Category Archives: MEMORY

Old Love’s visitation

day 25… napowrimo

Nudes with bow #@2

Shared history in a chemistry of long ago
Decades have passed mostly whispered by
With scattered temptations and other yearnings
In flash mob moments caught in an
exuberant push for remembering connection

There will always be this love undenied
The many long agos and far away
are the coloured threads that weave us
Worn in places still weaving anew.
In the rise of chemistry that stills lingers

Old love that joys the heart and laughs
In-spite of distances and other loves
Other lives, all tumbles together for
in the memorabilia of lives well lived
while still unfolding into the next

We meet like it was yesterday
In that familiar way of us
In essence still thriving
building our tomorrows
in this today in our goodbye.

till next time


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Beach Ball and Peter Pan. a memoir



day 7… napowrimo

It was a push, tumble, roll hitting the curb hard
in the tackle of her silence and misunderstanding
under the summer sun of giggles, hopscotch and dolls
of that beach ball’s skip out of her reach into
the middle of the street.

I scream at her silence, out of breath and sound
to those ears that hear nothing in that blue eyed gaze
of little girl smiles turning in slow motion
to the flail of my arms and open mouth’s beseech
across the street in front of her grandma’s house.

It was coming, full speed at her silent stance
as the ball bounces from her finger tips
in the terror rush of my voice unheard
Rushing out to her in the tackle tumble
to the other side of deaf and breathless.

The car screeches to a stop in a slam of door
A storm of fear spilling out from the black gap
in his face at the crush of us hanging over curb and grass.
Clutching her safe in her resistance to what has no meaning
For silence can do that in innocence.

Tears hit the pavement in the run to grandma
The driver lays his blame in black strips
Slow motion gets me to the other side
Praise holds no relief for my terror.
A new friend will never hear a thing of it

In the gift of Peter Pan we hold hands in the reeling
in the darkness of the theater for the first time.
There is no matter in what is heard here between us
Eyes brighten with the fairy dust of magic seeing.
In the Disney other worldly of seduction’s sparkle.

We are not lost children in the Never Never Land
We are of hopscotch and beach balls, of giggles and curls
Mommies and grandmas, on busy streets in little towns
and sometimes what we hear saves us and sometimes
what lives in silence calls us back to life.







Old Journals and the-way-back-then in the Now

I remember the decades ago of writing every bit of angst that drooled out of me, in journals that I have long since lost.  There is a part of me that would like to see what held me to all that youthful drive and desire of those yesterdays in the way back then.   Handwritten reams of strung together words that laid my life out on paper.  Back then, I didn’t share my journals.  Private, only for my eyes to reread, if I would have ever bothered to.  It was in the process of letting it all roll out on paper, getting IT all out of me in a spew of feelings that found writing a way in and a way out of my life.

This Year finds it closure soon.  A time that reminisce finds a place to linger and gives rise to what has gone before.  Much of that for me, will lay in the corners of what has been written for my eyes only, in the un-shareable stories that I will likely not read ever again;  Tho’ I will ruminate in the heart of them; in the birth, death, life of them, in the joy, sorrow, laughter and tears of them.



There is no new year only new moments

pressed together one after the other after the other

In moon shine and sunlight, of darkness in the

Light of  all that has been seen as it rolls through and

around in the cycle of life, in the living of the moment


Gone are ‘The Days’ left for the stories to be told

In the history of what was and now is not

What was may have its linger only to hold

The past in some compartment stowaway

For what reason can only be told by the storyteller


Oh how well we hold to the story of a life as it’s been

And a life that might be to forget what IS

In each moment that gives of it’s self again and again

And all that Sunlight and Moonshine, and days

And more days to live this life till the breath of us leaves

And what matters on that last exhale is Love and peace


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Filed under BE HERE NOW, BIRTH. LIFE. DEATH, DEATH, MEMORY, michigan, the craft of writing.

Houghton, Michigan… souvenir… haibun

there is so much good

Enjoying a day of garage sale-ing about town a couple of weeks ago; I filed through this box of old postcards and misc. ephemera.  I found this (1903) leather, wood-burned and painted ‘postcard’ souvenir, from way up north in the UP.   The guy at the sale said he figured it was his grandfathers, cause that box was old family miscellaneous stuff.  He also said, he wished he’d paid attention to what was in the box cause he really liked the saying on the card and wished he’d kept it.  (**NOTE… Originally I said this was from the maybe the 50’s/60’s.  There an old one cent stamp on the back of Ben Franklin.  That stamp is from 1903.  WOW.  cool huh)

Tho’ I wanted it, I offered it back to him.  He declined, and said it was meant for me and to give him a dollar for it.

