31 Wednesday Dec 2025
Posted in Poetry
So, it is a beautiful day.
The sun will win it,
Blue sky have its way,
Beyond the trees to Mt Spokane,
Even Canada.
There is frost on the ground,
No snow or rain,
The painful heat of summer,
Barely a memory now.
In my finite days,
This offers to be a good one.
I should mark it:
December 31, 2025.
I am alive
To witness the sun shine.
30 Tuesday Dec 2025
Posted in Poetry
A New Year, or so they say,
A new start, the passing of one day,
Which allows us to close a door.
I am thinking of who I want to be,
If believing a clean slate can set one free.
What didn’t serve well in 2025?
Or, didn’t serve my entire life?
And how does one change the habits
Of who we are, even bad,
The hobgoblins of our past,
Which lead to regrets, sadness.
What is it blocking joy;
What foils our better self,
Cedes territory to the evil elves
Sent to destroy happiness?
If age, and wisdom, could be a shield,
And we’d yield no more to influences,
What could rebirth truly be?
I’m asking you to envision
What I cannot see. Or, haven’t seen,
A shiny new door, clearly marked ‘free.’
29 Monday Dec 2025
Posted in Poetry
He drags the bow,
Steady, strong, and slow,
To its freedom.
And in the air, silence.
There are, maybe, one hundred souls
Sitting together in a long quiet
Before the shredding storm of song,
The hairs from some magnificent horse,
Breaking free, too. They linger, they long
To dance, eyes closed,
Raptured to a heaven,
The songs of suffering angels,
The way he sings the cello,
Transformed
To its ways, its sways,
Its dangerous foreboding,
Its celebration,
Its redemption.
—-
Six Months Later:
—-
I still find delight
In the memory of wine, music,
That candlelit night
Under a rumbling train,
Where we released our hopes to soar,
and even our mutual pain, with song;
Captured, for a moment, then gone.
Like fallen angels, we fell,
To a silent night, a silent world,
Perhaps, indistinguishable from hell,
Except in those rare moments.
28 Sunday Dec 2025
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Christmas, Death, Death Poems, Loss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Purpose, Survival, Traditions
The traditions remain:
An old family tree,
The making
Of Gingerbread houses,
Wreaths, and lights,
A Christmas fondue–
And I ask,
Will they get me through this?
On the other side of the shadows,
Is my shadow,
I take that by faith, too.
He said, I can’t find my purpose.
I wondered out loud,
Is there a purpose?
Besides surviving, that is.
And the smaller things we cling to,
Making them bigger things–
An outsized portion of our existence
Is in the minutes, winding down.
To wallow in the shadows
Is, perhaps, a luxury.
It comes to this:
At first, we know everything,
Then, nothing,
And at last,
We are okay
With our lack.
27 Saturday Dec 2025
Posted in Poetry
Everyday I carry him inside me,
And beside me, like the robin
Who should have gone south,
But is dangerously late to leave,
Eating the berries from my tree.
I carry him to the sink in the morning,
And in the mirror, I see his crease
Above my nose, or the one wrinkle
By my right eye, under his hair.
I carry his burden of wanting to know–
Too much, at the risk of happiness,
Even expecting something bad
All the time, in the midst of good.
What excuse do I have, except being his daughter,
To carry such personal things?
And yet, to lay him down, to walk away
Into the lightness of my own shadow;
I do not want to leave his burden alone.
So, I will stay here and hope
The winter is not too hard,
And that the days, growing longer,
Are not ungenerous to one lost,
Scavenging forgotten berries.
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