I sit before a spill of a thousand pieces trying to make order– edges, colors, shapes: an airplane, little man, Shrek, Swiss cheese punched with holes…
It hardly matters. The pieces are finite, and even if a few are lost the picture will declare itself in time.
But in life– I will never know the count. The shapes keep changing, colors fade as I reach for them. I turn my mind this way and that, seeking a fit, some clear design.
Still, the table remains scattered. I learn to live beside it. The clarity I seek remains elusive.
The air splinters like glass– I perch on a gnarled limb, a solitary watcher in the fractured gloom of night, where bitter winds gnash at a starless sky.
Below, the earth trembles with despair, its pulse a staccato of sorrow, as the cacophony of man’s ruin echoes through my ancient eyes. I, the silent sentinel of twilight, bear witness to hearts ensnared in an endless dispute.
I drift through fractured hours, each moment a shard of broken light, and in the rustle of dying leaves I hear the desperate murmur of questions scraping at the marrow of human intent.
I long for a guiding voice– a call as steady and resolute as my own nocturnal hymn– that might reach the steely hearts of our world’s posturing masters, whose empty grandstanding leaves their people trembling at the ominous specter of what is to come.
Yet wisdom is never tender; it is honed by the relentless edges of despair, etched in the scars of time and the silent ache of the dark. I, who have seen centuries unfold beneath these ageless stars, offer my muted counsel to the chaos below.
I am afraid, yet I remain–a keeper of ancient truth– praying that, in the echo of my solemn hoots, a spark of reason my be kindled. May their voices rise, clear and fierce as the cry of the night owl, to lead us from the tempest and transform shattered hours into the promise of a new dawn.
I once believed in fairy tales, in love so vast, so bright, A love that soared on golden wings and lit the darkest night. I dreamed of hands that knew my own, of hearts that beat the same, Of whispered vows in starlit hush, of love that burned like flame.
Yet time wove shadows in my path, and love became a ghost, A wistful wish, a fleeting dream, a ship without a coast. I wandered through the quiet years, through echoes soft and thin, Not knowing love was biding time, still waiting to begin.
And then—you came, like summer rain, like dawn upon the sea, A love so deep, so fierce, so true, it woke the soul in me. No fleeting spark, no passing storm, no whisper in the air, But something strong as ancient oaks, as certain as a prayer.
The love of ballads, sonnets bright, the love that poets weave, The love of kings and wayard knights, of hearts that won’t deceive. A love where laughter, wild and free, is laced with tender sighs, Where every glance is poetry, where longing never dies.
So here we stand, with hands entwined, where fate and dreams align, A love reborn, a tale retold—forever yours and mine. No more a wish, no more a ghost, no more a fleeting glance, But love, at last, as it should be—our fated, timeless dance.
I have found love again! I am so grateful for each and every glorious moment we spend together!
On the pond where frost wove its glimmering thread, Round and round on the ice, so much laughter was spread. My father on one side, my mother’s warm hand, Together we skated through winter’s command.
The cold held no power, our joy burned so bright, Each smile a lantern in the soft fading light. My father, a hockey fan quick on his feet, My mother, a skater whose grace was complete.
Their spirit of wonder still dances in me, Like ripples of moonlight on a shimmering sea. Though time has now carried their voices away, Their love is a gift I unwrap every day.
As the year softly closes, I cherish the thought, Of the laughter and lessons their living had taught. I hope that my children will carry their flame, And feel in their hearts that same joyous refrain!
A toast to the the beauty of years that have passed, To moments of love that forever will last. On this last day of the year, as memories shine, I feel their hands guiding, still holding to mine.
My best wishes to you for 2025! Happy New Year! ❤️
This year I soared through skies untamed, Where heights were thrilling, dreams unchained. The sunlit peaks, so bold, so near, But shadows lingered – storms appeared.
The winds of change, they howled and roared, And turbulence I so abhorred Shook the wings I thought were strong, Yet somehow, still, I flew along.
The high points glimmer, bright, profound, Moments where my heart unbound. I treasure these, their golden hue, And honor trials I stumbled through.
