Poetry: Making sense of the world

Welcome to my poetic journey, where words weave personal connections and profound thoughts. Each poem is a reflection, an attempt to understand the intricate tapestry of life and my place within it. I invite you to explore, ponder, and connect with the feelings and ideas expressed here.

Personal reflections in verse

My poetry is deeply rooted in personal connections, exploring the nuanced emotions and experiences that shape our lives. Each piece aims to be thought-provoking, inviting you to delve into your own understanding of the world and your place within it. Discover the stories, feelings, and insights that inspire my writing.

*All images AI generated unless otherwise cited.

Behind the words: Inspiration and insight

Every poem has a story, a moment of inspiration that sparked its creation. Here, I share those glimpses behind the curtain – the thoughts, feelings, or observations that led to each verse. Sometimes, a picture accompanies the words, further illustrating the essence of the poem and offering a deeper layer of meaning.

Unveiling the tapestry of existence

For me, poetry is the lens through which I make sense of the world and find my place within its vast tapestry. It is a continuous process of observation, reflection, and expression. I hope these poems resonate with your own experiences and encourage you to ponder the deeper aspects of life.

Light and darkness: A poetic exploration

In this collection, I delve into the contrasting themes of light and darkness, not just as visual phenomena but as metaphors for human experience, emotion, and understanding. Explore the nuances between despair and hope, ignorance and enlightenment, and the shadows that give definition to the light.

Rebirth is Dead

Part I

Rebirth is dead because Hope was murdered.

It was murdered in the blood of human sacrifice, shame, and by society who looked the other way.

‘Nevermore,” said the Raven and he is right.

“Do not go quietly into that good night.” But we did because there was nothing left for us.

The illusion that there is freedom for the caged bird was revealed when the trick was over.

The Phoenix no longer rises from the ashes because scavengers scatter them seeking the charred remains.

Dickinson’s Hope has fallen dead from her perch because Pandora opened the box and strangled her.

We tried to keep Hope alive.

We fought apathy with empathy, callousness with consideration,

intolerance with patience and ignorance with understanding.

But we were swept from the battlefield in a flood of lies and innocent blood - by the power of sold souls.

There is no predator or prey anymore.

There is only a slaughterhouse of Hope.

Each tired soul surrendering to whatever cruel fate has been especially selected for them.

Innocence is the new currency.

The more innocent a soul, the more it is worth.

The power eats it like cream cheese and caviar.

Justice is now a jackal, giving its approval to those who will feed it best.

Compassion is a black hole; it fed on itself to sustain Hope

and consumed itself into nothingness.

When innocence is gone, power will begin to feed on itself

until it, too, becomes void.

There is no rebirth from nothing.

There are no echoes to whisper we were here.

There are no ruins suggesting shared societal norms.

There aren’t even shadows of memories of what we were

when Hope could still create rebirth

An Elegy to Hope

Part II

I remember Hope
before they called her naïve.
She was small then,
but she could make a future
out of almost nothing.

We fought apathy with empathy,
callousness with consideration,
intolerance with patience
and ignorance with understanding.

The Raven came first.
“Nevermore,” he said,
and for once
I wished he were wrong.

The Phoenix came carrying ash
in the hollow of her wings,
searching for the place
where rising used to begin.

Hope was murdered when Pandora re-opened the box.

Not all at once.

A little at a time—
whenever we looked away,
whenever innocence became currency,
whenever compassion was asked
to survive without being fed.

There is no rebirth from nothing.
There are no echoes to whisper we were here.
There are no ruins suggesting shared societal norms.
There aren’t even shadows of memories of what we were
when Hope could still create rebirth.

I remember her.

I remember when Hope
could stand in the ruins
and call them beginnings.

I remember when we believed
ashes were not an ending
but an invitation.

Perhaps that is all an elegy is:
the refusal
to let the dead disappear completely.

So ,I speak her name in a reverent prayer.

Hope.

And somewhere beneath the ash,
Hope remembers
how to rise.

Accepted for Publication: Lamps in the Dark: A Top-Shelf Poetry Anthology

The Language of Light

They say every soul moves through the world
at its own frequency—
compassion rising like morning mist
lifting free from the valley.

Perhaps.

I only know that light is the only language
that speaks peace to me.
It shines in shafts through birch branches,
on empty moors after rain,
in the hush before dawn
that remembers my name.

Still, I wonder.

Is light a candle—
beautiful as it spends itself while it burns,
its brightest hour also its last,
each flicker a lesson the darkness learns?

Or is it more like morning,
arriving each day,
returning without witness,
whose quiet grace keeping worry at bay.

Morning asks nothing of darkness,
for without it there are no stars.
The soul learns to navigate
by its own constellation of scars.

