A Winter's Sleep

I try to be still in this winter in the chilly promise of new song but I am dreaming of Spring of new growth and apple blossoms I am dreaming of the verticality of lush greens but reality is stark and bare devoid of warmth encaptured in a cold clear vision of a life devoid of leaves to be still in the darkness to celebrate the lack of light to see beauty where the patterns are stern, gray, austere still lifes this is the quest for those who slumber beneath the dreaming tree waiting...waiting...waiting for signs of life

and for sweet dreams ...

and for sweet dreams
might I recommend
something in blue
to float you along
above the moon
afterall who needs
to breathe
the purest air
when a touch of gray
inspires the mind
and for sweet dreams
I invite you
to dance into green
where the light cast shades
from spring bud to hunter
it is within this spectrum
of juliped oxygen
the spirit learns to
exhale the beasts
and inhale the rhythm
and for sweet dreams
I coyly beckon
into the realm of white
a pair of downy swans
for graceful movement
we all know the purest forms
of well ordered madness
waltzes one down the rabbit hole
into the clouds
where the
muses pour
mutli-hued stardust
to propel the dreamers
who sing the seekers
into a lullabied state
...the poets call night

Appalachian Song

 

Blue roses from the moon
lightenin in a jar
ladies in a slipper
stories in a star

Red roses from the backroads
song in the pines
fireflies in the valley
magic in the thyme

yellow roses from the mountain
tears in the shine
memories from a stranger
poetry in the vines


pink roses from a meadow
petals in the vale
music in a rainbow
faeries in a bell

Blue roses from the moon
whispers in the breeze
secrets in the moonshine
scattered in the seeds.

And these new roads are solitary
the company that I seek is not
a someone
rather
me
alone
with nothing but
my thoughts
and the
sun
and the
stars
my journey
belongs
to no one
who I am
becoming
is between
me and the
moon
the north  wind
and
the night song

Alabama Absolution: unquenchable

Alabama Absolution: unquenchable

Process

I wanna whisper somethin

 sweet in your ear

 Something that starts

 a different kind of beat
        that stirs your blood
 I want to feel divine expectation
 suspended in liquid heat.
 I want to taste the salt
       that slips down your back
 and trickles from
the
    tips
       of
my fingers
 only to find its' way
 to waiting lips.
I wanna hear the sound

that orginates

when cool jazz

meets southern fire.

 In other words

I wanna be bathed

     in

       the 

steam

we create.

..

unquenchable

there is a slow turning

of

the

      inside out

revealing more than

the naked

eye

could

  ever

     see

and just like a sloe gin fizz

on a hot Summer's Day

I find

  my unquenchable thirst

     momentarily

appeased

       

Southern Legacy

I remember momma




When the days are gray



and cold



when the late December skies



spit their South Alabama mixture



of ice and snow



kinda like grits



and I’m not sure what it is



about



these days



that brings this melancholy



except the fact, that despite



the cold and the hardship,



the love and the memories of



soothing hands, always manages



to keep me warm.



and she knew this , that although



her children are facing their own



Winters, a mother’s love



always wraps her babies in a warm



Quilt for wintertime.



this is a mother’s legacy



warm memories for Alabama



days when the skies spit their mixture of



Ice and snow



Kinda like grits.

Song of Self

My voice may not always say things

the right way

when I speak

it may

be grammatically incorrect

but inspiration is a state

of being

and

Grace a state of mind

and insight a random broken verse

in a universe

where perfection is sought

and circles chase themselves

only to reach the same conclusions

so please understand that my thoughts

my state

of being

ME

is a work in progress

and even though I see

more

sometimes with my eyes

closed

 and my mind

opened

than some with their perfect

rhyme

I am not afraid to say

you are blind

and your senses not sharpened

and your ennui, passe

overlook, if you will

my lack of meter

because

I have learned to stand on

my own

 two feet

and write with a rhythm

dictated by the beat

of my own soul

and the music

of the wind.

