stark, cold, ugly
despite her pretty white
cosmetics and howling winds,
that try to deceive us into
thinking her lovely. she’s not.
she’s a liar.

i suppose if she were not
among us, then another month
by some other name
would bear her drudgery.

it is during her reign
with long cold, cloudy days
when powder covers
earth that i miss green

and flowers and butterflies,
hayfields and long walks
in bare feet and pastel colors,
dragonflies and pond lilies,
golden sunsets and cricket songs.

still, i find reason to be thankful
that she only comes once every
twelve months and when she is gone
spring things begin to creep back

up these hollers and over these hills.
in february crocus will dare to show
their faces; birds will defy the temps
and sing anyway. january will die away.
she always does.

Midnight hair
lay shiny on a pink dress
amid dogwood boquets, but
flowers should not signal
the end.

I still hear
Delta Dawn
and remember,
yes, remember,
how her voice sounded
like May all year long.

Once upon a time a betrothed prince and princess were given a kingdom by the prince’s father. He gave the prince a small golden tree and declared that whoever cared for the tree would rule the kingdom. To care for the tree meant to never pull fruit from its branches or damage it in anyway. Now as the king had given the prince complete control of the kingdom, every citizen in the land obeyed him. In this kingdom all citizens had every thing they could ever want or imagine. They never knew hunger, cold or pain. They never felt sadness or boredom and their faces had never been scowled by anger. They grew beautiful flowers and ate the tastiest of fruits. The prince and princess planned to marry and raise a family here in their peaceful kingdom.

Little did they know that there was a spy in their company, a covert agent from a malicious enemy of their father.

This spy disguised himself as a wise and benevolent traveler who began to visit the royal children daily. He told them fantastic tales of the places he had been and the wonders he had seen. Often when he left them for the day they felt small and sheltered. They began to wonder what lay beyond their kingdom. Once they had only dreamed of raising their family, of tending the royal gardens they had inherited, but now they talked of strange creatures and far away places, of grand palaces and brave deeds. They came to trust the traveler and longed for his company.

Sometimes the traveler said “little” things about the prince’s father that the prince knew were not true, but he brushed these small slurs aside and ignored them because he was so enthralled with the traveler’s words, and what smooth words they were! There was just something about this wise man that compelled the youths to listen to him. One day, after he had visited them many times, he said, “Why is it that your father never lets you go beyond what is here? Why does he not want you to know what is in the world?”

The princess spoke first of her beloved father-in-law to be, “He tells us that there is death beyond this place. He does not wish us to die.”

“Is that so?” asked the traveler. “Does he not tell you of the wonders, the beauty, the knowledge I have seen? He keeps part of the truth from you.”

The prince thought on the stranger’s words. He loved his father. Surely what this man said was not true, but then again, he was so young. He had never been out of this kingdom. How could he be sure this man spoke a lie. What if his father did not really know everything? What if he was mistaken himself? Could that be possible?

“I tell you what,” the traveler said. “I will show you all the things you wish to see, all the wonders you have heard me speak of, but I will need it to be fair. I will trade you a trip into the world for…” he looked around as if searching for some random object for which to trade. However, he had planned this trade from the moment he laid eyes on the couple. “For a piece of that golden fruit. You must give me a piece of it.”

The princess, who was much more inquisitive and talkative than the young man, spoke again, “Oh, no. We can’t give you that.”

“Why not? It’s only fruit,” the man said.

And without thinking any further the princess plucked a piece of fruit from the tree and handed to the stranger, but the trade had not officially been made because the fruit and the tree actually belonged to the prince, since he was the one the king had given it to originally. The stranger looked to the prince who took the fruit and without one word, handed it back to the traveler.

Immediately, the stranger changed from a handsome, kind and wise traveler into a menacing creature from another world, a being of dark magic, and with but a wave of his hand, he left the royal couple naked, destitute and shackled in chains. The creature laughed and proclaimed himself their new master. Everything he had told them had been lies and twisted facts. Too late, they realized they had been deceived, that they had lost everything. They had traded their future, their children’s future and the well-being of their entire kingdom for empty promises.

They drug their shackled feet through the garden and hid, knowing they could not escape their fate. They tried to cover their nakedness, their sudden extreme poverty, with some dirty old rags.

When the king came back to visit his son in the kingdom, he found him cowering in fear, hiding, dressed in rags and weeping with despair. The king was heart-broken because the son had believed the lies of a cunning stranger, but being the good father he was, he laid down a plan to one day free the couple and their future off-springs from slavery; however, because he had given the son control of the kingdom and the son had traded his kingdom for a look into “mysterious things”, he could not go back on his word that whoever controlled the tree, controlled the kingdom. Deliverance would have to wait until the father’s plan could be unfolded and executed.