I hope the truest light
grows by being given away—
like love,

that gives peace and keeps worry at bay.

And if I have any purpose,
it is not to shine brighter than another,
but to become transparent enough
that light passes through me—
like clear streams,
old windows,
and the quiet sea.

“The Edgar I Know”

I know you weren’t darkness – you were just trying to let darkness speak –

In a world that only recognizes light, even when it’s false –

Heartbreak, madness, vengeance, and loss – the places others fear to seek.

For sadness and loneliness lie trapped in bricked up walls.

But I see you. I know you.
For no darkness exists without light.

Deniers of truth, welcome cowardice in battle and comes the fall.

You drew your passion from hidden springs, and embraced the torrents and the storms

Understanding grief’s language and what it brings – seeing black when Heaven was blue.

A tender soul, willing to embrace the pain that exists when life is born.

And those you loved, you loved alone – but a love so deep, it was always true.

But I see you. I know you.
For no darkness exists without light.

Grief so deep it lives in the soul – lamenting in sorrow, but your love grew.

Black cats and ravens told your stories and wept -

For few took their truth and kept grief hidden away.

You rang all the bells of love, battle, and warning, but ears remained deaf.

Unwilling to face fear, they fought to keep it at bay.

But I see you. I know you.
For no darkness exists without light.

Beautiful in dark, your words give me wisdom and light my own way.

Accepted for Publication by Lamps in the Dark: A Top-Shelf Poetry Anthology

Growing up is hard to do

Note: All images are AI prompt generated

This collection delves into the complexities of growing up, exploring the challenges, discoveries, and transformations that define this universal experience. From the first steps of independence to navigating the intricate world of adult emotions, these poems capture the essence of youth's journey towards self-discovery and understanding. Each verse is a mirror, reflecting the pains and triumphs of evolving into who we are meant to be.

My King - My Friend

For Corey, my heart's friend

I was skinny and quite small for my age,
The runt of the litter, so many times I was told
but in books I felt noble and grand on each page.

He was regal and strong, the king of his litter,
a red-and-black coonhound, became my king so bold.
I used his back as my book desk, and we read together.

We read of fairies and magic. Oh! adventures we took—
a damsel and king facing dragons with gold.
And we traveled together through each cherished book.

We grew together with each passing year,
yet never tired of adventures. It never got old.
And we loved like the stories we held so dear.

Stories became life, but still we were one,
Always vanquishing my fears and tears caused by my foes,
but true heartbreak took me when his journey was done.

Through books and life's adventures, my king stayed to the end.
I crowned him with wildflowers lovingly dug from first snow.
Future princes came, but none can replace my king - my friend.

Every Girl Needs a Tree

Every girl needs a tree -

to climb and ponder, a place just to be –

A place to hold her unspoken dreams –

A place to understand what they mean.

She can escape from her life labeled, “just fine” -

and find acceptance in the branches of pine.

An ancient friend who holds her close –

in times of questioning when she needs it most.

She looks upon the drifters below

and hears the tree say, “It’s time to grow…”

Its branches are sacred and she worships there-

And uncovers her soul and knows her power is there.

A power so quiet and so secretly sublime –

It’s the knowledge that only the seekers can find.

For trees are wise and hold the wisdom of ages—
Teaching kindness and hope, and the power of sages.

She will grow older, but the tree older still -

Teaching her courage and the strength of her will.

She learns of kindness, of truth, and the beauty of trust -

and learns from the tree that she is enough.

The tree and its family, millennia old,

will teach her the stories of what’s worthy to hold.

The Middle Lane

When did I go from the fast lane to the slow lane?
Reigning in exhilarating exploits and ill-advised actions.
Changing from, “Life in the fast lane” to “Take It Easy” -
on the radio.

Trading the uncontrolled speed of the Ferrari -
to the 2 miles under the legal limit mini-van.
Trading no seat belts and too many passengers in the front seat -
to the safety of “you don’t weigh enough to call shotgun, child!”

When did the shift happen?

Perhaps in the world of “reality” – “Be the best you can be,” - “You can do better,”-
and “You have the potential to be best if you put your mind to it.”

From seeking risky rewards and the chance of spontaneous combustion -
to measuring risk and reward with the “choice and consequence” Atlas of Life.
From “You only live once,” and “Live while you’re young,” -
to “Think of your future,” and “You’re in the REAL world, now.” -
From knowing your truth because it felt real -
to gauging your worth on an invisible scale.

Most take it gently – “It’s just “growing up.” -
but dreamers and wild folk wonder, “When was I lost? “
Some ask this while the tank is still full –
and others wait until the gas gauge light is aglow.

