He's Coming Home

He’s coming home
She puts down the phone
He’s coming home
What can she say
It’s been too long
So many things got in the way
He’s coming home
His voice thrilled her
Some silly game they used to play
Infectious laughter fills her
He’s coming home
Dancing on through the night
Half days spent in bed
Never enough time
Always wanting more
He’s coming home
How to say she’s sorry
She wanted to wait
But life moved on
Nothing remained the same
He’s coming home
She puts down the phone
He’s coming home

A Dance of Light

Changing light 
Stumbles into my room
Creating shapes 
Upon the wall
Dappled colors 
Merge and form
A masterpiece 
For an audience of one
Curtains flutter 
Pine scented breeze
Creating a dance 
For all of the senses
Resting here 
So serene
Daring not to stir
The spell 
Too easily broken
Watching 
The play of light and color
Upon the wall
Moving 
Ever so slightly
Across the room
And down the hall

Moonlit Lovers

Echoes of phantom waves
Rising foaming tumbling across the rocks
Memories
Rushing in with the tide
Assured
Our world would never shake
Seaside forages
Drift wood lamp
Sea shell table
Moonlit lovers
Mirrored in the shallow pools
Alas, the world did shift
Two who were one
Became only Two
Ghostlike images eternally
Standing apart
Gazing into shallow pools

Journey of Life

Laughing baby
Bringing joy to all you meet
Little girl running freely
Enjoying life
Family torn apart
Somber young girl
Must keep it all inside
Young wife
Kept out of sight
Divorced woman
Exploring life
New start
Middle aged woman
Seeking a healing path
Releasing the hurt
Welcoming the laughter
Little girl come home again
It is safe

Desert of Dreams

Through a window of time, 
I am thrust into the desert. 
The desert of my reflections, 
A place to gather my dreams. 
To set each out before me, 
Exploring them one by one. 
Turning them over and over, 
Being careful not to impose. 
A thorough examination, 
Certainly they could not bear. 
For like this desert floor, 
To dust they would return. 
My audience is oh so silent, 
Their arms poised to embrace. 
My presence received by silence, 
Respect for my journey won. 
The soulful cry of the coyote, 
Signals the end of this meditation.
A return to the more mundane,
Leaves me wishing I could stay.
But I know this place awaits me, 
Whenever I am ready to return.

Garaged Houses

It is the first time I walked down this street
The houses all look alike
Tall boxes with neatly trimmed hedges
Flowers boxes nestled on window sills
Each entry door has a mat
Some of them say Welcome
Some of them are silent
All are waiting to clean someone’s feet
Uniform mail boxes line the street
Standing erect, waiting to receive
Letters from family and friends
Or perhaps only bills
No cars are parked in the driveways
Garages house them all
The silence is deafening
I wonder
Is anyone home at all
It is a well groomed street
Everything in order
I wonder if the lives of the people
The people who live on this street
Are their lives in order

The Me That I'm Not

Who is the me that hides in the shadows,
Playing hide and seek with the me that I see.
I capture a glimpse every once in awhile,
But when I turn to look, I am gone again.
I fear the dark places where the other me dwells,
Those anguished corridors that would lead me to my self.
Housing hidey-holes for the me that I am not,
The passageways seemingly go on forever,
Only to eventually disappear all together.
The me that I cannot see,
Gleefully taunts from its secret places,
“I bet you can’t catch me!”
And try as hard as I might,
I cannot seem to capture the other me.
The one who hides and the one who mocks,
The one who certainly can’t be me.

Time

The hours of my life
One drop at a time,
Slowly dissolving
Leaving me lost,
Unable to keep pace
With so many demands,
Eroding my spirit
Energy robbed.
A need to be no-where
A place with no time,
Where hours exhausted are not lost
But each hour spent, redoubles itself.
Time quartered in sanctuary,
Eager for summons
And patient for command,
Time finally ceases with no reprimand.

A Day at the Beach

My mom is sick again and I don’t know why
I live with my grandparents when she’s away
I miss being with her and am confused
But today is a great day
My grandfather is taking me to the beach
Leaving my sister and brother with my Nana
We have the ocean all to ourselves
The seagulls are playing a game of their own
Swooping and diving, they call out to each other
My grandfather and I play a game in the warm water
And when a big wave comes our way
He quickly scoops me up in his arms
We laugh quite cheerfully, he’s cheated the wave
Taken away its chance to knock me down
The water that splashes my face tastes salty
And the sand feels gritty underneath my bathing suit
But I don’t mind because today I’m special
I get my grandfather all to myself
He’s taken only me to the beach
To play in the waves

A Nymph Disguised

Memories flow away
in temporary tides,
each a phantom of the mind
enclosed in gauzed perfection.
Wistful pursuit of memories lost
are muddled up with every day truth.
A nymph disguised
in righteous indignation
leads us away
from remembered pasts.
Directions freely given
to a bog of misinterpretation,
a quagmire of
fractured remembrances.
The mind reacts
with complacency,
grateful to be free
of any clarity.

Unacknowledged at Hell's Door

I lie here broken,
unable to stand up by will alone.
Like the deer who was hit by a car,
I struggle to lift myself up,
to no avail.
My heart is raw,
so much in need of a cure.

Kin mechanically mutilated an innocent soul,
without perception of the infinite wound imposed.
Years stain the time,
with no request for forgiveness.
All created solely to sate a lone ego,
and I am left alone,
unacknowledged at Hell’s door.

The Abyss

Within stillborn moments
Separate from
The pursuit
Of my muse
And the intermittent
Whisperings within
I feel an abyss
An infinite black hole
Where no emotions
Catch and stick

The Dweller

She dwells beneath the bramble bush,
spinning golden scarves from long dead memories.

She dwells beneath the oak tree,
stirring a stew made rich with forgotten dreams.

She dwells beneath the running brook,
sewing a patchwork quilt from the remnants of discarded hearts.

From the depths of the earth she gathers all things unwanted,
artfully transforming humanity’s castoffs.
She has lived since the beginning of time,
yet man rarely remembers her.

Her name was once revered,
now is hardly spoken.
Her powers once exalted,
now lay covered in dust.

She dwells beneath the heavenly skies,
holding each within her heart.

Who is this wondrous mistress of old,
the one who dwells beneath us all?
Those who remember can name her,
whispering reverently

“Mother of All!”

A Poet's Orb

In searing liquid rivers,
creativity flows.
The fiery muse is housed
within cryptic niches
squeezed
into the summit of the soul.

Unlike manmade apparatus,
imagination is not mass produced.
It resides within 
a lake of emotions,
rippling 
with hungry expectations
of words newly formed.

At last, a new life form is 
exhaled. 
The origin
of the verse remains
cloaked in ambiguity.
Its birth requires
gentle presentation into
what may well be
a life of misconception.

Creation complete and true,
appeasement,
aimed to satisfy the ravenous muse,
seeps into fissures deeply
encased within the heart.

A white hot purification
has sated the writer’s plea, 
relief trickles down through
another pillaged soul.

Left spent
yet eager for more,
the poet’s orb swells
with hope
of devouring even more.