pinked

(haiku)

hint, indication

unfulfilled but possible

flower bud now pinked

                                  

two white boots

two gleaming white boots

ready for toddler’s exploration

of the consistencies of mud

                                  

whispered stories

slow in the back room of the bazaar

as many customers were no aware

there was more to see

but hours to spend with author friends

chatting first, then talking, reminiscing

revealing more of the memories

that created who we are

ah, to have beside us those we trust

dawn direction

haiku

brilliant pink-orange east

dawn reclaiming from gray mists

moving sunrise north

April 8, 2024

April 8, 2024

eeriness of a sudden chill

birds fluttering, darting to nests

bats lifting from inverted sleep

giraffes shifting to shelter their young

horses meandering, sure only in line

with others, also restless and uncertain

dogs whimpering, cowering

or crawling to be near awed masters

standing, arms raised, intent upon

the midnight sky barely past noon

with blotted sun exposing only odd

ring of blue- or gold-white coronet

lasting minutes between diamond

and diamond

rare, beautiful, strange

gift for a lifetime shared with so many

experiencing as never before

their common, frail humanity

acknowledging the vastness of reality

sounds of water

waves sweeping in for a bow

with quiet grace or flourish

shawl or cape whipped white

as raindrops splat on metal roof

or plummet onto furrowed earth

and trickle into gurgling rivulets

streaming toward roaring, gnashing

rivers to the sea to full circle

as pounding waves or lifted

by evaporation to cling to tiny particles

and fall again as rain

each role and costume enhanced

by sound that reach our souls

bev

whimsical artistry

whose foundation of close observation

is filtered through beauty and compassion

loving dedication

to those who give of themselves

eagerness to help

young souls to find their best selves

warmth, impishness, gentle laughter

in delight of life

            Bev Walker, we miss you

material things

Material Things

            Warm and soft, caressing my shoulders. Mom was wrapping the fluffy beach towel around my shaking, four-year-old frame. I’d again stayed playing in Lake Erie’s chill water until my skin was wrinkled, and then, knowing better, sat in the shade of the elm inventing adventures for the twig men I’d found among the rocks of Kelley Island’s sandless shore.

            “You should have come in long ago,” Mom scolded with a smile.

            “I know, Mom.” I did know. I’d even thought about it when my teeth started to chatter, but the stories those bits of wood were drawing from me were too fascinating to be interrupted by discomfort I barely felt until the trembling and shaking made me run to the cottage. I knew I’d be greeted by terrycloth baked in sunshine on the clothesline strung from the back porch to the corner of the outhouse.

            My shoulders snuggled in fluffed warmth, the rest of me could drip until all of me, too, was baked in sunlight, recovery, acceptance, security. The texture of that towel told me I was loved.   

foundation of value

self-worth, knowing i am loved

that is what i work to have all children

take within themselves to enable each

to respect self and those other uncertain beings struggling to find place in

the enormity of unsure relationships

and hints of danger

to have strength of foundation

to be able to respect us all and see

fellow humans with caring

and compassion

still churning

still churning within

at the thought of his sneaky

non-confrontational, taking ways

never satisfied, never responsible

no wonder i have not talked

about him in many years

his problem outlook on life

i cannot allow to destroy

my peace and joy