The tiny canvas caught her eye daily,

often more than once a day,

sitting there amongst her trinkets and memories,

waiting to become more than it was,

the tiny pots of paint at the ready,

the brush, casually laying across the white field,

she thought of the delicate strokes the brush offered,

the vibrant red, waiting in it's pot,

the yellow gold of sunlight,

the green of earth,

and blue of sky,

she wondered what the painting would be,

flowers on a field of green,

one giant red rose,

a balloon, perhaps the hot air type, with basket below,

maybe a mermaid peaking out of the sea,

a house on a tree lined street,

something to do with the beach,

or mountains,

or a stream that wanders through woods,

maybe an animal, or a house plant,

whatever it would be,

it was ready,

but she wasn't yet. 

Soon, she told the canvas, I'll know what to do.

 

 

departures and arrivals

 a car door closes in the distance,

not slammed, but firmly shut,

arriving or departing, one does not know,

birds chirp as they flit about,

they gather and disperse,

little parties of short duration,

the sun warms the air,

the breeze moves it about,

competing temperatures,

on the road, the traffic flows,

comings and goings,

purposeful or pleasureful,

the day progresses,

much like those before and those to come,

each persons own and everyone else's too

another door is open and shut,

somewhere a telephone begins to ring,

a dog barks his alarm,

an airplane passes overhead,

the roar of it's engine distorted by distance,

arriving or departing, one does not know,

the neighbor's car appears and is parked,

the neighbor emerges and gathers packages to bring inside,

an arrival for certain,

a man on a bicycle rides by,

on his face a look of childlike abandon,

this is a departure from the mundane,

a woman comes outside,

she brings her refuse to the bin,

returns to her home,

a day observed,

departures and arrivals.

untitled

 

The breeze came up and tapped me on the shoulder,

 I turned to face it, but it had already passed me,

Changing direction it came and nudged me down the hill,

The sun had sent it,

To tell me that she’d be going soon,

And I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As the sun put on her evening show,      

And dusk crept in to take up the day,

Night hesitated to swallow up the mountain,

The animals ate their evening meals,

And began to think of bedding down.

 

I wanted to stay,

I wanted more time with the mountain,

The wind nudged again and reminded me,

I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As I headed down,

I looked around,

Trying to remember every scene,

To commit to memory the place where your ashes now played,

I’d never be here again,

Not in this way,

Not with you.

 

I’d better not be caught up here alone.

all rights reserved 

glimpses

 sometimes I see glimpses of other worlds

they are just movements or patterns seen in my peripheral vision

out of the corner of my eye, a dark column moves

a shadow has dimension

I feel a cat jump onto the bed when none lives here now

a window frame reminds me of a place I've never been

a smell of ... what? I can not name it or remember it's place

I look up and hours have passed without my noticing

the sun has set but I'm still basking in it's warmth

I feel a caress, but is it just a memory?

small movements in my otherwise still rooms

a tapping from the hallway

meant to draw my attention away or to push me back to now?

just glimpses 

even alone, not truly alone

The book of our love.

 When I said "we need to talk", 

I was asking for your help,

 your love, your input, your phrases, and arguments.

 I knew we had fallen off the same page,

I wanted to ask you to make some revisions.

But you just closed the book.

You didn't want to finish the story.

You pulled the pages out and threw them in the fire.

I was on those pages. 

I was on the ones that went in the bin.

I was on the ones that were thrown into the wind.

I was on the ones that were crumpled and discarded.

I'm writing a new book now. 

But you still mark the pages. 

Like a stain, a water mark made of tears.

There's still more to be written. 

The single volume you destroyed still informs the series.

Writing you out of the story hasn't been as easy. 

I've made mistakes that can't be erased, 

but they are in that other book.

This one is still a rough draft,

but writing it without collaboration hasn't been easy.

Your editing isn't kind and it isn't constructive. 

I want to build. 

What is your new book going to say?

The little girl under the clothesline.

 

Shorter than most, this story begins with a moment in time that hasn't happened yet. It is a look into the future by someone who lives in the past. Which, if you think about it, makes it a story about now.

Emily is on her death bed. She is telling her daughter about her life. She wants to make sure that she has told her the precious memories that have been with her all these years. Her daughter wants her to conserve her energy. She thinks she has heard all these stories already. She makes sure the tape recorder is recording and allows her mother to go on. 

Emily was sitting in her rocking chair, holding the baby. She started to think about days when she was a child. She remembered a special day. She wanted to make sure that when the baby was older she would remember the story so she could her tell it to her. She felt it was important. 

She was just six years old and was a shy child. She loved the outdoors, the sights, the smells, the tastes, the adventures found in the most unusual places. Her imagination ran wild with worlds of talking snails and fencing crickets, and wondering every day, "What did Katy do?"

On this particular day she was playing under the clothesline, watching her mother hang the sheets to dry. She wondered if mommies thought about the little tiny creatures in the grass while she worked. She asked her mom and to her delight, her mother stopped working and came and sat on the ground next to her. Her mother said, "Yes, dear, I think about them, but mommies don't have as much time to dream about the little things as little girls do. We have to do the laundry, and keep the house, and make sure our children are safe and happy." The little girl was sad and thought she would never be a mommy then. Her mother said, "Let's take some time to do it now. Let's think about the ants who live in the grass." She and her mother sat in the grass for a long time, making up stories, and talking about the language the ants would use. Or it seemed, to her, like a long time. Mommy had to get up and finish with the sheets. 

Emily, the little girl, now on her deathbed, began again, "I believe I was around six years old. It was a sunny day in summer and my mother was hanging sheets on the clothes line. I was playing in the grass and looking for worlds even tinier than mine..."

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I keep looking for your love,

but it's not there anymore,

It's been used up, 

depleted.

but you, 

you have this habit,

this habit of keeping tabs on me,

dependence.

but you, 

you like the attention,

you like me chasing you,

ego.

but me,

I want the attention,

I want to be seen,

ego.

I want to be cared for,

I want to be needed,

I want to be guided,

dependence.

My patience is failing, 

my heart is hurting,

My love is not yet,

depleted.