If you enjoyed this poem, you may want to read its memoir vignette companion, Season to Season, posted here on Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/season_to_season_13582
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
morning light slants gold
through venetian blinds, slow as honey.
summer stretches its limbs,
yawns across the porch swing,
and time dissolves like sugar in iced tea.
hubby’s hand in mine—dry warmth,
the rustle of leaves underfoot,
a conspiracy of squirrels.
the woods don’t care about our plans,
and that’s the gift~
nowhere to be but here,
no clock but the sun filtering down.
December arrives wrapped in laughter,
a tangle of mismatched chairs,
too many forks, not enough plates.
someone always burns the rolls.
the carols rise anyway~
off-key, overlapping,
a chaos of joy sharp as pine needles.
blank pages are kinder
than mirrors.
They never judge~
only wait.
My pen bleeds
stories, coffee stains, and
ink smudges like bruises
I’m proud to carry.
the wind howls its complaints,
rattles the windowpanes.
I let it.
the mug warms my palms,
steam curling into the air
like a ghost of comfort.
The cocoa is too sweet.
I drink it anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bell above the door still jingles~
a sound like nickels spilling from a tin.
Inside, the air smells of licorice and mildew,
of something sweet refusing to let go.
Dusty glass licorice jars sit on the shelf.
A single ceiling bulb flickers
over penny candies wrapped in wax.
Wooden floorboards groan underfoot,
remembering when kids reached for treats on the top shelf
A rotary phone rests on the counter, black and patient,
its coiled cord a noose for yesterday’s conversations.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Nicholson stalworth stands;
she’d grown up in our town,
knew everyone and just about everything
about everyone.
She also knew where everything lived~
the peppermints, the lye soap, the brittle
catalogues from 1947 curling at the edges.
She moved slowly, dust rising in her wake,
a pioneer woman who remembered
world wars, the Great Depression, and
when bread cost a dime.
Behind the register, her apron now hangs empty,
still smelling of peppermint and camphor.
I pause.
This is where time comes to loiter.
I step from whirring future gears
To shadowed halls of moss and mire,
Where candles flicker, knowledge fears,
And hope is but a guttering fire.
Cobblestones echo underfoot,
A market square of mud and cries—
Peasants barter, beggars brood,
Monks guard secrets, wary-eyed.
The plague carts rattle down the lane,
A priest’s Latin lost on cold stone,
Superstition thick as rain—
Witch or wise, you die alone.
But look—within the abbey’s walls,
A child’s voice stirs the silent night,
Tracing stars on parchment, small,
Dreaming truths beyond the fright.
If I could change one thread of fate,
Would I bring a book, a spark,
A word of science to translate
The world from brittle dark?
But history’s woven, coarse and tight—
A single tug might fray the seams.
So gently, I leave one lantern light,
And trust the dawn to find their dreams.
torrents of fall leaves
descending in whispers here~
crunch hard underfoot
Islam, like poison, seeping in
Takes over lands it sets thy foot
Resist and fight this evil jinn
Else find yourself be underfoot
November 7, 2025
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