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My Mother’s Peonies: A Decades Long Journey

Peonies from the garden on the Ridge. The deep pink ones?

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Late Morning in June

NansTea

Late morning writing time…now just need to open up the journal a few more pages in. My writing inspiration this morning combines the summer sun, tea, a well worn journal and beyond these things lies gardens of flowers and a rugged mountainside. More gardening work awaits of course; it is ongoing throughout the summer. But moments need to be put aside to writing and that is not always easy to do. I do admit that.  And as my tea tag above says, “be yourself” sits in the beginning of my journal, I aspire to that. For inside these written pages dating back to 2008, filled with thoughts, quotes, unedited poems, drawings…all allowing me to just…be myself.

Sun Dancer

Sun Dancer

The dawn moon quiets my mysterious wonder

into a deep palette of soft watercolors. Read more

Late Afternoon in Early Winter

Early winter has descended upon us in Colorado. A November blizzard and more since then has brought us into a season of quiet and white sooner than expected.  In a world outside of quiet snowfalls, it is joyful to walk among summer and autumn that once was.

 

DCF 1.0

DCF 1.0

The wood stove fire burns slowly,
warmth seeps into ridges of a red fleece blanket
that adorns my shivering shoulders.
Outside the snow softly falls,
swirls of silver and white cover
autumn into bare branched silence.

North winds howl,
white tailed deer scrape snow on their tongues
on a late afternoon in early winter.
Caught in high country silence,
I sit and wonder, will we ever dance together again,
one more time to embrace
the soft rustlings of our mountain love.

The late afternoon begins to dim;
Night fall trails and gives way to the gray violet of snowy dusk.
I listen for your voice to echo down the high country ridge;
a gesture of your long awaited return home.
Outside the mountain settles into an early winter,
the deer and I wait for December snows to end,
and the passes to clear,
to welcome the pale glimmer of morning.

Remnant

A very special poem from my poetry collection Journey On: Beauty And Grit Along the Way. It was one of those poems that came to me so easily…I love when writing a poem can actually be almost effortless. This one was:

Remnant

You found me alone,
yearning for the summer’s moon
and encircled me like a wraparound porch.
Drawing me close, you took my pain and fears
and welcomed them in.
You came and stayed in my heart
giving love with yours.

You are gone, but your love remains,
like the remnant of an old soft blue sweater
hung nearby on a peg by the back door,

waiting for the wearer to return home.

Anna Blake Godbout's photo.

A Walk with the Clouds

DCF 1.0
Let us walk,
along the mountain coast
under clouds light as springtime air.
There are no cares from the pouring rain
that soak our way.

Skies of denim blue
nudged by the sea’s wind
remind us to leave behind
heartache and hurdle.

I take your laughter
and weave it with mine
as the sun warms our backs.

Tech vs Serendipity

 I found this quote on a blog from the New Yorker and wondered what others think of this. Not having everything electronically at your fingertips allows for a level of serendipity that I value and encourage in life, especially when traveling. I think with technology we�re allowed to have lives filled with convenience, but when the convenience takes away some of the joy from everyday circumstances, what are we really compromising?

The Workbench

The Workbench

After the burial, I walk up to the old white clapboard house
and peer with cupped hands into a cobwebbed cellar window.
Inside the dank and musty interior,
I see my grandfather’s once vital workbench
ghostlike, scarcely lit by streaks of powdered April sunshine.
His step stool once too big for me,
seems to smile at me in the quiet.
I can hear his work shoes clomp down the cellar steps;
see his aged fingers flicking on the switch of a fluorescent light
rippling the darkness with blue white tint.

My grandfather gently picks through a muddle of
worn down wooden handled hammers,
screwdrivers spattered with drops of red and white,
scratched wrenches, gunmetal gray pliers mingle
with baby food jars filled with nails, wood screws, washers.
Tools with meaning only to him.
I miss him every time I think of the doll bed
he made for me one Christmas
out of old maple scraps from his Canadian woods.
I still believe Santa needed his help.

Clouds part to reveal patches of blue sky,
late winter snows are scraps of white on murky brown land.
With water-filled eyes, I set aside my memories,
wave a little girl goodbye to the workbench.
More smiles will come.

I am greeting September with a quiet poem for my readers. The bustle of summer is now past. Here in Colorado our mornings begin with chilled autumn like temperatures. Spots of orange are appearing on the scrub oak and the aspens are tinged with golden on their tips of their leaves. So now make a cup of vanilla almond tea, settle in and read from the Journey On Collection Listening for My Name. I thank you for reading my words.

 

Listening for My Name

 
You returned with mysteries forgiven
a gentle cover of darkness surrounded
me with the wonder of anticipation.

You became yourself once more
someone long forgotten, this time promising
never to be lessened by fear again.

Inner stirrings beckoned for you
beneath my hidden need.
And then, you began to give
while I began to take with delicious breath.

Beyond the window pane the rains fell,
the thunder moved in from far off distances.
You gathered me in like fog clinging to a river,
refreshing sleep whispered this gift
as moonlight drifted through brushed away clouds.

In the quiet days and nights of winter to come,
I will turn to you,
and listen for my name.

In these last days of August, I take a look back at a summer moment tracing the thread of beauty on a coastal road somewhere in New England…

Morning Migration

In the quiet tidal marsh,
along a coastal road lined
in Queen Anne’s Lace,
a lone heron dances
stirring the sanctuary
I dance too,
my legs wobbly, my steps small.
Golden light breaks upon my back,
and on the heron’s wing.

I turn beyond what is known
and see the lavender horizon in a tapestry
of muted light.
Here I have no fear,
for there is no one to see
my silent gratitude, full with grace.

The tidal marsh waits
like the sanctuary,
like the heron,
like all of us, for the light.

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