In time, just as the stranger had disguised himself as a citizen of the kingdom, the king’s other son, disguised himself as a commoner and came to live in the land of despair now controlled by the cunning traveler. The traveler had gained control of the kingdom by tricking the royal couple into giving away the seeds to the golden tree. Knowing he could not stoop to deceit, the second prince offered to purchase the kingdom back and being the son of the king, he offered a price so magnificent that the traveler could not refuse his offer. The price he offered was his life. He revealed his identity as the king’s other son. The traveler hated the king above all else and thought he had outdone himself when he agreed to the second prince’s terms and had him sacrificed on the very tree that he had stolen from the first prince. The traveler had no intention of returning the kingdom to the first prince’s or his off-springs. He merely planned to murder the king’s son and retain control of the kingdom. Again, he planned to deceive and lie to the royal family. What he did not know was that the second prince possessed powers greater than his own and that death was not permanent for him, because unlike his older brother, he was not mortal.

So, the traveler stood by and watched as the prince was murdered, as he was cut open and as he bled to death. He then had a party to celebrate the fact that he was still ruler of the kingdom and that the king’s off-springs were bound in slavery forever. However, just as the party in his palace was really taking off, the entire building shook and the prince he had murdered blew the palace doors open with a blast from his hand. He sent the guards the their knees with a look, then marched right up to the traveler and yanked the spectre from his hand and the crown from his head. The traveler used his dark magic on the prince, trying to render him naked and in leave him in shackles, but the prince’s power was so much greater that he blew the shackles into a million pieces and wove himself a tunic of light. He then picked up the traveler and carried him to the edge of the kingdom and tossed him from a high mountain.

Finally, he found his brother and his wife, still bound in chains. With his bare hands he ripped the chains from them and declared them free. He then sent a decree into all corners of the kingdom that the traveler was no longer in charge and that no one should have to live under his cruel rule anymore. However, many did not believe the message when they heard it and are still living as if though the traveler is still their king. Others, believed the message and now live as free citizens, realizing they are no longer slaves.

A few years ago I decided to switch my “ponderings” blog to a poetry blog. Now I find myself wanting to ponder again from time to time. I suppose that’s the way we are as human beings, or at least some of us. We live in cycles, seasons. And seasons change in some form or another. So here I am again, a pondering poet. Perhaps my poetry friends won’t be too disappointed that I sometimes feel the need to write long, lumbering paragraphs and maybe others will find something worth reading or thinking about in some of my ramblings.

So here’s my “ponder” for the moment. Someone told me this week that many people were purchasing my novel, not to read, but just because the money goes to fight cancer. She said friends had confided in her that they ‘just don’t read’. I am truly, from the bottom of my heart thankful, that they are making that sacrifice, that they have a heart to make a stand in the fight against cancer. But I am also saddened. Not because they’re not planning to read my book, but because they confessed that they DON’T READ…any books…at all! That’s like knowing how to drive but choosing to always call someone else to come get you when you want to go somewhere.

I can’t imagine my life without books, without imagination, not the kind you get from logging on the internet or watching a youtube video or the kind you get from watching television, but the kind that is born in you as you read a story and those characters become so real as you imagine them. When you read a great story, something marvelous happens, you enter a world that can never exist any other place, your imagination. I fear that real honest-to-God imagination is on the endangered spieces list. Great stories, reading, is what turned me into a writer. I think it may have turned me into an artist. I learned to go places, to see things that I could never see if I depended on the media to do it for me via special effects and news coverage. Yes, reading does require effort, but the rewards are amazing.

However, I’m assuming that if you’re reading this blog you are a reader and therefore, I’m preaching to the choir! So, maybe I should say, “Thank you for being a reader, for engaging your imagination.”

Everywhere I walk, someone
is jumping up, down, yelling,
“Hey, look at me. I’m somebody.
I can do something. Look.
Tell me that I’m special.”

There are so many voices
all crying out with a personal
message, a promise of what?
Who knows. Nothing lasts,
not even the emptiness

that comes after success,
only a hunger for more
which leads to longing for
yet more. “Vanity. Vanity,”
the Preacher said. “All is
vanity.” Wasted efforts

on mortal gains. Perhaps
to acknowledge our maker,
unselfishly give our gifts
to those who walk beside us
along this road from time to time.

