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The water quietly murmurs along its path flint rock lying in the bed becoming smoother with each ripple songs, chirps, calls of birds colorful and dull The sighs of the leafy abode shades of green from forest to moss monuments of wood and stone The trace of a breeze like a child blowing bubbles that carries the hint of the coolness of the woods The woods keep the secrets the creek keeps the woods I keep the silence of all within my heart
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Just May

Her name was May.
Not named for the month of showers, flowers and springtime
But short for Maybe
As in maybe this kid won’t make it
As in maybe someone else will take this kid
Pushed aside and forgotten most of the time
She screamed and clawed her way into this world
Soon learning that silent was the way to be
Going unnoticed among the crowd
She tiptoed along on the steady route
Through the background of her thorny life
Forging a path, rising
Until standing at the front, still faceless, soundless to many
She found her way, her voice, her worth
She made it
Just maybe
No, just May
Named for perhaps, might, could

The Cabin

Standing in the breezeway Of an era vanished like the mammoth A cast iron kettle lays upended Beside cold ashes No longer useful 
Of a time now only in memories The grubbing hoe leans Amongst other forgotten tools Like rubbish in the corner
The days of working sunup till sundown Fading away with the years The spinning wheel is still Silent without calloused hands to move it Discarded with yesterday’s tricks
Families scattered now
Once shaped together Apparitions visiting like kinfolk That gathered days ago Standing in the breezeway


She prayed for intervention
Waiting and wanting her cry
No one answered
Only the trees cared to touch

She waited for a miracle
Giving up had become her hymn
No one ever listened
Only the wind cared to comment

She lingered for a dream
Long ago was but a wish
No one provided
Only the house cared to stand


Remembering is easy --for now. But I have visions of days to come where my memory may fade. Alzeheimer's. It's a horrible disease. There are other horrible diseases in our world, but this one that takes away memory and thinking is in my mind --the worst. Hoping, wishing and praying that this wretched affliction never touches another member of my family or me.

 I remember it took away my mother. My first recollection of something wrong was when she was supposed to come and visit, yet she never showed up. I called and called and finally she answered. When I asked why she didn't show up, her tearful reply was that she had started driving but couldn't remember how to get to my house. A route she had taken hundreds of times. Thank you Lord for her being able to remember how to get back home.

 I recollect this malady being the nightmare that caused my mother not to remember that she had had a heart attack and that she was in a hospital. Nightmare is the only way to describ…


The butterflies began as small as gnats
The jitters were released from within
Nervousness gave way to anxiety
Butterflies now the size of buzzards
Voice reduced to a squeak
Imagination turned into reality
Warmth spread like a rash over the body
Mortification settled on the shoulders
Death was wished for
Forgetfulness not as forgiven as amnesia
Embarassment is forever.

The Hush Before Winter

I'm not a hater of Fall. For the most part I like the weather, at least the sunny, crisp Fall days. But not the end of Fall when frost begins to show up on the ground. I love the Fall decorations, the crunch of leaves and the pumpkin and apple goodies so readily available this time of year.

I'm not a lover of Fall either. Fall is a time of sadness for me, the least of which is that when Fall arrives  it means Summer is over. The big hit I take during the Fall is that both of my parents passed away in the Fall. No matter that it's been 16 years since my mother left us in September and 9 years since my father passed away in October, when the leaves start changing and the feeling of Fall is in the air, it seems like yesterday   today.

So Fall is only a time of year to get through. Space between the lovliest of seasons and the ugliest.