Sun coaxes life
from the earth
with its warmth —
Grow, thrive, breathe
green things of the land
wake from your
winter’s nap and
joyously reach
for the spring —
Colors burst
into vibrant being —
fresh fireworks
on verdant stems of life
Seriocomic
I like people who don’t take life too seriously but who do take very seriously the gratitude for being alive.
A January day that lives forever
In my mind —
I’ve tried a million
times to go back
to that day —
tried to change
my choices
begged a do-over
from the universe
I’ve crippled myself with
guilt
sorrow
thrashing the quicksand
sinking in
layers of grief
fighting a sticky web
trapped in
regret-regret-regret
I don’t even care about
my own
broken heart
I’m sorry
I broke yours
Memories shiver
Why does cold weather refresh old griefs?
More quiet for reflection?
Longer nights to lie awake?
Like citrus, grief is a winter fruit.
Why we can’t let go
Regret is the glue that makes grief stick around for a lifetime.
Muted striations
sand-dust with cream
intensely mauve’d rust
velvety blue-grey-indigo —
layers of early winter’s
desert dawn horizon
Daze in a rut
At a certain point, some of us just sit down and watch the rest of our lives
Glow, shine, reflect
Moonlight is a beautiful and comforting reminder that the sun is still out there somewhere.
The fall of October
October’s autumn
casts a gentle light
and a calm serenity
before the stark
barrenness of winter
is born to November
What I do
altered prose by Terri Guillemets, 2019
from The Man Who Loved Jane Austen
by Sally Smith O’Rourke, 2001, page 53
WILD’ness
WILD
is beautiful
wild is free —
wilderness is not
an empty canvas
for Man to do
what he will —
wilderness is
an already full canvas
painted by God
Hoofprints
Fortune is a centaur —
half man, half luck
Fantastic shores
in bed at night his mind had a ferocious imagination
reality and unreality haunted his turbulent brain
the years ticked, an infinite clock of destiny
searching moonlight for the promise of a future
his reveries of heart were coasting on a fairy’s wing
as the world and universe drifted by fantastic shores
but the sea, work, and women — physical outlets —
were his anchor — something old, hard, and soft
scrambled blackout poetry created from F. Scott Fitzgerald,