Alone…

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lets peace in the door

it weaves around chair legs

rises like incense smoke

softens sharp edges

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Alone

lets silence illumine each room

filtered from skylights

it glows iridescent in darkness

pulsing sparks of light

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Alone leaves no one for fixing

loose faucet, gas leak

broken step, poison ivy

the handyman moved away

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Alone is uncut lawn, untrimmed edges

a house that accuses

a yard that demands

an ant trail in the workroom

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Alone

despite it all, is a river

peacefully flowing

silently glowing, a breath

from once upon a time

River’s Lock

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Tears not cried gather

in a river behind a lock’s

rusted gate

Years of tears held back

because the time was wrong

to grieve parent, home, pet,

choices, words unsaid

(tears) retained, condensed

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In a river behind a lock’s

rusted gate

salt tears gather, grow

stagnant, back up as

algae blooms, duckweed too

Water level rises

Rusted bars strain and groan

seeping green ooze

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Years of tears held back

because the time was wrong

a lesson in repression taught

learned too well

feelings buried

fears of hurt or anger

held like a punch to the gut

against repercussions

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To grieve parent, home, pet,

choices, words unsaid,

unshed tears collect

swirls of green slime, finally

the bars splinter, crack

open to release seventy

gushing, surging,

years of tears

It’s Simple, says David R. Hawkins

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First, desire.

Long for God.

More than security,

more than peace,

certainly more than pleasure.

Intense.  Constant. Longing.

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Second, forgiveness and gentleness.

For everyone. No exceptions.

Forgive parents, employers, neighbors.

Forgive the dog that pooed on your lawn.

Forgive yourself the cruelties, avoidances,

the unwitting mistakes.

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Third, surrender your will.

To God. Every moment.

Each thought.  Each feeling.

Each longing or deed.

Turn over stories, then paragraphs,

then ideas and concepts.

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Fourth, maintain focus.

Unrelenting, allow not a moment

of distraction from meditation

during ordinary activities.

Habitual, automatic, effortless

focus.

This is how to know God.

From

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I am from the Light,

the book tells me.

I thought I was from Los Angeles

sprawling city of smoggy skies,

the sharp edges of Bermuda grass

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I am from Perfect Love

pages proclaim, but

I recall a dusty field edged by citrus trees

where I hid from the sun

in a cool cement pipe

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I am from Absolute Truth

in words of prayer

while the scent of my father’s tobacco,

my mother’s Chanel No. 5

floated above parquet floors

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I am from Spirit

in the Sabbath song, but

I hear Sunday’s swish of sprinklers,

the rumble of a lawn mower,

dogs barking in the kennel

Author’s Delight

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*Carl the Third, from Tangled in Magic, book 1

It happened at the library.  I was checking out a stack of books that my two grandchildren and I had selected.  At the other check-out counter, a forty-ish woman in a summer shirt and shorts held up three paperbacks.  I squinted at the covers.  They looked familiar.  Could it be?

I sidled up to the other counter, and yes!  “Those are my books!” I think I shouted.  I must have shouted, because the woman drew back, startled.  She seemed to think I wanted to take the books from her.

“No, no!” I explained (equally loudly, I’m afraid).  “I wrote them!  I’m the author!”

Understanding dawned on her face.  The library clerk grinned, adding, “She’s a local author!”

“My daughter is reading all of them,” the woman said.  “We asked Megan to order the last two.”  She pulled her smartphone out of her pocket.  “Can I take a picture?”

“Sure!” my smiled was wide. 

“Someone is reading my books,” I said to my grandchildren as we walked out the door.  “Somebody out there is reading the Karakesh Chronicles!”

What a gratifying experience for a writer!  I’m still bubbling with joy.

The five books in the Karakesh Chronicles series are available on Amazon or from the publisher, Handersen Publishing. 

Whisper

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His was a whisper of a life

lived distant from mine

the red-haired boy I knew

in fifth grade, moved away

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I thought him lovely,

with his hair and guitar

I wrote him in England

he wrote back—once

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He joined the music scene,

following his parents’ footsteps

Composed, sang, backed up

the famous and almost famous

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He faded out of my thoughts

over the years, then reappeared

in a box of old vinyl albums

in an antique store

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Name and face caught my eye

the album cover, red gold hair, beard

I bought it for ten dollars

looked him up on the internet

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He died at age 59, in 2011,

the year my granddaughter was born

A heart attack, so young

Drugs? Years of dissolution?

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His mother survived him by 5 years

Terrible, to outlive your child

How did he spend the years in between,

that boy I once knew?

At my desk

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my view of the street

three mobile homes

fit into the window’s frame

the dog walkers pass by

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bulgy senior women

leashed to

overweight chihuahuas

or mixed breeds with

Jack Russell ancestry

or a hairy poodle ball

with drippy eyes

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What is so appealing?

These dogs are appalling

ugly, squat,

beloved companions

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My cats are young now,

slim, healthy.

Someday, perhaps

all three of us

will be scruffy and flatulent,

too fat or too bony.

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So God bless people who

love ugly dogs

God bless the dogs who

love old people

God bless my cats

And God keep me from judging

Where

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Where

                  did he go,

that busy, silly man

with the terrible sense of humor?

Look into his eyes

dull, fogged windows.

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Where did he go

the fount of Irish blarney,

trim of leg but lacking rhythm?

Look at him now, silent

wheelchair bound.

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Where did he go,

my companion on Mexican highways,

the agreeable explorer?

Take his hands, warm and dry.

Hug the solid body of a person lost.

Miss him.

Love him.

Hold his truth and goodness

for him.

Music in the hour of waiting

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A youngish man, the music therapist

passes out maracas

to folks in wheelchairs, side by side,

many doze, a few eyes are open

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He glides through the oldies,

Patsy Cline Crazy, Everly Brothers Dream,

These boots are made for walkin’

under the boardwalk

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David, who rarely sits,

shuffles across the room,

smelling of shit—again—

Someone alerts the staff

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Leaving on a jet plane

no one here will fly anywhere

Talking ‘bout my girl

No one here talks much

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The music therapist always ends

with Amazing Grace, this being

a Catholic facility, those

who are here were once found,

but now are lost