Preoccupied with Light

Suddenly an insight,
It matters less that I
will never snorkel Galapagos.

No need for bonfires,
limbs are bare. Fireflies
pack it in without complaint.

In October, days grow shorter.
Shadows seem to follow night, Still
starlight wets my face with wonder.

Clouds and waning sun bewilder,
I dream of making candles
out of moonlight.




Odd that a person
could stumble full circle
back to a door
they hadn’t seen
first time around

The passage narrowed now
but still wide enough
to give us room
to choose

Ever babes, we wobble
Each bruise a learning thing
until suddenly we discover
instead of crawling
we walk on steady feet
with purpose sure.


The Peaceful Pub Poetry Blog has added The Challenge Forum.  This poem was written in response to the first challenge offered there.  Hope you will check it out and take part.

A Clear Day

This day is serenely sunny —
It’s more than illusion;
everything is radiant.
The light
fills all my empty spaces.

Who knew such buoyancy
was possible
with feet still on the ground?
Eye to eye with the tops of pines,
there is so much to share
about soaring.

Everything exists
on the edge of a breath.
Both delicate and durable, all time
is a tapestry; October’s scene
is woven with gold.

Ancient Autumn, Ever New

In autumn
the world is friendlier
but still a mystery, Every year
the pulse renews when geese and leaves
take to the wind.

Lost in the fog
of autumn’s early morning,
the world’s a space
of shadows shimmering,
the breeze a whisper
that silvers through the boughs

leaving the trees bare
and even in that bareness
beguiling, ever new,
as the ancient
touches now.


“A thing there is whose voice is one;
Whose feet are four and two.” …


all purr and silk
she sits contemplating
some untested

maybe she is ruminating
on the riddle of the Sphinx
or her questionably royal

on the other hand
could be dinner
and the waiting gourmet platter
that occupies her mind

claws sheathed
in velvet paws, she sits
oblivious to the riddles
that she poses

The Old Guitarist*



Derelict and disheveled,
lost to the world around him,
Isolation and his old guitar
the only company that he keeps.

No sign of discontent  at his lowly fate,
Almost saintly, that horsehair vest
worn with benevolent grace
over emaciated limbs.

Unemcumbered countenance,
thin fingers caress the fraying strings,
the promise of music dissolves despair,
fills the air with a melancholy

that stems from within ourselves.


*The Old Guitarist…oil on canvas/Picasso-1903

In Retrospect

Beneath a haloed moon
soft shadows ruffle a field
untouched by fence or post.

Ambushed by Autumn’s
falling leaves,
a calm claims my soul

as I pray that tomorrow
might resemble today
in this field

awash in moonlight
and the innocence
of its peace.


Praying for all whose peace has been shattered
by tragedy and grief.

Psalm 147:3
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”