For every bruise, a lesson learned, Through fiery paths, resilience earned. Not unscathed, but still I stand, A voyager, with faith in hand.
Now as this year’s horizon fades, I pray for softer serenades. A gentle landing, calm and clear, To close this wild, unsteady year.
And may the winds of what’s to come, Bring brighter skies, a kinder sun. For though I trembled, I endured – A stronger soul, a heart assured.
Wishing you all the very best for the holidays and a wonderful 2025! ❤️
In the dappled light of the forest’s edge, He struts, wary, along the bramble’s ledge. His ruby throat, a beacon of flame, Bobs and flickers, untamed, untamed.
Eyes wide with a primal, ancient fear, Each rustle of leaves, each sound draws near. A breeze, a shadow – he freezes, tense, A sentinel poised by a fragile fence.
Down the road, domestic birds parade, Fat and oblivious, in sun-spotted shade. Their fates are sealed, their end well-known, But his is a dance in the wild alone.
Will he endure the frost-kissed nights, And coyotes’ teeth that gleam in moonlight? Or will his feathers scatter, a fleeting trace, Of a noble life in a ruthless place?
No table awaits his wary kind, No cranberry sauce, no sage entwined. Yet the woods hold stories cruel and raw, Where survival bends to nature’s law.
I spied this wild turkey standing alone on my walk today. I have always seen him with his mate and worry that the coyotes may have taken her from him. I hope he can find a good hiding spot in the woods tonight!
At three, my eyes open to the soft night’s call, A distant train’s echo, faint engines drone, Murmur of creatures, house timbers groan, And I’m caught in a web spun silent and small.
Yet once woken, the night takes me far- To warm tropic waters, to sunlit sands, To brushstroke dreams with my eager hands, Where crimson red and blue glow like a star.
I drift in dances on shores unknown, Beneath heavens that pierce the shadowed dome, And revel with loved ones near the old home, By the lake where moonlight and memories are sewn.
Then the hour fades; I’m lulled once more, Into soft slumber’s waiting door, Wrapped in the hush of dreams restored.
At three o’clock in the morning, I resist the temptation to turn on the light to read or sew. Rather, I lie very still and the hour overcomes me in the sweetest, best possible way.
The feeling from the song in Only Murders in the Building, performed by Meryl Streep, is aligned with how I feel during that magical hour.
There once was a dog, ninety pounds full of might, A Bernese with a bark and a spirit so bright. He bounded through rooms with a boundless delight, And no rule could hold him – oh, try as you might!
With paws on your shoulders, he’d greet every guest, A leaper, a jumper, your patience to test. He’d wiggle and waggle, without a disguise, Then melt all your anger with soft, pleading eyes.
At dinner, he’d stare, nose so close to your plate, Drooling with longing – he just couldn’t wait! And at night, as you snuggled, in comfort to steep, He’d plop on your bed, putting an end to your sleep.
In the bathroom, he’d trail you with passion and flair, To keep close beside you – even into the shower! Disobedient rascal, yet so hard to scold, With a heart full of love, and a spirit so bold.
For though he’s a handful, your mischievous friend, Those eyes win you over, time and again.
I think our new friend is in need of another round of obedience training! To be continued…
On Hallowe’en, the earth bears gifts of gold, Pumpkins swell, the squash begins to fold.
The harvest yields its bounty rich and bright, And I give thanks beneath the autumn light.
But as I walk, the shadows start to creep, And whisper secrets that the dark can keep.
For Samhain stirs, the Celtic year’s rebirth, Where ghosts and goblins rise from out the earth.
My mind, so tethered to the harvest’s might, Now feels the phantoms in the night.
The rational speaks of grain and seed, But still, the restless spirits sow their greed.
A headless rider gallops through the gloom, While witches weave their spells beneath the moon.
I walk between these worlds, both rich and strange – The earth’s abundance, and the night’s wild change.
The harvest calls, yet something darker grows, As from the underworld, the cold wind blows.
At this time of year, I feel an eerie presence swirling around me in the darkness on my walk home. As I did in my youth, I can’t help but pick up the pace and finally break into a run!
Satin & Sand 