A scent of peace

I turn each yellowed page,

tattered and dog eared and loved by someone

I do not know

whose hands held this

and perhaps they too,

fell into the spell of words and stories

becoming at one

with the old leather

as they pieced through

perhaps finding themselves a part

of someones world

for just a little while.

The scent rises from the pages

yesterdays spent in unknown places

gathering dust on a shelf

and waiting for my fingers to pull it out

and open to find the magic

of a sentence that calls me

like a lovers whisper

a quiet plea to carry it away

to sit with it a spell

and breathe new life into the tired parchment,

to let if live once more in a mind

and perhaps to become a cherished piece

until I grow weary

or fade away into dust

and it once more will journey

into a tired shelf waiting a new touch,

wanting to be learned

to be heard

and loved once again.


Sixty years have now gone she thinks as she sees it from afar. Ready to move, she gathers her strength and taking one step at a time, she is suddenly aware of each sensation pulsating through her, she feels the grasses brush her legs, smooth and soft, unlike that night so long ago. As she had run for fear in the dwindling light, when these green weed braids had whipped at her battered legs, scratching, cutting her, like his hands had felt on her, harsh and unforgiving. She stops suddenly, gathering her breath in, realizing for a moment she had forgotten to inhale. I can do this she says aloud and takes another step. There is nothing to fear anymore, he’s been dead and gone fifty years, but this, this place still needs to be dealt with. She remembers how she used to love it here, until that afternoon, the eclipse had called her to come here but she had thought she’d be alone, she had no way of knowing differently, but today is today and then is over. Today is the day she finally closes the space and makes peace. Slowly she makes her way, her hand shaking on the weathered wooden cane in her hand and she stops as she reaches the stones she used to touch so lovingly. Her castle Avalon, her place of escape, which had then become her place of prison. She reached out and felt the smooth stones beneath her hands, caressing them like the face of a long-lost friend. Her heart beat begins to slow and she leans forward to peer into the window. Remnants of a long ago fire and some empty beer cans lay wasted on the floor, the smell of decay and the odd bits of trash….and nothing more. She turns to look at the view across of the hill beyond, remembering where the sheep used to graze, and the  farmers who once tended to the meadows. So much has changed she says to the whispering wind. She laughs aloud as the clouds obscure the sun, reminding her in a way of that day, when the sun hid behind the moon, when her heart was broken and hidden away for too many years. She had been weak but now she was strong. She wasn’t that 14 years old child anymore, she had learned to build her walls, stone by stone made strong by determination that came late in life. This was the last stone to place. She was no longer Broken and she smiled and turned away.

Original prompt post found at :

Thursday photo prompt – broken #writephoto

This is my first stab at one of these photo prompts, hope you enjoy.


Pieced together one by one

Creating lyric, prose and sound

Stocked up higher into our minds

Spinning stories

Creating waves.

What is a word

Sticks and stones of long ago

Yet meaning is only what is given

If it touches within

With passion and fire,

Just a word that was given long ago

To describe a person, place or thing.

It is a label, a feeling, anything at all that you let it

As you keep it alive by giving it emotion,


When nonsense brings smiles

And hate, tears

But looking deeper I can only see

That in the end it is nothing,

Just a word which will live

If I let it breathe,

If I give it worth

Like time itself,

Fleeting at best but still a measure

In this space we live,

Yet I see eternity in each second

I see a future beyond end

And I write these words as they fall from the depths,

Words that really mean nothing

For they are merely words to communicate

For lack of seeing into your eyes, your soul

Where words are not needed

And silence is all to discover

The farthest reaches of what really matters.

Just a word is nothing

Yet a soul that speaks

Rises into it all.

Just a thought I had on the worth some give to words, when words are merely what you allow them to be. But my faves are peace and love of course….

The trouble with shadows

I watched perplexed as it moved
sullenly like a disciplined ghost
berated for its existence
as its sole purpose for being
had been a joke,
a lie
that it had just settled down
to take a nap in my thoughts
and in doing so
whispered gently across
the peeling white roof.
Caught so to speak
sleeping on the job
and in doing so
realized the error
of its slovenly ways.
I can’t tell you
the thoughts it sparks
the hows, the whys
the stories it inspires
in this vast mind filled
with moon dust and stars
that silently fall for me
when least expecting
like the slippery ghost
of a daydream that moves
as the sun wakes from its nest.
Why the river flows
moving here and there and
over banks meant to keep it in,
the forces of a whim
the nature of the beast that is
the deepest part of these things,
these endless questions
maybe making no sense to you
but at a deeper level speaking to me.
I won’t say why things are
the way things are
or why things are not
but should be
could be
but it’s not my place
to whisper reprimand to this here,
this shadow ghost that keeps returning
day after day,
the presence that always lingers on the fringe
singing quiet
then louder still,
demanding to be heard as it slides in
through the holes in my head.
I am here
just because
and that’s the trouble with shadows,
they hang about causing mischief
and mayhem
and I don’t know but I think in the long run
I kind of like them.

The movement of energy

Words flow through the mind
Movement of energy
Gifts of the universe
Come through to find me
Allowing the beauty to become
The central view
Of the emptied head
Cleansed to make room
For more.
His words filter to the soul
Bubbles of light frozen
Taken away to ponder
To immerse the thoughts into wonder
Of the wisdom found within
And I am left with a smile
At the way things here become reality
Or the essence of all we choose to see.
Ribbons tied neatly
In golden glitter against the earth,
Life glistens with the energy
Of a solitary soul
Who selflessly gives
Bringing a mood to the surface
Of gratitude and joy
And a prayer of thanks
To this amazing place we call home
Where life moves round to find
A resting place of peace.

