Salt Tears

There’s more to words than rhyme,

more to life than time,

more to love than a paper heart,

more to pain than a doctor’s chart.

Memories like a haunted house

or the bitter smell of ashes doused,

and quiet ghosts, silver shadows,

drift in smoke against shattered windows

In the place where once lived love,

now traced in dust with soft white gloves,

the story of one, of two, then none

leave cold, salt tears to linger on.

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Down and Up

There are too many ways to put a person down
too many ways to break a loving heart
too many ways to strike out in hate
too many ways to tear love apart

There are so many ways to build a person up
so many ways to comfort a broken heart
so many ways to counter hate with love
so many ways to make a new start

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Resist and persist

Strong women rally and rise

We shall overcome

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Winter Morning

iciclesSilver spears dangle
Sun-tipped points glint fiery sparks
Tipped with morning gold

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He slumped thin and hunched against the night

and winter rain,

seeking the dry of a deep doorway

as New Year’s revelers passed, unseeing and unseen.


And when they were gone,

when the only sound in the dark was singing and violins

whipped aloft by December wind

he moved, scurried like a street rat around the building

to the looming green dumpsters behind.


We saw him as we parked our van, crouching

under his cloak of invisibility,

a disappearing shadow.

We locked the van.


On the sidewalk in front of the church

I saw him again. A fiver in my hand,

I handed my purse to my husband because

you never know, do you, and walked over

to the thin man in sweats,

toboggan cap and puffy jacket.

“Here,” I said. “Happy New Year,”

and moved quickly



“God bless you,” he said. “God bless you.

Be careful driving tonight,

with this rain it can be dangerous. I see

a lot of things, here on this street.

People aren’t careful, they go too fast,

always in a hurry. Only the other day I saw

a lady on her phone, walking, and this car comes

and hits her, rolls her right over the hood.”

His blue eyes surprised me with their youth

and clarity.


“Lady in the car used her phone to call 911.

They came and got the one who was hit. I don’t know

if she was killed or what. You got to be careful these days.

The things I see on this street, you wouldn’t believe.”


We opened the church doors,

the strains of Irish fiddle and laughter

spilling with the light onto wet pavement.

“Good night,” we said. “Happy New Year.”

“Take care of yourself,” I said, as if he could.

“You two have a blessed new year,” he called, and waved a bony arm.

The door closed and warmth surrounded us.

His eyes followed us inside.


He stayed in my mind, that young-old skinny man

trudging towards the convenience store.

Maybe a couple horse quarts on his mind,  or smokes that would trail

blue and ethereal into the night.

I thought of hs eyes,

bright blue surrounded by shaggy brows and beard

but young, late forties. The age of my oldest son.

He could have been my son.


He could have been my son, or yours, somewhere his mother

wonders where her boy is, and if he’s well

and warm and in the light

and if he’s surrounded by people, and music,

love and laughter.

He could have been my son.

He could.


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Solstice on Railey Ridge

Smoke curls and swirls

heavenward, through reaching

branches naked white against

a dying day.


The darkest night holds in its cusp

the birth of light, slow and quiet–

an owl drifts tree to tree

and somewhere Coyote sings

a song ancient as the mistletoe,

the holly and the ivy, twining

through wisps of flame and stars.

My voice raises in timid song

weaving melody with Coyote’s harmony;

while spirits stir and listen,

earth settles into sleep.

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True Beauty

“Beautiful is as beautiful does,” my mother used to say.
“Beauty is only skin deep,” she sometimes added, or
“Beauty is the eye of the beholder.”

It was the beauty without that fascinated me when I was young.
Not beautiful people, famous people,
not celebrities and heroes.


The falling leaf, the ripple on a pond,
the drift of clouds in summer’s blue,
the startle of a red flower along an unkempt road
caught my eye, held me bound by simple grace.

“Everything that is made beautiful and fair and lovely
is made for the eye of one who sees,” said Rumi.
“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful,
for beauty is God’s handwriting,” Emerson advised.
I believed these words; these were truths to touch, to hold close and long.

It took years to appreciate
the beauty my mother described,
the beauty she carried everywhere with her.
Now I see, as Ghandi taught,
“It may be possible to gild pure gold,
but who can make his mother more beautiful?”

Inspired by a prompt at First50; quotes from BrainyQuote.


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