Goodness

Lost in the grace of soft white

petals soft like butter fill the hand

heavenly scent of delight

a gift of one from the mystery.

Gardenia bloom hidden behind

glimpse of white brought forward to see

like a shy child awkward in her beauty

unsure in a wash of green.

First borne of the new addition

her siblings wait until their time

beneath a spring sun they will come forth

and share their gift to eyes and a scent

to carry on soft winds on balmy nights

slipping in quietly through the window to find

the dream swept souls beyond the wall.

This is our mystery gardenia….not sure why they call it a mystery but it did give one bloom yesterday that smells so heavenly. I couldn’t help but to share. We planted it beneath the bedroom window so as it grows taller, it will find us in our sleep, kissing us perhaps with sweetest scented dreams. There are other buds so more or on the way, a happy thing indeed.

Peace floating

Thoughts lay in tiny bubbles

color of worlds imagined deep within

meditate the way into the dreams

set free the dark in the silence of a fast beating heart.

Latent ideas waiting to be tapped

with a gentle push they fly higher

catching the wind and disappearing into the thinness,

she softly whispers her wish into the night.

Hours pass in a solitude

not quite confined yet trapped momentarily by images

yesterday and the fast paced beat of the fear

to consume or expel into the light

there is only one way to go.

She wears the scars of a thousand battles

invisible to the eye of those who peer within

the balm of time is the salve to heal

and the holes will close

leaving only a faint remnant behind,

of a day in the life better left forgotten

like dust motes scattered

and soundless they blow

into the eternity of space and energy,

watching the specks disappear

and tucking away the memory

of release.

Cresting 

The resilience of wisdom rising,
carries us through the moments
as we sink deeper into the blue
we are suddenly caught up in the swell
buoying up and over
the crest of understanding
and the dawning awareness
of that which we already knew
deeper within
hidden in the depths
swallowed by the whale
of fear.
We rise in the light
magnified by the glaring sun
salvation saves while swimming in the belief
swirling round like the whirlpool
we lay on the surface above
watching the glistening drops turn
to the rainbows of hope
we lose ourself in the calm of peace
floating on the cascading thoughts
we move to the rhythm
of ever changing tides.

Within these spaces

We linger within these spaces

captured in a reflection of beauty

gentle reminders for a deep breathing calm

miracles of time move us from darkness

into the spaces where light finds us waiting.

I had forgotten these things

as the cloud of sadness filled the thoughts with fear

I dove in like a parched soul so weary

hanging onto that which cannot be held,

until I stopped and became one

the color of a sunburst on a stem,

siesta blooms gracing the garden

by a loving mans hands.

I stepped out of the depths that tried to submerge me

eager for the hands that were always patiently waiting

to offer a healing thought,

a loving prayer for the beings I so love.

I need to be in this space more

allowing my hands to move with the flow of the words

pent-up too long needlessly,

not for fear but for the hurt and ache that leveled my mind,

I see the clouds moving in that will bring a welcome rain

and the blooms that are and those that will be

hold their faces up for the nourishment

that only a kind world can give,

and I shall be grateful and humble at the little things

never taking for granted the little or big moments

for they all shine.

I will overcome this moment and it shall pass

leaving me satiated and content

in the grace of gifts.

I have been absent for a little while, scared senseless for our little dog Chi and I thank you all so kindly for your words and prayers. She sits watching me write, and it feels so very good to be a little more at peace. The flower is a Siesta hibiscus that hubby picked out yesterday and planted outside of our bedroom wall, along with a mystery gardenia (2 actually), some spiky pretty pointy palmy things and alongside the pool, another gardenia and some Ixora plants that have dainty little flowers on them. The jasmine is beginning to bloom and I am breathing in and out, enjoying the moments and just letting things work in the way that they have to. Here is another pic of the siesta beauty. Stay warm and safe if you’re up North/East and thank you again for being the beautiful people of my world. Kim

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Rolled

I remember the scent of hay

growing in fields below a setting sun,

waiting

for that moment when ready,

ripe,

ripped,

cut,

severed and laying beneath the sun

drying out,

curling into a remnant of self.

Words pass through days

reaching in deep

pulling out the moisture

the life blood

the force that gave life

and with a last gasp

rolled into mounds

to serve purpose

in new ways under a winter sun,

brittle and cold

yet ready.

Rough and edged with pieces of yesterday

cut down from the beauty of the growth

fodder for life

still of use

sustenance for the hooved beast,

food for the circle

the chain that moves round,

I should be happy to be

when so many lands lay barren.

For I am a part of all,

it is I

and I am stacked and in circles

waiting for the next move.