To a Writer

His words seem to flow from his




crooked little vein



like raindrops with purpose



knowing they



will



find



their way



to the ocean



where all expansive



mysteries



converge



with



the



infinite



this depth of



limitless wonder



seeks



to refine



and define



the



confines



of all



we



know



... and when



this primal element



meets



the



insatiable



wind



seeds of eternity



are



forever scattered



in the cosmic



vibe



that propels



the



universe.

..

Sunday Coffee

I am  coffee
 in your favorite cup
 The morning ritual
 that starts your day
 I am that slow brewed
 deep roasted
anticipation
that awakens your soul
breathe me in
 I open your eyes
to your own  possibilities
One taste and you're hooked
one sip and your senses tingle
warm
enticing
exotic
I am so good
that even the bitter
goes
        down
                 ...smooth
when you're tired
I give you strength
when you're weak
I
 add
 a lil
sugar
when you're cold
a splash of  cream
I heat your fingers
and
elevate
your
mood
I have become
....your
      favorite
      addiction

... now don't you want a sip ?

Artists Lament

Show me a moment's truth
painted in brilliant hues
and I will reflect back to you
a filtered fragment of life

Give me a glance of the muse
as she whispers in your dark
and I will show you
your own light

Hint at untold stories
of roads not taken
.... and...
paths forsaken
and I will
tell you a secret

Sing me a song
that makes  sense of
the night
and I will
amplify your music

Color me a story
with the wind
as your palette
and I will give you
three grains of eternity

 ....  that will forever alter
 the sands of time

Midnight

so tonight feels strange
like  spirits of past lives
are restless
and not at all pleased
at me wasting my time
and the heartbeat of the world
... is skipping beats
and the zombied arms of
past lovers are reaching
past me
for what could have been
and in this strange haze
of half awake
half asleep
jumbled gris gris
...   black words from
frantic lips
make no real sound
  and
     fall
like a silent scream
to those
who never
  care
     to
listen

Waiting in Vain?

Life... ah life. We think we have a clue, we think we are on a sure and true path only to have Life say uh uh uh, not so fast little girl. The older I get the more I have to laugh at the fact we actually think we EVER figure anything out. I think we gain a little discernment, a little wisdom, which let's face it, has a lot to do with just keeping our mouths shut and seeing what happens. You can't out think, out plan, out maneuver Life. It just happens, and whether it's part of a greater scheme or a jingle jangle bumbling fumbling mess, we all gotta live it, one day at a time - and we gotta trust it. I don't understand why people are asses or why bad things happen, but I do understand that love gets you through, and friends make ya smile, and there truly is ALWAYS another bend in the road.

So many of us live in fear. Fear of living true, fear of what others will think, fear of not being in control, or what we think is control. So many people hide their hearts, their intentions, their wants, that they get lost and are just swept along by Life. Life doesn't want us to do this, to be fearful. Life doesn't want us to manage our hearts, or manage the nuances of time. Life wants to be lived, and lived well - without fear. Hearts mend, bad times pass - the world will always be a little sideways, and who knows what's in store - but Life is waiting... so what are YOU waiting on?

stuff

A famous Southern Writer once said, "Everything that rises must converge." Funny how certain words hit you at certain times, acting as a guiding light in a starless sky. Everything that rises must converge. All of our hopes, dreams, wants, desires thrown up there like Hiawatha's mother, tossed to the heavens. What happens when collective risings meet? When good intentions meet with other good intentions? Epiphanies? Vortexes? Change?


I am not sure just what Flannery O' Conner really meant by these words, but I know what they meant to me when I read them. There comes a time when all we dream, all we do, all we are combines in an abstract way with all we can be. These notions however vague intertwine with others and acts like a balm, an easy awakening of some forgotten sense. We are after all the sum of our intentions,

