Bowl of memory

Running fingers on smooth edges
dipping in to the emptiness to find
the dust of faded thoughts and memories
lingering just out of reach.
Smooth blue skies call to the waking soul,
walking in unison to the mornings first breath
as dew hangs on air
cool breeze ruffles cotton playfully,
slipping its fingers whisper-like in
to touch the skin
easing the fire.
Round in circles like birds in flight
floating on clouds they slip on air
and I rehearse the mantra of a new day
from pages studied with a feverish need
dipping into the bowl of memories
to wash clean.
Empty and spotless
the inhale and exhale of yesterday,
letting it slip from existence to new form,
invisible waves gather and I watch
through wake and sleep as the tides rush out
taking away I find the peace,
truth and trust
my release.

FlAsHbAcKs

My mother and your mother were hanging up clothes,
but no punch in the nose
over said clothes
that flapped in the breeze,
and did they make cheese
in a churn in the basement
where the canning jars lay,
filled with dead spiders and webs
till the flood swept them away
with library books that were never returned,
soppy sponges of required reading
when To Kill a Mockingbird was acceptable,
and now Harper Lee lay tired
in a five dollar bin,
the Wal-Mart specials stacked and falling over
by hands that dig searching
for something perhaps found
or not.
My mother and your mother were never together
hanging up clothes
as the houses were set too far apart
and the times were simple
riding our bikes on country roads
as we drank our Dr Peppers by the creek
and growing bored returned home
to hear the arguing
the words that never seemed to end
but we carried our paper origami games
because we wanted to pick rightly,
the name of the boy we would wed,
but roses are red and violets are blue
I still remember
and hope you do too,
somewhere in this world I like to think
you remember me fondly,
the childhood friend who moved away,
who could never settle
with my soda in my bag
and the wind in my hair,
my mother and your mother….
what color was the blood?
I always chose blue
seemingly less real.

A steady stream of consciousness poem for you folks today. Was reminded of those little paper games that we played as children, you’d flip the tab of your choice and ultimately would find out the name of the boy you’d marry. I don’t know why that memory surfaced but gave it a go. The image was the closest I could find to the paper thingy we played with….stirring up the ghosts for sure 🙂

Between lines

Do we fit in seamless
invisible spaces caught between lines,
tracing the letters with fingers
reading each one with careful focus
seeing memories left behind.
Timeless classic forgotten
till brought to light in a play list
sorted in order
and set aside
waiting for the hand to seek
and open to find
the magic again unleashed
retouch the heart with yellowed pages
drifting through time and space
a child once more.
We become that which we read
diving in deeper with each page turned
mirroring lives as we realize
someone knew the way we feel
and wrote it in a verse
as if just for us
to see ourselves within
the masterpiece created by one.