Category: Poetry

  • And Gather Moonbeams. . .

    We Dance. . . We dance then through the night sky and gather moonbeams for our baskets. . . We strew them onto the paths of the children who will pick them up and throw them with joy to the night sky. They will be stars again to be gathered by a one who recognizes…

  • Tangible Slices of Memory. . . .

    This was from the box of forget-me-nots that I couldn’t part with. This was the first Christmas card I made.  With whatever I have gained in computer literacy,  I have been able to restore a reasonable semblance of the faded copy I was able to unearth.  There was no discretionary income to spend on materials,…

  • To Sweep Clean My Father’s House. . .

    I Am Not Finished. . . When I was a girl I learned only because I hung onto my anger (as fuel for my work) that I could find the energy to continue with what was demanded and not give up. This is what keeping on with keeping on means to me.  Anger ( used…

  • In Universal Purpose. . .

    The Ultimate In Universal Purpose. . . . Because I was told in a million ways my unhappiness could be rectified if only I would. . . and the list was endless.  And the harder I tried and  longer I worked because it was love that gave constructive criticism I was told and believed, till…

  • The Rose In December. . .

    I started to make our Christmas cards when I couldn’t find a card to translate our hearts when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  Many of our friends over the years have kept the cards I have made.  It warms my heart to hear them called the Veronica Files.  My efforts in artwork have always…

  • Still In A Time Of Infamy. . .

    Pardon Me While I Cry. . . My oldest brother Edward was 20 years old on December 7, 1941 and I was 10.  I will never forget my mother’s tears and lamentations when word came over the radio that Pearl Harbor was under attack.   ‘Matko Bosko’  (mother of god) she wailed.   Edward was…

  • Centuries To Arrive. . . .

    Centuries to get here . . . . There are those of us who are sensitive to our inmost thoughts and often we consider them nightmares.  A favorite writer tells of his dreams that leave him unanchored.  They take his equanimity and disable him.  Like his, my journey for years left me with events that…

  • A Chance For Love. . .

    A Chance For Love. . . Each time is a new time. Cast in the shadow of a rock, a cave, or even a cove. . . Simply set and inspired by a rolling coast, a sunset, a glimpse of a new place. . . New tidings of good cheer; a glass of sweet wine,…

  • The Uncovering. . . .

      Teach The Lessons Well. . . Again from a journal entry the Teacher speaks on evolution. . . in the evolution of genes,  in cleaning up genetic history, we talk of literally thousands of years.  But with emphasis not on the helplessness of man,  but with concerted thought and concerted direction,  there can be…

  • Happy Thanksgiving. . . my heart’s gratitude. . .

    How Much Of A Difference. . . It was morning, though the night still hung heavy; the clouds hovered, the sun unable to rise. The children gathered for breakfast; morose and angry, heavy still with sleep. Mother looked with unhappy eyes and father, already delayed flew out the door. What could she plan for this…