Perhaps, that
is purpose enough and requires
little jumping and no yelling.

Michael died. Farrah died.

Yet, it was Nancy Rose’s death

which left a deeper impression.

She loved

Jesus and family. She gave

kindness and forgiveness.

Her time here was spent

storing heavenly treasures.

She received no Oscars,

nor People’s Choice, no

glittering trophies of adoration.

Her legacy was the smiles

she brought her family,

her friends. Her infectious

humor and graceful poise.

Being human is never easy.

Our battles often leave blood’s

bitter taste in our mouths, tears

to our eyes. Yet, angels long

to experience the joys

by which we are touched

in this mortal realm.

*In honor of Nancy Rose, who made a difference and knew how to give. This poem was originally written in the summer of 2009 as part of a stream of thought as I reflected upon the events that had impacted me the most that summer. Nancy Rose was a grandmother to one of my students. She gave of her time to often come and visit with my children, to bring pets and became a grandmother to our entire class that year. She touched those children’s lives more than any celebrity ever could. Cancer may have beaten her body, but it could never erase the kindness she set into motion in this world.

I would like pink rose petals,
mimosa smell and magnolia blossoms
for Christmas.

I would also like
a hint of honeysuckle,
a barefoot strole over shady moss
and the sound of a bubbling brook.

You see, this cold doesn’t fit me.
It causes my lips to fray,
like a weathered rope,

It drains the colors from cheeks
and leaves my face faded, splotchy,
like untreated wood.

It causes my hair to friz,
my skin to itch and produces
a constant shiver
I cannot shake,

regardless of the layers
I wear. So I’ve I’m looking
for the reciept to this winter
that someone gave me.

Maybe I can get a cash refund.

My dad sitting at our kitchen table,
sipping his strong coffee, cream
spilling over the sides of his cup,
pooling in his saucer as he tells
his tales, homespun, far-fetched

and my sister, taking photos of
babies, wearing caps, sniffing
Christmas trees like flowers
while cousins and kinfolk talk
out on the front porch

and nieces and nephews
chat and chase each other,
jump on trampolines, and melt
plastic car parts together.

Momma hanging laundry
on a barbed wire fence
while she sings Conway,
her face forever young,
her hair eternally black.

There are husbands and in-laws,
guitar strumming and humming,
keeping beat to the rhytmn of
our lives, lines and verses

that swirl and spin the years
into jumbled pieces of vibrant
colors, slighty out of order,
yet always the same.

Give a gift for Christmas that does more than bless the receiver, it blesses many. http://ow.ly/3cg2k

not repeating the rumor,
keeping negative thoughts
to the journal,

refusing to believe
the disgraceful until
evidence is solid,

daring to see beauty
where others see mundane
maybe this is the beginning
of empathy

Me gusta escribir
las palabras en español

porque yo penso de
el abuelo de mi abuelo

en el sombreo grande
canta palabras españolas

en el cielo.
¿Es posible, no?

a world without grenades
or broken glass, where flies
become extinct due to lack
of death, filth and mosquitos
find no blood to drink.

Disease is banished,
money used for mulch
and gold melted to pave
roadways for bare feet

that are never cold
since winter has fled.
A hundred years is late
childhood and adults
are youthful at millineum’s
end.

Soft green caterpillars
on baby fingers make
Rachel smile, laugh,
snap a photo.

Old men arguing
nursing home politics
cause me to pause,
grin, shake my head.

A fat cat in Phil’s lap
purring and biting
at keyboard fingers
brings my soul
joy.

These moments
last longer than
music.

I attended a funeral
for my friend’s father
and saw her pain,
masked by a brave smile.

Then I watched Rocky’s spirit
leave his furry body
as I stroked his cold paw,
knowing it hurt too much
to hang on,

so I begged him
to let go and wait
for me where dogs
and their people
are friends forever.

and I sat with my dad
through the night,
praying with him,
hoping with him

but mostly,
I just sat with him.

I am glad
tomorrow is Sunday.

this day dies in stilled heat
silence, save for the barking dog
who has no idea why
he speaks unless it is
to hear the sounds,
the varying pitches,
of his voice, his canine
melody that affects human
nerves like out of tune
violin strings in the hands
of a six year old.

I’m not talking about Cro Magnon Man or Neandertals,
but ratherI seemed to have lost my blog links. I had a bunch of friends’ links
and now they’ve disappeared. Yikes! I changed my blog’s appearance
and the links vanished. Now they are missing links. I promise to find them
again, so link owners, bear with me.