Wordless Poetry

There is a quote by Edward Hopper that says, "If I could say it (in) words there would be no reason to paint.” Words that can’t seem to find sound  make known their presence in brush strokes and patterns of light . These colors on canvas, wood, paper bags or buildings paint beautiful soulful wordless poetry. Poetry that once birthed by the artist, becomes part of the viewer’s individual diary. Each person comes away with images that amuse, confuse, bemuse,  and at times offers clarity to those of us in need of guidance.The ability to create is a strange and wonderful gift that is given freely to all - but not everyone is brave enough to attempt this deeply personal purging of emotion. Be it joy, pain, love, hate or to those of us who live in a constant state of trying to live every emotion in one sitting- complete and utter chaos- art offers refuge. Solace lies in creation; and in solace - redemption? Whatever the need, the want, the feeling, these words seem to speak to the very heart of the matter. Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own soul into his pictures.And the true meaning of each work lives only for a moment in the mind and heart of it's maker until it becomes a gift to everyone. May the colors that speak through you, give voice to us all.

Alabama Absolution

I am of the South of the heart of the pines
of the song of the crickets and blackberry wine
of front porch sittin' and daydreams found
of moon songs and moonshine and old small towns
of cowboys and roughnecks and ladies and cads
of hard work, hard play and barefootin lads
of rivers and creeks and red rover play
of iced- tea- sippin at the end of the day
of magnolias and jasmine and dew on the vine
of bibles and churches and dress-Sunday fine
of kissin and cuddles on Saturday nites
of old kitchen twine and paperbag kites
of fishin' and huntin' and tomatos, green-fried
of football, tailgates and SEC pride
of grandmas and pawpaws and uncles and aunts
of cousins and kin and in-laws by chance
of covered dinners on blanketed grounds
of summer rain and blue-ticked hounds
of Georgia boys and Bama girls
and this and thats
and give it of whirl
of chances taken and chances lost
of heritage and legacy, never countin' the cost
of rope swings, railroads and writers and such
of long lazy days and ain't doin' much
of Mayberried musings and hand-me down songs
of stories and music and warm evenings- long.
of whipoorwills and mourning doves and Robin's breasted red
of love-stiched quilts and buttermilk and big ole feather beds
of me and you and maybe us and clover honey'd bees
of seven sisters and ancient oaks and canopies of leaves
I am of the South of the Heart of the Pines
of a life well lived and a truth that's mine

Twilights and Morning Mists

Heres to freshly ground coffee beans in my favorite blue mug, and the way the winds says good morning. Here's to Ella and Etta crooning and scatting over the liquid grey-green of the Alabama delta as we flow thru the morning mist to begin our day. Here's to deadlines and interviews and artists who share. Here's to lunch with my best gal pal who will be moving across the world with her real true forever love. It takes awhile to find that sometimes you know. Here's to MM's blue berried VI and the Ogre's beautiful translucent soul and Shannon's twinkle and my young Valie asking and seeking both question and answers in the same breath. Here's to Lima beans with ketchup and new friends, and the ones and zeros that cause us to connect with each other and propel each to new awareness. Here's to the promise of Summer, and the air as soft as butterfly kisses- the sweetest of all kisses, except maybe the nape of the neck :-)Here's to a good vintage,RED and music below my feet and bubble baths full of rose petals and dreams full of inspiration. And here's to the hope of one day finding my hearts desire and recognizing it when I do.

Unsung

I am unsung

 notes to a tune

 not yet written.

 I am fear
wrapped in bravado
 I am ease
 but not acquiesced
 I am forgiveness.... personification of things
 taboo in nature
 I am willful
 to my detriment
 I am solid yet of air
 I am love
 given to all
 afraid to take
 and being taken
 I am beginning
Without my ending
Dancing in step
Without my partner
 I am magic
Without a spell
 I am alone.... because I need to be
 accepted
 I am me
 But more than
 the
 sum of my parts.

Pizzicato

In the coldness of this winter

 I turn inside myself

and ponder the mysteries of this life

and as I sit wrapped

 in the warmth

 of lessons learned and meant to bes

my mind turns to hands
 the color of ambered honey
and a voice
 that dispels
 all thought
of sleet or snow
every movement felt
 the neck long
 the fingers deft
the strings taut
 the vibrations of inspired intention
 are liquid fire
 that
heats
 my
core