Poem For The Sister I’m So Lucky To Have

one day they’ll examine
the leaves of our letters,

the vangoghed margin notes
and butterflied brush strokes

that tell the canvas-lovers
we were only human too.

they’ll sit there in libraries
and beside post office boxes
and on front porch swings

unexpectedly
lost in the light
of our laughter,

their eyes melting to mist,
their faces growing
steadily younger.

~~ end of poem (which yes, is about 55 words, for those of you playing.)

Those are a couple of cards and a bookmark my sister made and sent me this year from jail where she’s been serving 6 months for a lesson she can learn from.

(Lord knows, we’ve all had lessons to learn.)

She’ll be out in a couple weeks.

Rosie’s a sweet sweet awesome person.  I love her so much!!

And she’s the real visual artist of the family, as you can see.

Even her handwriting’s a painting.

Blessedly, Mom and Dad and Rosie’s 2 kids have had these wonderful months to hang out together!

And everything’s okay.

xoxoxooxxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Let’s Not Work Today (Or Any Day)

let’s laze in bed
scrapbooking our
coffee into faerie rings
we’ll dance around
all day and half-past
the marshmallow moon.

let’s sack race down
a curtain of sun to the
land of never-ending
cake baked by butterflies
with sunrise stained-glass
church window wings.

let’s RSVP to the starfish
by text that, yes — we shall
soon waltz at the wedding
of ocean and sky.

and when we’re older,
let’s grand jete up the
aisles of old photographs
smiling at us from baskets
and boxes and cedar chests
on the shelves of our hearts.

~~ end of poem for dVerse Poetry’s Open Link Tuesday.

Photos taken Saturday at my pal Suzie’s.

She designed and made those starfish from cardboard herself!

Still can’t believe I’m this lucky she’s my friend.

xooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxooxoxxoox

They Still Don’t Know

where their red hair comes from

but that’s okay, it comes from love’s

ocean we’re all mermaiding in.

_____

it comes from the doctor’s daughter who

in 1916 at age 10 posed in a Nova Scotia

summergarden with a chestnut violin.

_____

it comes from the pines and the lilacs

of the dance hall she bought on auction

with 700 borrowed dollars in 1942,

_____

the dance hall now in arrears,

but with my loving intention will shine

up the seashells again in seven years.

_______

(because all love is up to me.)

______

one day, the invisible red thread that ties us all together

will reveal how after her too-young Episcopalian minister

husband died suddenly and unexpectedly of heart attack,

_____

she took up buying and selling

antiques for the next 35 years,

finally closing shop at age 85

_____

and her eyes at age 97.

_____

how she never remarried, but

for a while had a beau who landed

on the beach in front of her house

to take her flying by seaplane.

_____

how she loved silver

blue cotton sundresses

a glass of white a night

her 3 sons, their wives

her grandchildren,

______

and went on to outlive

all her sisters and friends,

but not the lilacs, and

_____

not the love writing

this bottled message

here in Texas today.

will 2 red-haired angels

one day get to be friends

with a little half-sister,

______

maybe show her around

all the secret caves and coves

of the island they call home?

_________

I hope so!

________

but who knows?

who knows how it

all will go, really?

_____

i sure don’t, but

my money’s on the love

and on the red string

_____

that knows all

the best waves are

still yet to come.

~~ end of poem written with hope and trust in all things good.

And hey — it’s Tuesday!

Sorry I’ve not been out to most of your blogs lately, I’m still in major bread-winning mode these days.

Love you all, tho. And plan on blog-hopping later this week, whoooohoooooo.

xoxooxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxxooxxoxxoxooxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxo

Sometimes You Watch Them

Sometimes you watch them

from an umbrella or a window

or a harbor castle’s keep.

Whatever a keep is.

Something that holds

things in I guess.

But there’s no holding in

kids or flowers with hearts

and minds of their own.

Sometimes a poem that starts

about children playing in morning rain

after a birthday slumber party

ends in a grand revelation

that this year your impatiens

must’ve roamed off to Rome.

But… you sweep the

walkway for this post,

Postie’s on the way,

and even with Rome roamers,

you know everything’s still good.

Really so very wonderfully good.

With love to all you AWESOME-sweet ones.

Have fun out cavorting in the wild-flowered poetry meadows. See you there soon!

oxoxooxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxooxox

Yes, I watered them all summer!

(The kids AND the flowers!!)

Probably just need to upgrade my soil.

Build A Song

Build a song on

foundations of rock

…

jazz blues & soul.

…

frame it with

guitar sky open

to hope.

…

leave roof

rafters bare

to the moon.

…

plant grass all

around and hear

how all grows

…

from the flow

of your soul

…

to the stars

…

and God’s

…

front porch

…

above  you.

Is that 55? Words, I mean? I DO know it’s Friday!!

And that some angel will buy that amp from me on eBay soon.

Sorry amp pic is a bit fuzzy — Blue Bunny’s been into his cups again.  🙂

xoxoxoxoxoxooxxoxooxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

P.S. I still have comments to answer and blogs to read — and I will!!