Kissed

Beloved,
allow me to ask you
how does it feel
when the gentle breeze
falls in a loving caress
across your weary face?

Can you sense a presence
in the warmth..
as you are kissed
oh so softly
by the enduring
breath of God?

Hope

Formed in the salt water of a single tear,
a prayer slides unnoticed
through the star studded atmosphere.

A heavenly being finally finds it
clinging softly to a star.
It’s dewy presence glittering
in the glow of the moon.

There is little hope
trapped in its essence,
just a tiny seedling of perhaps..
but the angel knows that belief holds the seed,
from which miracles are formed.

She cradles the tear in the palm of her hand,
as on radiant wings of grace
she flies beyond the clouds.
There she places the precious gift
into God's majestic hand.

God caresses the tear,
mixing it with one of his own...
blending belief with healing
as another prayer is answered
because of a tiny seed of hope.

Twilight Times

I won gold with this poem..about the picture




I am a creature of the twilight times.
One night the trees burned, hot sparks flying
across the midnight sky.
I ran, my nose singed with smoke and fire.
The beast clawed at my feet
but finally it died,
smoldering in the night.
At dawn I climbed a lone tree.
I sat in deep melancholy
on the twisted blackened limbs.
Destruction framed by a perfect new day.
I watched the ash fall
around the smudged edges of my new life,
wishing I could return to the velvet green of my youth.
One by one a flock of cardinals
gathering on the ash covered tree
offering me the color of their song.

Without Her

This poem won gold in a contest about loss, from a man's point of view..

Without Her
Again this morning, they gather
in the high white pines
and along the back clothes line.
The birds watch the window, waiting.
The empty bird feeder swings in the wind.
I watch them from my seat on the front porch.
They have no interest in me,
it is her they are waiting for.
She use to fill the bird feeder every morning,
no matter the weather.
The morning doves approach me first
hopping across the boards of the porch,
heads held sideways asking perhaps,
"what has happened to that old woman?"
I ignore the chatter and sip my weak coffee,
still after a month of trying it doesn’t have
the punch of the stuff she use to make.
I find it strange that the smallest things
are what I find hardest to bare without her.
I use to take for granted all the clean socks
and underwear that use to appear like magic every day.
A chickadee cries hauntingly from the pine tree.
I ignore the call and continue to sip my almost cold brew.
Just as I am ready to go inside I see it,
the flash of red fluttering above the trees.
Every year my wife would wait for them to come.
Some years they never were seen.
Her favorite bird, perhaps because they were so rare.
My heart aches in my chest, wishing she was here to enjoy this.
I think about the empty feeder
and the bag of feed wasting away in the porch.
A female cardinal joins her mate on the tree.
Two cardinals now that is a rare sight.
With tears on my cheeks I go into the porch to retrieve the birdseed.
I can feel my wife's light laugh drifting on the wind
as I walk back to the pine trees and fill the feeder.

Empty Nest

This poem won bronze in a contest..we had to write about nurturing...

Empty Nest

Autumn has come too quickly.
My daughter has left
for her first year of collage
the last of my children to leave home.
My hours seem long,
I’m lost in the wanting
to change things back to when
my children were young.
I know in my heart I have
nurtured her enough
that she has wonderful wings
to fly on her own.
Fall leaves blow,
raising color.
Scarlet and orange,
like curled butterflies,
they flutter across the yard.
The smell of dead flowers
their fragrance still sweet
even in death.
May’s renewal,
now a distant memory.
The wind blows hard,
a tiny bird’s nest falls at my feet.
Weaved within
my daughter’s lost hair ribbon.
A small bird flies out of the tree,
winging its way south.
The mother bird has long ago
taught it to fly on it's own.
I wonder is the empty nest
breaking her heart?

Dream Weaver

Dream Weaver

The lingering wind
sings me a poignant song.
The clouds go drifting by
weaving night time visions
of renewed tomorrows.
The babbling brook speaks
humming through
the silence old oaks
offering hope.
Mother Nature,
spins contentment over me.
Oh dream weaver
sing me a hopeful song,
a familiar lullaby of optimistic wishes.
Sent me firefly dreams
bright with luminous magic.
Let me see the stars
dancing through the night.
Dream weaver spin me
Illusions  from the
warm milky way.
Let me drift in the warmth
of your night time promises
sleeping under a blanket of wishes.
Let your soft tune float in my mind
until morning brings my sweet dreams
into the harmony of daylight.

If The Sky Was Made Of Paper

If the sky was made of paper
I would use the rainbows
to paint my love song to you.
In hues of sapphire and mauve
I would fill the cobalt sky
with my love words high and wide.
I would underline "I love you,"
with fluffy drifting clouds.
My declaration of love
would drift and speak to you,
feeding your senses with
my promises of forever.
When the sky turns indigo
I would rearrange the stars
to offer you a night time symphony
of shining glittering love.
All this and more I would do
if I could.
But this poem is all I have
to tell you that I love you
and want to be yours forever.