I wonder if there’s a medium road?
There’s a fast lane and slow lane. But there’s a middle lane, too.
Not so fast that life blurs or you lose all control -
and not so slow that you lose the “you” that you knew.
The middle lane offers a way bounded by both -
It’s like Goldilocks porridge – not too hot or too cold -
It’s “just right” – growing without losing your soul.

The strength within: Poems about women

Note: All images are AI prompt generated unless otherwise cited

In this collection, I explore the multifaceted nature of women's experiences—their resilience, compassion, and unwavering spirit. These poems celebrate the quiet strength, profound wisdom, and intricate beauty that define women across all walks of life. Each verse is a tribute to the power and grace inherent in every woman's journey. Each poem conveys my love and admiration - living or dead - known or unknown to me. I love and admire them all.

Joan

Part I - The Call

Kneeling on wildflowers, she sought her true Lord.

To be a faithful servant, obedient and pure.

Humility and pureness of heart led Michael to her side.

“I must believe what they tell me. It is the Lord’s command.”

To be a faithful servant, obedient and pure.

With Catherine and Margaret as her strength, she accepted the call.

“I must believe what they tell me. It is the Lord’s command.”

Her guides taught her of discipline, of strength, and of the virtue of saints.

With Catherine and Margaret as her strength, she accepted the call.

She mounted her steed as a warrior in humble employ of her country.

Her guides taught her of discipline, of strength, and of the virtue of saints.

Daring to save, daring to be what no woman had been.

She mounted her steed as a warrior in humble employ of her country.

Humility and pureness of heart led Michael to her side.

Her guides taught her of discipline, of strength, and of the virtue of saints.

Kneeling on wildflowers, she sought her true Lord.

Part II - The Burning

The Maid of Orleans unyielding in victory, lived her pure truth.

For freedom, for country, and for her God.

“Whatever I have done that was good, I have done at the bidding of my voices.”

Always humble and pure with steadfastness of heart.

The Maid of Orleans unyielding in victory, lived her pure truth.

Imprisoned for heresy and blasphemous deeds, she burned for her faith.

“Whatever I have done that was good, I have done at the bidding of my voices.”

Guilty for obeying and being a Warrior for God.

Imprisoned for heresy and blasphemous deeds, she burned for her faith.

Guilty for obeying and being a Warrior for God.

“Whatever I have done that was good, I have done at the bidding of my voices.”

"I shall call them to help me as long as I live.

Guilty for obeying and being a Warrior for God.

“Whatever I have done that was good, I have done at the bidding of my voices.”

"I shall call them to help me as long as I live.”

The Maid of Orleans unyielding in victory, lived her pure truth.

Daughter of Camelot

for Jess

“Welcome home,
Daughter of Queens,”
whispers the wind
as it wanders through
forgotten ruins,
lifting the fragrance
of thyme and heather.

Daughter of Camelot,
You are home.

These stones have waited for you.
They remember your name.

Within these ancient walls you shall discover your forgotten inheritance,
and among the flowers climbing forgotten gardens
you shall hear the melody
that has always lived within your soul.

Merlin’s ancient wisdom is woven into the very threads of your being—
not as enchantment alone, but as courage, discernment,
and the quiet knowing that truth is stronger than fear.

Water and earth meet here,
waves breaking against enduring stone.
Their voices are mighty.
Their song is eternal.
Together they proclaim
your place among
the noble guardians
of Camelot.

Follow the ancient road
of weathered stone,
worn smooth by the footsteps
of kings and saints,
until it leads you
to the castle
of your people.

The craggy cliffs
and hewn towers
rise as steadfast
sentinels,
while below,
the restless sea
calls your heart by
its forgotten name.

The silver mist gathers
about you, not to conceal,
but to embrace—
as a mother gathers
her child after
a long journey
home.

Across the still waters,
the Lady of the Lake appears.
Her eyes hold both
memory and prophecy.

Yet beyond the cliffs,
where the purple heather
bows beneath the wind,
the moors speak more softly.

“I know you,”
they whisper.
Before you knew your own name,
I knew yours.
The secrets I have guarded
have always belonged to you.
You were never a stranger.
You have always belonged here.”

Her voice fades gently
into the morning mist.

“Come,” she says. “The sword belongs to every noble heart of your line.”
Not because you seek power, but because you carry honor.
Not because you desire a throne, but because you have learned to serve.
Only those who master themselves are worthy to lead others.”

Yet one final truth remains,
echoing across the waters
long after she has disappeared.

“Do not forget.”
You are a Queen of Camelot.
A guardian of truth.
A keeper of light.
Your greatest gift is neither sword nor crown,
but the purity of your heart.
For only those whose souls remain noble
can lead weary travelers
out of darkness
and toward the Light.”