Work in color

He opens his box of shapes and sizes
No surprises
colors fleeing on windswept clouds
astounded he stares
for each time he opens his box of things
he feels the joy it brings.
He pries back the board so tenderly
afraid for the day
they don’t come out to play
but they know him well,
his favorite shades that bring a light to each day,
playing their role
they soar like birds on ocean breezes
above him, his box releases
without further adeiu
for me and you.
He has to create
these pastel whimsied worlds
for it is his nature
and he knows no other way,
a magician of life he gives away
a piece of himself each day
from the bottomless well he says feels often dry
so his tears he cries
never knowing that each drop that falls
fills that magic box he carries,
he openly shares
for in beauty and love he knows will grow
as the color moves outward
touching each soul
his work in color is never done,
each day has just begun
and the supply paints the world
glistening drops of beauty
filling voids where broken ugliness hides
keeping him alive.

Delicate

Our lives-

pickup stick games

from youth to death

sliding out so carefully

each thought from beneath the balance,

never knowing if one jolt,

one movement affects the next thought

and so on

as we pull each one with carefulness and agility,

observing what is to come next

and then beyond

weighing our choices

as we look from each angle

making our decision

so thoughtfully.

How did they become this jumble,

for this is how the game is played

they are not Lincoln logs waiting to be built,

a pile of shapes and varying sizes,

these slim fragments of color are all the same

as we are all the same

we try in earnest fashion to win each game,

sometimes succeeding

sometimes moving and tipping the scales

this way or the other,

yet we keep going as if there is no other way.

Until the last stick is picked up

we pay close attention to each detail,

if we do this, what may happen?

Not until the game is over,

do we finally realize it was simply a game after all,

it became more fun when we took the risk

and chanced failure to do so,

there was always a do over until there wasn’t.

But if each stick were a person in our lives,

and we kept adding instead of removing

oh what a beautiful shrine we could build,

higher and higher into the sky

we would win every time,

everyone would have a chance or say

and we could live in balance

and harmony

until the end of our days.

 

With the flow

 

We ripple our thoughts on purpose,

watching them move up and down

coming together for but a moment

then watch as they slip away once more.

We wonder where they move to,

what lies in their depths we can no longer see,

feeling them brush by, leaving just a hint

of their former selves

then dissipating into nothing.

I dream in colors some days

as the rain falls beyond the glass

slippery pearls dripping down one by one

and I lie and watch the slow motion of the fan

circulating on its journey

moving the invisible air around

cooling my body with its quiet touch.

So many things to do,

a million words slipping here and there,

sometimes falling onto stone

permanent marker time cannot erase,

for I leave them behind

like stepping-stones for those to come

to wonder whose hand it was

that etched the primitive images

and what did they mean

back in the day

before their time began.

Barest thought

In the quiet of a morning caught

the spellbinding sight of a rising sun

caught whispering to the soul

caressing the mind with thoughts of a day to come.

Eyes find their way through dream states,

memories of lingering images like wallpaper

strung up on the walls to see

moving through the museum of surreal things

we touch the fabric of that which we cannot name.

Resting on the tip of tongue

we hesitate perhaps a moment too long,

and watching as it fades from sight

the mirage ghost-like and cherished

then silently let go.

Who are we in these moments,

caught between wake and sleep

in Neverland worlds of beauty we wander

thoughts tracing words on invisible pads

and indigo ink mark our passage

lest we forget where we had been

on our return to those foreign lands,

as the clouded gate creaks with age

we gentle push forward and enter

the place where thoughts sit waiting

remembered once more.

 

When we were small

Through jungles of thick dense mirages

we quietly slip through the darkness seeking

the light of a thousand daydreams

we know lay beyond the realm of youth.

When we were small we longed for age,

to be like those we saw around us like tall trees

and beautiful willowy women who entered rooms

and silence greeted their demure smiles,

jewels dripping from arms and necks

as the music played and the dances began

we watched from behind potted plants

meager in our pajama clad selves,

uninvited to the ball.

We pretended in front of mirrors,

decorating faces with left-over hand me downs

crumbling blue shadows and dried tubes and pots-

and broken glittering necklaces with missing pearls,

we bowed and curtsied and spun with joy

yet somewhere inside we knew it was just play

the tattered gowns and the laughter we endured

on playground fields from the older girls,

we stood with our faces outstretched to the sun,

yearning to be seen

in the overgrown garden of this make believe.

When we were young we longed for more

and as we became the trees so tall

we looked with love at those still small,

remembering the good

and casting out the sad,

now we long for those softer times of quiet,

the moments of innocence before the dark clouds

of want and need and anger became

a fabric of our lives we had not asked for,

we long for that peace

of yesterday once more.

I saw this image and this is what came to mind, no fears my friends, I’m in a good place, sitting in the shade of a beautiful Florida winter? day, listening to the world move in its own special way and just being.