Thoughts on a letter I received this morning and thoughts of yesterday when I found a gold bow beside the house that lay in the grass. It made me smile and I thought to myself, gifts from the universe….just because. I have no idea where or how that ribbon got there but after finding that, encountered a small feather and I thought then, thoughts have wings to move energy to make amazing things happen and this day has just blossomed into a light and happy moment in my life. Thank you Michael from embracing forever. If you have never been to his site, filled with beauty and wonder and an energy that just flows from words, please stop in and check out his site and congratulate him on his released book of prose poetry. You will be inspired, I promise.


Amazing photo found at : http://www.demilked.com/frozen-in-a-bubble-angela-kelly/. By artist Angela Kelly

The wonder of it all

To live this life of here
The wonder of the now in each moment
Of dreams and the everyday movements
That capture my mind
In quiet clarity.
Colors and stories
The words that flow from rushing ink
Winding round like endless roads
As the rain falls to blur
The thought that spoke
Only moments before.
To feel within
This childlike joy
The wonderous imagination
That feeds the fire
A hungry beast that craves more and more
Most needed in a day sublime
And not quite mundane
Yet typical.
Motions of pages turning
Faces and places
And seasons that keep moving
Even if we stay still
Watching the memories
A movie flickering in a dark room
Shadows cast and eyes that watch silently
In the awe of a dream cast
By like minds
As understanding dawns
Like a morning sun fights the darkening clouds
I hold my hands up to catch
Each drop that falls
Capturing the damp of cleansing
A soul awash in a treasure.

Thoughts in passing on the gift of imagination and the wonder of words and visuals, dreams that someone had that stopped to make note and we are all the more blessed for it.

Words like rain

Slipping silently down each page
Words falling down
Like rain.
I wipe the thoughts from my mind
Ink watercolor dreams
For you.
Grey days as drops slide seamlessly across
The windows of the soul
Sentences alive.
Clouds obscured sunlight reaches through
Drying the indigo print
Pages wrinkled, smoothed.
Does it reach you through the storm
When the heart lies broken
Healing words to make whole?
If nothing were spoken in ancient texts
Would it matter what was never said
What was never brought forth?
Ah sweet rain wash clear the path
Leave the eyes refreshed
So much more to say as typhoon wind
Blowing the pages too fast
To capture a memory too quickly lost.
If the rain had never fallen
And words just never spoken
Earth quiet, a lonely place to be.

Thoughts on what if we never wrote, if beautiful thoughts were never put down, what would this world be?

Flashback 9-11-1984

I came across one of my first journal/poetry books that I kept when I was much younger….obviously not yesterday….and thought I would share the first one I came to…I am still laughing but at least I was writing albeit not very good…I hope you enjoy.

Whenever you need me
you’ll know where I’ll be-
If you have trouble
you’ll always have me-
I’ll give you my friendship
I’ll owe you my life
…..thank you for being my friend.
Whenever you want me
I’ll always be there
I’ll show how I love you
I’ll smile and care-
I really do need you
for me, you’ll be there
…..thank you for being my friend.

Do you still have your first pieces you wrote? How do you feel about them now? I have kept them, at times wanting to burn them, but ultimately they reside in a dusty place till brought out to the light to bring a smile and a thought of ‘Oh my God, did I write that drivel?” just kidding….maybe…

On the edge of thought…there comes the words

We live our precious lives
Sailing along
And take all that matters
Compressing it in our memories.
The wide expanse
Of miraculous space
Behind eyes that see
Without having to speak
We gather there
Where words slip through
Like tiny lives of their own.
They move along
Closer and closer to the edge,
Spilling on waves
Sometimes bobbing along on still waters
But eventually they will find their way
To the end of the world of silence
And try as we might
To hold them back
Over they go
Falling onto pages,
In books,
On scraps of papers,
Anywhere they find a place
To exist
To be written
The true beauty is what happens
When they fall,
Flying free
To the ends of the universe,
Where someone may chance upon
A phrase,
A page,
Something, anything,
That connects with the emotion
They feel at that very moment,
That let’s them know
Someone else may have caught a glimpse
Of their universe.
It is there,
The magical connection
Of humanity that gives birth
To a friend.
To communicate through words,
Across worlds,
In quiet corners read
Perhaps by the light of day
Or in darkened rooms lit
With candles,
We lose ourselves in this world
True magic exists
When the heart is free
To express
It’s gift of words
To the world.

Photo :
Vadim Klevenskiy

Falling into chains

The magnificence

thunderous roar filling ears

the depth and speed to behold

wondrous to the eye.

He walked these shores

lost and entranced by what he found

a world wanderer

no place to lay his head

taken away in chains instead.

Thirty days in a hole

moving from beauty to brutality

fodder for future words

disconcerting I have heard.

For the simple crime of vagrancy

he slept in a concrete house of horrors

so close to my home

facts I had not known.

To know you through pages

I search for antique finds

to hold you in my hands

books of yesterday held by others before me.

Why was I drawn into your life

lessons from teachers or was it simply

a look in your eyes that said

That you too understand the workings

of a writer telling tales

spinning webs to be lost within

letting the soul bleed out

the only way it knew how.


1876-1916) Writer, novelist. London wrote in “The Road” (1907) of his experiences as a drifter coming to Niagara Falls in 1894, being enthralled for hours by the falls, but then (having no money for a hotel room) being arrested for vagrancy and sentenced to a month in the Erie County Penitentiary.