Welcome home, Daughter of Queens,
Always a Princess, destiny of Queens

WILD Women

for my daughters and grand-daughters and Wild Women everywhere

WE are INTERTWINED and
LINKED in our eternal DESTINIES

They call us wild when our independence frightens them.
We are “wild” because we
understand the whispers of the wind
and the laughter of water
flowing in streams.

We are “wild” because we
recognize the heartbeat of the earth
and know that our roots grow
deep to steady those we love
and allow them to bloom and
grow through our outstretched limbs
and branches.

We are “wild” because we do not
hide our inner fire
because we know it is our
legacy as daughters
of the stars. It lights the path of
those in darkness
and warms the hearts of the
lonely and the lost.

The world calls us wild because
we dare to know who we are
and are not ashamed to claim
the gifts that we use to give.
We are wild and it is this that
makes us free.

The Marys

Though never motherhood herself had known,
She captured, with reverence, each day’s delight-
the tender moments love had gently shown -
In nursing, bathing, while holding Heavn’s light.

A mother of discipleship, called by His grace,
She knew His mission and the price it bore.
She stayed when others fled sorrowed places,
And saw Him first when new divinity He wore.

Her infant she held, her beloved babe, knowing
one day she must give Him that earth might be saved;
She knew of His mission, the seeds He was sowing,
And suffered beside Him as freely He gave.

What is a mother, if not one who sees
the soul within, and loves what will be.

What the Water Knows

The water knows her silent secrets and her scars -

The water knows her unseen heartbreaks and unanswered desires -

The water knows the names of her betrayers -

and the water welcomes her.

The water knows her dreams denied -

The water knows her tears that trickle in the night -

The water knows her agonies, anonymous to the world -

and the water welcomes her.

The water is witness to her sorrows -

and the willow knows her will -

The stones witness her waiting -

and the wind her burdens bears.

The water, willow, wind and stones,

speak comfort to her soul.

Enveloping their daughter in quite comfort -

allowing her to see the magic of her soul.

She Learned Their Names

for Hailey

Books and trees were all she needed –

Sitting in the quiet shade she learned of magic -

and of heroes and of damsels in distress.

She learned that damsels were not always afraid of dragons.

Their treasure hoarded and protected by the growl -

for she knew they protected beauty and light.

They wanted her to believe that dragons were dangerous -

but properly met, they also treasured the innocent soul.

She learned their names, their stories, and their fears -

hunted by the knights who claimed honor and duty -

they hid in caves and only took to the skies -

to flee ignorance and preserve their life.

One thing more causes a dragon to fight -

Protecting the damsel who loves him -

without judging or fearing or extinguishing his light.

And he teaches the damsel, that she protects, too.

My Grandmothers

Grandmother Bettie:

Home meant discipline for her daughters –

and quiet acceptance of being ruled with an iron fist.

Home is where the “rubber meets the road.”

Grandma Edie:

Home meant unconditional love for her children, no matter what,

and quiet acceptance of husbands who only needed her care.

Home is where “the heart is.”

Grandmother Bettie:

Loved with sternness because strength meant survival.

Grandma Edie:

Loved unconditionally because that’s what Jesus taught.

Grandmother Bettie:

Believed in herself, because no one else did.

Grandma Edie:

Believed in church on Sunday and Wednesday nights.

Grandmother Bettie:

Worked supervising the office of her husband’s propane and tractor business,

making sure bills were paid with money, not “good old boy” handshakes -

her adding machine tape unfurling like a surrender flag.

Grandma Edie:

Worked making bread and cinnamon rolls and all comfort foods in the rural county hospital,

Cooking neighbors what she knew they liked best, not anonymous hospital patients =

her tight, white, zippered dress looking like a marshmallow struggling to poof up.

Grandmother Bettie:

Knew the beauty of the almighty dollar because it meant

safety and security.

Grandma Edie:

Knew the beauty of God’s creations because it meant

understanding God’s will.

From Grandmother Bettie:

I learned iron will and stubbornness and the necessity

to stand firm in crisis.

From Grandma Edie

I learned that “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know…”

and the 23^rd Psalm – “on Earth as it is Heaven.”

From Them:

I learned obedience and meekness –

learned realism and idealism -

I learned stubbornness, strength, and sense of duty -

I learned heart, faith, and divinity.

One taught me to stand; one taught me to kneel.

One taught me to question; one taught me to have faith.

One taught me the world – One taught me the eternities.

I AM because they WERE.

I AM because they KNEW.

I AM because I’m THEM.

Based on a suite of large tapestries designed by William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones and woven in the workshops of Morris & Company (1890 – 1895). Considered a major work of late-Victorian decorative art, these tapestries illustrate the Quest for the Holy Grail. After donning their shields and armor, the Ladies of Camelot bid farewell to the Knights of the Round Table.