It touched me with its message and reminded me that I am a little bit of All-that-is, with all the goodness and graciousness of Being,  sprinkled with periodic crankiness ,with an edge of distain every now n’ again.  And, that when I witness all the variables of people, and the vast array of personalities in my life and those that filter past me in my days; that I am of the ‘same clothe’ in certain sort of way.  I am part of this Oneness that they are a part of.  I don’t have to like the flow or constraint of another.  I don’t have to engage with any negativity.  I get to choose and feed the life I desire.

When I notice the goodness and grace of others to be reminded of my own goodness and grace.  And when I witness the disturbed, ugliness of other, that within me lurks some piece of that too.  Again, I get to choose, my way of Being in my moments, and realize that living in a world of Duality and polarity, It’s all a dance of Light and Dark and many colours in the in-between.  I’m fond of that Rainbow Bridge.

So many stories get made up about what we imagine something is or isn’t in the context of our feelings and observation of a moment.  And really… I know I haven’t a clue of that ‘truth’ of what I see, and feel outside of myself , till I ask, or I decide to let it go.  It might be wise to shut-up about it cause it IS false perception and likely my rambling idle gossip elaborating.

Heed the Light and Dark

Truth is a colourful trickster

Know your own story



The Midnight Sea Sees



IMG_0619Midnight lays over the wide sea

All is vast in the deep of night

A surround of above and below

The Milky Way glimmers it’s light


A quiet unlike any is known

Barely a breeze lifts the sails

The is no horizon to be seen

Sky and sea seal the veil


The wait for the passage to appear

When the call comes for the way home

Above and below become all as one

At last an end to this Earthly roam


The wind catches the sails

Pulls across in the midnight sea

In the union for water and night

We meet coming home to all we can be











it’s every other days these days..

Setting sun on a Blue Moon rising

Setting sun on a Blue Moon rising

It’s every other day these days

when days blend into each other

in the other way the mind plays

out the way of the dance of age as it

weaves a little faster, a little faster


So, it’s every other day these days

in the get to it of the way some rituals

yawn and stretch out in this new say

of how it might go and then again not

of the way the bones creak and the neck


Finds it sag and the crow flies along

eyes that have seen decades of coral skies

and gasped at the Milky Way making

night caps in the cup filling and pouring out

in the hush of love and tears of sorrow


Of when we did the clever sash-shay

with youth a blush and wink laid out

on moist sheets tossed over the sprawl

of naked lust in hungry repeat of

never enough, in the never ending play


There is sweetness to the remember

with the every day occupied by the

sooth of age and the settle of wrinkles

that don’t iron out and the map of veins

surface to display the long winding journey


Eyes adjusting to the new light rising

and letting every other day be fine

Wise to the fact that perfect is imperfect

slowing down in the speeding up fits

the pleasure of aging wisdom

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remembering what needed remembering


The path home is so unlike the path through the trees

and ferns, the intense voice of green calling up

all and every bit of lush and bloom. Up and

out for Spring’s few weeks of rising in her

Northern exposure.


The last of the trillium bent down to give

her final breath to earth till her next year.

While the poppies make a field of orange

and purple heads up to seek the sun

in it’s path across the northern sky.


I made words to stories of childhood amidst

the quiet of this place of Clearing and creating.

Feeling the spaciousness beneath forest wild

with the dappled blue of sky and the floor of

hungry life rising green for the carpet


Childhood didn’t know this place.  I held her

hand as we walked the paths, sat together

in an arbor of green, inhaled the wonders

of how those days brought us to these days

We remembered what needed remembering.



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I remember a lot and forget everything

Remember again and sieve through

the necessary.

Decades of gathering life in my cells

in my body, my brain, heaps of stories

real and made up.

What is made up becomes real and the

real, if painful, or edged with bizarre

can not be so.

And so it goes, in the roll of life’s gathering

in all the season’s, sunny and light

grim and gloomy

Held to this moment for how the blue sky

is canvas to the wild green of Spring

to the chirp and chatter of morning

The bitter hot of my favorite coffee

and the quiet surrender to morning

rising with me

I remember a lot and forget some

Remember again, and let it settle

breathing deep.

Letting go of what I remember

for the fresh smells that rise around me

on the blue canvas


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